Total Fallout

by Alex Shaw

  In Akulov’s mind “city” was now too grand a name for the extended pile of rubble and rubbish that stretched in front of him towards the horizon. It may well have been a city once but now it was no more than a man-made wasteland. But civilians still lived there. He had watched in wonder for the last two days, seeing them moving among the rubble, walking along the shattered concrete of the once proud boulevard, and refusing to give up on Aleppo. Life as they knew it had been blown apart, literally, but still they stayed. Some of his fellow Spetsnaz surmised it was a sort of post-traumatic stress that kept them there, a mental switch flicked in their heads that prevented them from accepting the crushed concrete was all that was left of the place they once called home.

  There was movement in the glassless, second-storey window a block away. A bearded figure wearing a dark green jacket peered out. It was one of the target’s men. Akulov’d seen the fighter before, one of half a dozen who occupied the shattered apartment building’s second floor. The top three storeys of the building, which stood on the corner of a crossroads, had been lost to mortar bombardment by ISIL when they took the city. Heavy shells had torn away whole floors and the lives contained within them.

  There was a low crunch of concrete from his left. Akulov rolled away from his rifle and brought his Makarov pistol to bear on the source. A moment later he relaxed. It was Kirill Vetrov – team leader of the Werewolves.

  ‘Easy.’ Vetrov held up his hands. A large bottle of water was in his right. He handed it to Akulov. ‘Anything new?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘We’re going in at nightfall. Command has received intel that Al-Muthanna is planning to launch a raid at daybreak tomorrow.’

  ‘Understood.’ Akulov drank.

  ‘You are to remain here and provide overwatch.’

  There was a long silence. Beneath the grit and dirt, Akulov’s brow furrowed. ‘You need me on the assault team.’

  Vetrov smiled at him. ‘I need your rifle here.’ He slapped him on the back. ‘Who else can shoot as well as you? Stay sharp and keep your eyes on. Understood?’

  ‘Understood.’

  Akulov turned his focus back to the target building as he heard Vetrov make his way out of the room and negotiate the steps leading down to the ground floor.

  *

  The sun set fast in Syria. From his hide, Akulov watched it go down. Shadows lengthened, expanded and then the town about him was plunged into darkness. He switched his scope to night vision and the street below became a world of greens.

  Vetrov spoke in his ear: ‘Wolf 1 to Wolf 6, you have overwatch.’

  Akulov clicked the pressel switch on his jacket to acknowledge the update.

  Vetrov spoke again: ‘Stand by … stand by … GO!’

  Akulov kept his focus fixed on the unnatural world a block away. He scanned the floor used by the target. He could detect no movement from within but sensed it to his left on the street below. He removed his eye from the scope and saw the snake of five men tactically advance towards the building, weapons up. They were now under his protection; he alone would be responsible for taking out any threat, any shooter or sniper before they could get a shot off against the rest of his team. Eye back on the scope, Akulov surveyed their path and the numerous rooftops and battered balconies that offered nests for gunmen. Nothing. He continued to scan, alternating between the narrow aperture of his rifle’s scope and the wider view offered by his IR-enabled field glasses. What he was doing was a two-man job – shooter and spotter – but Akulov was accustomed to working alone and that was just another ability that separated the Werewolves from any other Russian military unit.

  There was a sudden movement in the target building, on a lower level. A face in the window, then another two behind the first. The clarity was not great but Akulov could see that none of them had beards. They were wearing hijabs. The woman nearest the window attempted to climb out of the window, whilst the others helped. Akulov moved the scope away and up, back to the target room. Now a face in the window peered out, but this one had a beard, and he was manoeuvring a long rifle. The outline was recognisable. It was a Dragunov – the most popular Russian sniping rifle of all time. The head turned and looked back into the dark green of the room behind before once again facing front and then dropping behind the scope. Akulov did not hesitate. A single, suppressed round silently soared from his VSS Vintorez. It hit the fighter in the forehead and blew out the back of his skull. The Dragunov fell forward and out of the window whilst the fighter fell backwards.

  ‘Wolf 6 to Wolf 1, shot taken. Sniper in target window neutralised,’ Akulov whispered into his throat mic.

  ‘Copy that, Wolf 6.’

  Scanning the other windows on the same floor, Akulov became aware of multiple shadows moving, too nebulous to target with certainty. Below the Werewolves had reached the cover of a building on the opposite corner of the crossroads. They remained unseen by the members of the Inghimassiyeen above.

  ‘Wolf 6 to Wolf 1, be aware of multiple x-rays mobile in target building. Will target all opportunities.’

  ‘Wolf 1 to Wolf 6. Understood.’

  Now that first blood had been taken, Akulov felt as though he was inhabiting another plane of existence. The world around him had slowed yet his cognition had remained at a higher level, a faster speed.

  The drop from the first-floor window where the women had been was less than two metres. High enough to inflict injury on the unlucky or infirm, but low enough to be fully survivable. A figure in a black abaya dropped out, hit the ground and crumpled. Akulov willed the woman to rise. Long seconds later she did and held up her hands to the window and a figure above. And then she suddenly folded in half and fell sideways, as though hit by an invisible force …

  She had been shot by suppressed rounds. Akulov struggled to subdue his anger, his outrage as he saw the Werewolves advance towards the building. The point man, Wolf 1, paused, targeted the window and sent a burst of rounds into the second woman who was already hanging out. The woman dropped and landed by his feet.

  The booming sound now of unsuppressed rounds, the barking of Kalashnikovs, forced Akulov to channel his anger and use it. He acquired targets in the windows and further inside and fired, taking one out at a time.

  ‘Cease fire, Wolf 6.’ The command came from Wolf 1, as he led the assault group inside.

  Akulov pulled his eyes away from the scope and wiped his brow with his sleeve. He picked up his field glasses and scanned the building. Flashes erupted from the second floor as the assault team engaged the remaining ISIL fighters, but his concern was now the women – the two who had been shot and the one who had remained inside. He saw a woman run out of the main entrance to the building. She reached the first body and dropped to her knees. Even from a block away Akulov could hear the sound of her keening – and it cut through him like a lethal Spetsnaz knife.

  Present day

  Hamad International Airport, Doha, Qatar

  Tate’s professionalism had triumphed over his urge for a drink, he’d stuck to soft drinks but eaten his fill from the “on demand dining” menu. Al Nayef, however, looked wobbly as he stood and reached for his cabin luggage, which was now all he or rather Ali Karim – the name on the passport he was using – possessed. This made Tate extra cautious as they joined the other four passengers from their cabin, two of whom were Qataris in impossibly white guthras and thobes, and alighted from the airbus. The flight had landed twenty minutes ahead of schedule but time was still tight for Al Nayef’s Sydney connection.

  Tate had studied the layout of Hamad International and knew both arrivals and transit passengers followed the same route until arrivals took an escalator down to immigration but there was nothing to prevent him from chaperoning Al Nayef until the Australian ASIS man met him.

  Tate let Al Nayef continue down the air sleeve and into the terminal proper. He was walking slower than the other business class passengers and Tate caught him up as they turned a corner.

  ‘Do I stil
l have to pretend I don’t know you, Mr Jack?’

  ‘No, you can talk to me now, but my name is Mike, and remember you are Ali.’

  ‘Ali Karim.’

  ‘Correct.’ Tate wasn’t worried about Al Nayef forgetting the specifics of his new legend – the name he was travelling under – because on his arrival in Australia he would have the choice of a new one. All record of Ali Karim having entered Australia was to be wiped from the database and he would cease to exist.

  As they continued on towards the end of the long hallway, foot traffic became busier as the economy class passengers caught them up and arrivals from other flights filtered in.

  As they got to the end of the hallway Tate spotted a traveller sitting on a steel bench at the bottom of the escalator, casually checking his phone. He looked up directly at Tate and held his gaze. Tate recognised him from the photograph Paddy had shown him. The man stood and slowly slipped his phone into the right pocket of his jeans then dropped his arms to his sides with his fingers splayed out and he subtly patted the air.

  Tate closed the distance and then stopped two metres away from the traveller but Al Nayef continued on a step, unaware. He stopped abruptly and turned. ‘Are you the man from ASIS?’

  Tate saw the man visibly wince. Tate rolled his eyes. ‘Yeah, I know.’

  ‘Seeing as we’re on camera anyhow …’ the Australian held out his hand ‘… Liam Saville.’

  ‘Mike Stotter.’ Tate shook Saville’s hand.

  ‘Ali Karim.’ Al Nayef repeated the gesture.

  ‘Any issues?’

  ‘None,’ replied Tate, as he continued to keep a trained eye on the passing passengers.

  ‘Listen, guys, we’ve got just under fifty minutes until the flight leaves. They normally hold it for business class passengers but I don’t want to push it.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Tate said. ‘In that case, hello and goodbye.’

  ‘Goodbye, Stotter.’

  Tate turned to Al Nayef. ‘Good luck.’

  Al Nayef gave a hesitant smile. ‘Thank you, Mr Jack.’

  Tate shook his head, looked at Saville. ‘Enjoy, he’s all yours.’

  ‘Fantastic,’ Saville replied.

  Chapter 7

  Houston, Texas, USA

  Ruslan Akulov stood at the end of the bar, a bottle of cold beer in his hand. Oddly enough for him, he felt at home. The music was what the Russian would have described as “hard rock”, and the bar reminded him of rowdy nights out in his hometown. This bar, however, was not a garish, pricy imitation run by the Moscow mafia, this was the real deal. Akulov took a sip of his drink, and observed the crowd mingling. He gazed out across the burgundy-walled room at the happy hordes, the drinking flotsam and jetsam. Old denims and dull leathers mixed with high-end designer labels. He tapped his booted foot to the beat and allowed the smallest of smiles to appear on his lips. He was enjoying himself.

  Before he’d given in to answering the cryptic messages from his broker, his past year in the US had been spent roaming, never staying too long in one place and living off the sizeable amount of cash he’d liberated from a criminal gang in Maine. The remainder of the cash, with the exception of the ten thousand he kept about his person, lay hidden under the floorboards of a barn in rural Nebraska. In an emergency he’d use funds transferred into Russel Cross’s chequing account, but he preferred cash. He’d visited all the places that as a kid growing up in Russia he’d only ever seen on TV and in movies. Akulov had another swig of beer and tried to let himself relax. What better way to seem like a guy having a good time than to be a guy having a good time.

  In Miami he had destroyed his burner phone, laptop and printer and put them in several trash bags in two different commercial dumpsters at the rear of his hotel. The flight from Miami had been uneventful. His genuine US passport and driving licence, bought from a trusted supplier, still remained unflagged by the American authorities and enabled one of Russia’s most feared assassins to travel with ease. He’d got a room at a chain hotel near the city centre where he’d taken a taxi directly to the club, the place he had identified from his broker’s intel. He needed to understand the layout if this was to be the place where he made his move.

  It was eleven, and the bar had yet to fill up. Akulov nodded at the barmaid. She smiled back at him. With her long, raven hair, black singlet and tattoo sleeves, she looked like she was part of a rock band and he imagined she probably was. She turned to serve her next customers and his gaze now fell upon the pair of women who’d appeared at the bar. They were speaking hurriedly, excitedly in Spanish, a language he too spoke. The bartender leant forward to take their order and then moved away to complete their complicated requests.

  The woman nearest to Akulov looked up at him, a wide smile on her face. She looked too young to be out drinking. Her friend said something in her ear and she turned away. They carried on speaking animatedly to each other until their drinks arrived and the woman nearest to Akulov passed over a black-coloured credit card. An Amex Centurion card, the card of millionaires. The barmaid placed the PIN machine on the bar and took payment. Once the card was returned the women started to drink greedily, as though the drinks may at any moment be snatched away. Akulov guessed the pair were out on an illicit night out, possibly using someone else’s card. They didn’t look like thieves, so a parent perhaps? Again, it made no difference to him. He finished his beer, turned and made his way to the restrooms.

  He walked along the dark corridor. The volume of the music faded. Straight ahead was a fire door leading out to the alleyway at the side of the building, but he turned right and entered the bathroom, its stark strip lights making him squint. He used the urinal. Before he had finished a group of three men entered.

  He instantly recognised one of them.

  Akulov immediately felt his body tense. He slowed his breathing and forced himself to relax, something that was counterintuitive but necessary if he needed to suddenly take evasive action or attack. Muscles moved faster when reacting from a relaxed state. Two of the men were bulky and flanked the third who was smaller, and shorter, but moved with the easy swagger of supreme confidence. His chest and shoulders were gym-wide. The two heavies checked the cubicles before nodding to the much shorter man and opened a door for him. He closed it and they took sentry positions, one guarding the cubicle and the other the main door to the bathroom.

  Akulov buttoned up his Levi’s, stepped to the basin and washed his hands. There were two loud sniffs from the cubicle. In the mirror, his eyes met those of the nearest heavy.

  The man’s complexion was dark, his hair was slicked back and a weighty moustache drooped over his top lip. ‘You want something, cabrón?’

  Akulov said nothing. It would be easy to take both men out now then turn his attention on their boss, but the bathroom was not a controlled environment – anyone could enter, anyone could overhear and then of course the hallway was probably being filmed. He moved towards the hand dryer. The man by the door now glared at him. Akulov took a deep breath, to oxygenate his muscles before he made for the door, but as he did so the cubicle door opened.

  ‘We got a problem?’ the smaller man said, his accent Mexican, the tone confrontational.

  Akulov continued to the door but the second heavy now blocked it. ‘Don Caesar asked you a question, puto!’

  Akulov turned, so that he could see all three men. Caesar Mendez, dressed in black jeans, black shirt and a black leather waistcoat, had his chin jutted up and forward. Akulov nodded, slowly, respectfully. ‘No problem at all.’

  ‘Then keep it that way, my friend,’ Don Caesar replied, a wide, thin-lipped smile splitting his face. He addressed his men in Spanish: ‘Let him go.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Akulov said, and exited the room at an easy pace.

  For most of his adult life Akulov had been around powerful and dangerous men. The truly powerful had no reason to pretend to be dangerous, and the truly dangerous had no reason to display their power. Unless they were afraid they were abo
ut to lose it. There had been no glimmer of recognition in Caesar’s eyes, no hesitation when he had spoken. Akulov was still unknown by the man, for the moment at least.

  Back at the bar his half-empty bottle was where he had left it, but the two women had moved away, their place taken now by a couple dressed in dirty jeans and faded T-shirts. In his dark Levi’s and black polo shirt he didn’t stand out, which was what he had hoped for. The bar was busier now but he managed to get the barmaid’s attention and ordered a new beer. He wasn’t going to drink from a bottle he had left unattended. The three cartel men came back into the room. The heavies looked each way. The one with the moustache glared at him again, before they made for an occupied table halfway down the room and against the wall. The trio stood briefly before the table’s occupants got up, and moved away. Then they sat.

  The new beer arrived, so cold the bottle sweated, and he drank it thankfully. Outside the Texan air was hot and dry; inside the AC struggled to repel it. Houston seemed an enjoyable place but he wasn’t there to enjoy it, he was there to find Vetrov. And he’d just found his new employer. The party people now had started to arrive.

  Akulov sipped his beer and let himself relax, a fraction, just enough to blend in and just enough to look normal. At thirty-six he was by no means the oldest person in the place but he’d noticed that the clientele were a younger demographic – twenty-somethings dancing, drinking and swaggering. And the three cartel men observed it all from their table. Akulov had eyes on Caesar and the question was, what would he do now? He had meant this evening to be reconnaissance, an initial assessment of the place and not as an immediate strike point, but the man was here. Akulov had no illusions about getting him to talk. He knew Caesar would not willingly give up Vetrov and his exact location. But the man had seen him, as had his two goons, which meant if they saw him again, given their line of work, he doubted it would be put down to coincidence. Akulov internally cursed; he’d messed up, which was not something he did, ever. He sipped his beer, but it now tasted bitter.