Total Fallout

by Alex Shaw

  *

  A half-hour later, with dark blue baseball cap and a pair of thick-rimmed, low-power reading glasses worn to obscure his face, Akulov walked into the steel-and-glass construction that according to a sign was the “USA Today Readers’ Choice Best Small Airport 2020”. It had been a year since the EMP attack on the US had knocked out most electronic circuitry. This included CCTV networks. The majority had been replaced. Some in smaller out-of-the-way places had not, and Akulov had used this absence to his advantage. As a matter of national security, all airport surveillance systems had been among the first to be replaced.

  Akulov had not stepped foot inside an airport for well over a year. It was a risk, if his gut instinct was right, and he had learnt to listen to it. He studied a large display map, and then made for the Aviators Café, the only eatery serving booze that was located pre-security screening. He ordered a beer and a couple of sandwiches and took a seat at the back. He’d left the burner phone on, deliberately so. It was early evening and trade was still brisk at the terminal. He ate, drank and pretended to check his phone for the next hour – getting up once to get a second overpriced domestic beer, all the while carrying out counter surveillance. Finally satisfied that his phone was not being traced, and that his current identity was not on any watch list, he checked the email account. Once again he was surprised to see a new message so soon.

  ‘The intelligence came from a reliable source within British Intelligence. The contract was not meant to conclude by way of bombing. I cannot give you a name.’

  Akulov glared at the phone screen, willing the words to impart more information than they already had. He deleted the message and wrote his own: ‘Give me his name or I give up yours.’

  He started to put away the phone then had a better idea. He added a second line to the message: ‘I demand a face-to-face. Tomorrow.’

  He knew this was a break point. His broker either accepted a meet or all contact would be terminated. Akulov didn’t like to gamble; it made no sense to take chances by making decisions based on incomplete intelligence, but on this occasion he gambled on receiving a reply, and a fast one. He finished his beer. It wasn’t great but it was better than his native Baltika, which he’d been forced to drink in the Red Army. He had a thirst now and would happily have sat in the bar, had it been more comfortable, and drunk several more. There was something about the dark, dank Russian beer bars. They had a heart; they had a soul.

  Akulov sighed. A soul was something he had lost years ago when he took his first life. He blinked and snapped out of his introspection and refreshed the email account. There was a new draft message: ‘Miami. Tomorrow. 3 p.m. It is safe to take a plane – the Americans are not looking for you.’

  Could he believe the broker? Could he trust what his broker was saying? Could he really catch a commercial flight without being stopped? If the British wanted him and didn’t want the Americans to learn of his identity, surely he wouldn’t be stopped? Akulov wet his lips. Yes, the Brits could ping him on the CCTV system and that would work in his favour. He sat for a moment more as he attempted to weigh up his options. What if the messages were not from the broker at all? Akulov looked at the iPhone’s screen, willing it to give him the answer. He tapped out a new draft message: ‘Prove this is you?’

  He went to the American Airlines desk to ask. There were no direct flights to Miami, but the desk clerk told him he could take a flight via Dallas/Fort Worth. There were several leaving the next day. Akulov decided he’d take the first, getting him into Miami a little after eleven in the morning. He took the free shuttle back to his hotel.

  In his room, door locked and rubber wedge under the bottom edge, he once more logged in to the email account. There was a reply. It confirmed without doubt the person he was communicating with was his broker, and that their operational status was “normal”. It was one word, written in Russian.

  ‘Канадец.’

  Akulov felt the hand of a ghost squeeze his chest. “Канадец” – Kanadets – the Canadian. Only he and his broker knew the significance of this name to him. He wiped away the word, replacing it with three of his own: ‘See you tomorrow.’

  Akulov undressed and lay on his bed. He’d get four hours’ sleep in before he needed to be back at the airport to return his hire car and catch his flight.

  Chapter 3

  Fifteen years ago

  Russian Army Spetsnaz Training Camp, undisclosed location, Northern Russia

  Heavy-footed, Ruslan Akulov trudged into the frozen camp, one man in a line of exhausted, numb conscripts wading through fresh, knee-high snow. The light of the Russian winter moon reflected off a world covered in a bright, white coat. The sharp outlines of the training facility were softened, all sound dampened. Akulov could hear only the quiet crunch of his boots as they flattened the soft snow, and his ragged breath escaping through the threads of his balaclava. His group had marched through a blizzard that would have sent sane men scrambling for cover; the wind swirling snow like needles into their faces, penetrating every layer. Too numb to shake, the men had continued on knowing that to stop was to risk death. Each of the weary, frozen figures around him had been plucked from the most recent intake of conscripts and put through specialist training designed to make them falter. And already a third of them had.

  Brutal exercises had forced them together, forming friendships and creating allegiances. Akulov, near the back of the line, had just two men behind him – a recruit from Volgograd named Vetrov and a monstrously muscled Buryat from Russia’s Far East christened Dorzhiev. An order shouted through the icy air caused the men at the front to stop and those at the rear to concertina into one another.

  ‘Welcome to your new home!’ their training sergeant, a grey-haired, glacial-hard soldier yelled at them before he disappeared through the doorway of a squat barrack building.

  Still wary of making mistakes, it was a few frosty seconds before the men followed. In the gloom of the barrack’s interior, lit with dull flickering bulbs, Akulov noted the rows of two-tiered bunks and the men who inhabited them. Their eager eyes assessing him. These were troops from the previous training cycle. Called up during the summer intake, Akulov’s arrival meant that they had now become the “Stariki” – old men. This was their domain, and they were ready to “officially” welcome the little fish – the “Salagi” – to their world.

  The imposing figure of Dorzhiev was the last of Akulov’s group to push through the doorway. He glowered at the Stariki, jutted his chin up and stamped the snow from his boots.

  Jumping down from his top bunk, a dark-haired man, whose size rivalled that of Dorzhiev, moved towards him and held out his hand. ‘Welcome, brother. Let me take your pack.’

  ‘Thank you, brother.’ Dorzhiev grunted and shrugged out of it.

  A wide smile split the Starik’s face. He hefted the sodden pack into the air, then turned his attention to the remaining new arrivals. He pointed at their feet. ‘You dogs can sleep on the floor in your own filth. Were you not taught to wipe your boots when entering someone’s home?’

  Dorzhiev made eye contact with Akulov. There was a long moment of silence.

  ‘If you wish to be dogs,’ the Starik said, ‘we will teach you to behave like dogs. Remove your packs and get on your hands and knees!’

  Vetrov dropped his pack, and got on all fours. Hesitantly the others, including Akulov, did the same. Shielded by his backpack, Vetrov stealthily reached under his coat and removed his belt. He wrapped it around his right fist. Before Akulov had the chance to think or ask why, the Stariki got down from their bunks and attacked. Feet and fists connected with the legs, backs, stomachs and heads of the unsuspecting eighteen-year-old conscripts. Muffled cries and shouts filled the room. Akulov tensed, preparing for the beasting as they neared him.

  Vetrov rose in a blur of movement. His belted fist connected with the jaw of one Stariki and then the stomach of another. He continued to fight, seemingly slithering and gliding from one contact to
another. Within seconds two men lay bleeding whilst two more stumbled back holding their faces. Akulov and the others were now on their feet, ready to join the fight. The older soldiers edged away, unsure what to do, wary of the newcomers.

  Vetrov met Akulov’s eyes; his face was relaxed. He nodded and then he addressed the leader of the Stariki. ‘You can have the bottom bunks. We shall take the top.’

  The Starik laughed. ‘You’ll learn soon enough. What’s your name?’

  ‘Vetrov.’

  At a nod from Vetrov, Dorzhiev barged forward into the Starik, grappling him to the ground. Yells of anger filled the air as the ranks of the Stariki advanced again. For Akulov it was an epiphany; he knew he could run or march the longest but now was his chance to prove he could fight. Why should he accept a beating from these boys who were no more than a year his senior? Who were they to him? He slammed his fist into the face of the Starik nearest him. A second man swung an ill-advised foot at him. Akulov sidestepped and drove his boot into the soldier’s groin. Around him the interior of the tent had become a moving mass of arms, legs and screams. The older recruits had not been ready for a battle and their stockinged and plimsolled feet were no match for the heavy, sodden boots of the greener conscripts. Yet their more advanced training prevailed and gradually the younger, wearier soldiers in their cumbersome greatcoats started to falter, to fall.

  ‘Enough!’ The gravelly voice of the training sergeant, who had been watching impassively from the sidelines, froze the action quicker than any Siberian wind.

  Akulov was panting heavily, but it was with a controlled fury not exertion. Standing either side of him were Vetrov and Dorzhiev, the last of their platoon on their feet. The only three who had not succumbed to the Stariki. Akulov’s limbs felt like lead and his chest burned yet he knew he would yield to no man.

  ‘This is the true Spetsnaz! The Wolves have arrived!’ The men parted like a sea as the sergeant moved into the centre of the impromptu arena. ‘Stariki, you shall retain your top bunks, and Salagi you shall have the bottom. You three: Vetrov, Dorzhiev, Akulov. Grab your packs. Come with me. This tent is no place for Wolves!’

  Present day

  Nice, France

  Jack Tate towel-dried his hair and studied himself in the mirror. The quick, rough haircut Paddy Fox had given him wasn’t the best but if he used enough wax it would look acceptable. What he was less sure about was the Hulk Hogan style moustache he’d had to adopt to mirror his new passport photo. The quality of the passport image was remarkable. Neill Plato, the technical officer responsible for support to several SIS desks and E Squadron operations, had once explained to him that any manipulated passport photo would stand up to the highest level of scrutiny and only lose enough definition to seem fake when blown up to well over A3 poster size. He flexed his biceps in the mirror and smirked.

  ‘Mr Jack?’

  ‘In here.’

  His Royal Highness Salman bin Mohammad Al Nayef entered the bathroom hesitantly. Even though he’d been up till the small hours undergoing questioning from Paddy Fox, he didn’t seem tired. He looked excited. He ran his hand through his raven-black hair. ‘What do you think?’

  Tate studied Al Nayef. Fox had given him a makeover too, but Jack suspected that his fellow SAS man had taken more time and care with the royal than he had with Tate. Al Nayef’s immaculate beard had been shaved off and his hair cut shorter on the sides and back. He was wearing faded black skinny jeans, a grey T-shirt with some type of logo on it and a pair of Converse boots.

  ‘Do I look more Australian?’ Al Nayef asked.

  ‘Like a young Hugh Jackman,’ Tate said, with a straight face.

  ‘Wolverine?’ Al Nayef smiled. ‘Then I should thank your colleague. I like your moustache. It makes you look very noble, Mr Jack.’

  ‘Looks can be deceiving.’ Tate picked up his Rolex from the shelf above the sink. It was the only piece of technology he would be travelling with, and although encrypted phones were commonplace, he’d rather travel without one than risk possible compromise. Within the next half-hour he and Al Nayef would leave the safe house in the Renault for Nice Côte d’Azur Airport where they’d take a short flight to Milan before boarding a Qatar Airways flight to Doha. At Hamad International Airport Tate would hand Al Nayef over to an officer of the Australian Secret Intelligence Service, who would then accompany the royal on to Sydney.

  In Sydney it was another short hop to Canberra where he would be debriefed and questioned again by a representative of the SIS and the ASIS. As members of the “five eyes” intelligence alliance – known as FVEY, the UK and Australia were obligated to share all pertinent intel they garnered from Al Nayef with the other three members – Canada, New Zealand and the US; however, the fact that the royal was alive and about to be given a new identity in Australia was a secret neither the SIS or the ASIS were going to share.

  ‘Are you ready to leave?’ Tate asked.

  ‘Yes, I think so, Mr Jack.’

  ‘Just Jack. I’m not going to call you “Your Royal Highness” or “sir” and neither is anyone else from now on. You need to get used to being one of the common people now.’

  ‘I shall try my best, Jack.’

  ‘Good.’

  Tate moved past Al Nayef and back into the bedroom where he started to dress in casual business attire. Al Nayef followed him in and stood awkwardly by the door.

  Tate scanned the room. All trace of their presence in the house had to leave with them. The SIS employed a team of “cleaners” to “sanitise” operational spaces but E Squadron missions, which were above classified, had to do without. In short, Tate’s team had to pack up their own kit and clean their rooms.

  ‘Have you ever been to Qatar?’ Al Nayef asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I was there several years ago. Before the recent troubles, when we Gulf State nationals – Saudis, Bahrainis, Omanis, Emiratis and Qataris – moved freely and associated like brothers. My uncle had several meetings with the emir.’

  ‘Did you meet the emir?’

  ‘No. I wanted to; however, my uncle said it was best that I did not.’ Al Nayef shrugged. ‘Perhaps he was jealous of his youth or his freedom to rule his country as he deemed fit, something we do not have in the kingdom.’

  ‘I see.’ Tate had grown out of politics.

  ‘And that would account for his actions and intentions.’

  Tate shot Al Nayef a quizzical look but said nothing.

  ‘Morning,’ the gruff, Glaswegian voice of Paddy Fox boomed as he entered the room. ‘I just wanted to bid you both safe travels and say goodbye.’

  Al Nayef shook the older man’s hand with vigour. ‘Thank you, Paddy. I will never forget you and all you have done.’

  A smile creased Fox’s face. ‘It’s better that you do forget, as officially none of this ever happened and I wasn’t here, Your Royal Highness.’

  Al Nayef smiled.

  ‘Good luck, Salman,’ Fox said.

  ‘You too, Paddy.’

  Fox turned to Tate. ‘Jack, I need a word. If you’ll excuse us?’

  ‘Of course,’ Al Nayef said.

  Tate followed Fox out of the bedroom and onto the landing.

  The older, red-haired intelligence operative walked to the far end away from the room and leant against a bannister. He looked back the way they had come to make sure Al Nayef wasn’t in sight before he started to speak in a quiet tone. ‘The name of the ASIS guy you’ll be meeting in Doha is Liam Saville. He’s a top bloke, former military and Old Bill. He’s got a photo of you – with the tash.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Fox pulled out a photo from his pocket. ‘Memorise his face.’

  Tate took the photo and studied it for ten seconds before handing it back. ‘Done.’

  Fox nodded. ‘Al Nayef’s doppelganger should wash up somewhere today but there’s still every chance the Saudis have seen through it. The kid in there hasn’t got a clue. He means well but he’s naive. If he gets snatched by a
nyone he’ll talk and then we’re all in the shite.’

  Tate was puzzled. ‘Why not just use his intel and leave him in?’

  ‘For the same reason. If he’d stayed, he’d have been found out. His intel was too good to risk losing him. Sending him “down under” is much better than the alternative, even if it does mean eventually sharing his intel with the Aussies.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Time to go. Enjoy your free holiday.’ Fox slapped Tate on the shoulder. ‘Right, I’m off to collect me pension.’

  Chapter 4

  South Beach, Miami, Florida, USA

  Smith & Wollensky was on Miami Beach and the place to be to enjoy the sunset. The lunchtime crowd had thinned and the sundowners had not yet started to arrive in force. Akulov took a table inside the all but deserted interior; the covers outside seemed far more popular. He ordered a bottle of overpriced imported spring water and waited. He had scoped out the place an hour before, and as far as he could tell there was no reception party waiting for him. As a location for a clandestine meeting it had its advantages. With a narrow path immediately in front that gave way to the ocean, the only place to conceal an observation post was one of the windows of the high-rise apartment buildings on the neighbouring Fisher Island. And he had defeated any line of sight listening or optical devices by choosing to sit inside.

  Around him the rich went about their daily routines on the walkway. Couples in conversation strolled leisurely, parents promenaded their young in pushchairs, and joggers in brightly coloured designer sportswear pounded the pavement.

  A light breeze drifted in from the ocean. It brought with it a note of brine and seaweed. Akulov appeared relaxed but he wasn’t. Like the sea there was something lurking beneath the surface. Meeting in Miami was not wise. A decade before, each member of his unit, the Werewolves, had been ordered by the GRU to memorise and familiarise themselves with a list of global cities, to become experts on the places. Of the US population centres his had included New York and Washington. He had not been assigned Miami, and that put a crease in his operational map. It exposed him. It made him an easier target for a snatch squad or a well-placed round.