Total Fallout

by Alex Shaw

  He saw a young mother pushing a stroller. One child was sitting inside and another was riding a board attached to the rear. The woman was walking briskly and wearing running gear. This was a glimpse of a life that Russia had forced him not to have. None of his former unit members had had any links with family, or any responsibilities outside the Spetsnaz. Their sole focus, their only family, had been each other. And Vetrov had gradually destroyed that family with his illogical vengeance and foolhardy leadership. Operational successes continued to happen but at the cost of more Werewolf lives.

  The Werewolves had been, still could have been, the best Special Forces unit in the world, but Russia had let them be used as shock troops in a misguided military adventure. Of the twelve, merely six still lived after their operations in Syria had been concluded. And then Akulov had formally and amicably left the Russian Army. He had not kept in contact with the remainder of the twelve, but Wolf 8 had been killed last year. Now there were, as far as he knew, five Werewolves left and he was surely soon to be reunited in one way or another with Wolf 1.

  The woman drew nearer to him; she was attractive and had a glow about her that shouted contentment. They made eye contact. He smiled and she turned away. Yes, this was the life he had given up, and he couldn’t let himself regret it.

  The phone rang.

  ‘Yes?’ Akulov held it against his ear.

  ‘Who is this?’ the voice asked, in Russian.

  Akulov understood immediately who was on the other end. He decided to reply in Russian. ‘Jack Tate, this is Ruslan Akulov.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I am in Houston. We need to talk.’

  ‘Really, about how you murdered my foster parents?’

  ‘Exactly that. If you do not want me to vanish again you will meet me at “Uncle Joe’s Diner” one hour from now. Understood?’

  ‘I understand you.’

  Akulov looked at the phone. The number had been withheld. He powered it off, stopped walking, removed the SIM and let it fall to the ground. SIS knew where he’d be; he had no reason to let them track him going there.

  Uncle Joe’s Diner, Houston, USA

  Tate pulled open the door and entered the diner. It was packed. Immediately a waitress met him. She was dressed in a traditional apron and hat that matched the colour scheme of the eatery’s interior. She smiled, but her eyes seemed tired.

  ‘Welcome to Uncle Joe’s. I’m sorry but there’s going to be a bit of a wait for a seat.’

  Tate glanced around. The only available seats were at a booth, in the far corner, at the back of the diner. And they were directly opposite a man he recognised: Ruslan Akulov. And Akulov’s eyes were burning into his. ‘I’m meeting someone. He’s got the booth back there.’

  ‘In that case, follow me.’

  She led the way, menu in hand. Tate now saw that more and more of the customers were in police uniform or looked like off-duty police officers.

  ‘Here we are.’ She placed the menu on the table. ‘The specials are on the board.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Tate said, as he sat, his eyes fixed on the Russian.

  ‘Wait a minute.’ The waitress pointed at Tate then Akulov then back again. ‘Are you two brothers?’

  ‘Cousins,’ Akulov replied, his Boston accent not betraying a single note of his true heritage.

  ‘Yep, definitely related.’ She smiled. ‘I’ll get you both some coffee.’

  Tate eyed the Russian’s hands, which were flat, palms down on the table top. A knife was in easy reach. Neither man spoke. The coffee came and the waitress left, saying she’d give them time to look at the menu.

  ‘I am armed, Jack. I imagine you are, and so are ninety per cent of our fellow diners. If you were to pull a gun in here it would be like “the Gunfight at the O.K. Corral”,’ Akulov said, quietly.

  ‘That was Arizona, not Texas,’ Tate said, his tone terse.

  ‘You are chasing the wrong man, Jack,’ Akulov continued.

  ‘Am I?’ Tate replied, switching to Russian.

  Akulov nodded and switched to the same. ‘The man you are looking for is called Kirill Vetrov. He designed, planted and detonated both devices in Camden.’

  Tate placed his hands on the table in front of him, fingers splayed. ‘We have you on tape. Walking away from the van, squeezing the detonator. Murdering my parents.’

  ‘The tape is a fake.’

  ‘I didn’t take you for a coward. You’ve murdered innocent civilians, women and children … Are you really not man enough to accept the consequences of your actions?’

  ‘I am, and I continue to do so, but that was not me. I did not murder those people.’

  ‘Were honour and integrity not traits the Russian Army demanded?’

  ‘The man whose name I have given you was my team leader. He is a demolitions expert.’

  Tate paused, the tiniest ray of doubt starting to pierce his black anger. ‘What proof do you have?’

  ‘I can tell you Oleniuk ordered the hit.’

  ‘Oleniuk is dead.’

  ‘He gave the contract to my broker and specified that it be given only to Vetrov.’

  ‘Words mean nothing.’

  ‘Jack, something is happening here. Fake video footage has been created that even your own technicians believe is genuine! The creators have used this to make you look the wrong way. Think what else they could do. Who else they could target and what they could achieve.’

  Tate drank his coffee, but he couldn’t taste it. He looked around the room and started to feel too warm. Akulov was an assassin, but was he a murderer too or just a con man? ‘Tell me why you wanted to kill Oleniuk?’

  ‘You were there. You saw it. You understood it. He broke the code.’

  ‘Your code.’

  ‘The code that binds us professionals.’

  ‘There is no us.’

  ‘I do not target innocent civilians. And I know that you do not either.’

  Tate felt his anger rise. He took a deep breath before he replied. ‘I’m not an assassin.’

  ‘We have both killed for our country. The only difference is that I get paid a rate commensurate with my level of skill. What do you get? A medal awarded in private because the noble United Kingdom finds what you do too distasteful to make public?’

  ‘You’re deluded.’

  ‘We are all born mad, some remain so. Is that not what Samuel Beckett said? I’m telling you about the potentially biggest threat to your country’s national security in decades, yet you refuse to see it.’

  ‘You murdered a lot of innocent people.’

  ‘I was on the other side of the world.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘On the day of the bombing.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Doha.’

  ‘Doha?’

  ‘Qatar.’

  ‘Yeah, I know where Doha is, Akulov.’

  The waitress returned. Tate ordered something, just to prevent her from asking again.

  ‘I did not kill your parents. I have told you who did. He will be in Houston, if he is not already here, by the end of the day.’

  ‘If any of what you are saying is true, I’ll have to take you in. This has to be investigated.’

  ‘By whom? The SIS? And what happens to me in the meantime? I get to sit in a black site in South America or perhaps nearer to home in Romania?’

  ‘That’s how justice works, the type of justice you deserve anyway.’

  Akulov nodded. ‘Stay here, do not try to follow me or you will not see me again.’

  ‘I can’t let you leave.’

  ‘You cannot make me stay. Look around. Are you going to make a citizen’s arrest?’

  Akulov stood.

  Tate stood.

  Akulov held out his hand.

  Eyes were on them, so Tate shook the Russian’s hand. The grip was firm. He managed a strained smile, and switched back to English. ‘Remind me where we’re meeting up?’

  Akulov pulled his hand aw
ay. ‘You remind me of your number. I will send you a text.’

  Tate recited the number of the handset his brother had given him.

  ‘It was good to see you again.’ Akulov turned.

  Tate watched him leave the diner and sat again but this time on the side of the table the Russian had used, facing the door. He pulled out his encrypted iPhone and called Plato. There was a moment’s pause before both ends connected as they performed an electronic handshake. ‘Neill, he’s mobile. Have you got him?’

  ‘I have him on the street heading west. Ah, he’s entering an underground car park, a block away from the diner … Bum. No “eyes on” there. Looks like their system is down.’

  ‘Brilliant.’ Tate knew the techie was trying his best, so he bit his tongue. ‘OK. Keep me updated.’

  ‘I will.’

  Tate’s food arrived as he ended the call. It was a massive cheeseburger with a mountain of fries.

  ‘Your cousin left?’ the waitress asked.

  ‘He did.’

  ‘You’re British?’

  Tate had to be polite, the waitress didn’t deserve sullenness. ‘I am.’

  ‘And your cousin’s from Boston?’

  ‘We’re the same family but two different sides, two different branches.’

  Her brow wrinkled. ‘Well, you enjoy your meal and try not to get too much of it in your cute moustache, honey.’

  Tate had forgotten about the Hogan tash. He looked down at his food. He hadn’t been hungry before but now he was. Eat when you can, sleep when you can.

  He started to eat as he attempted to digest what Akulov had said. He needed to call his brother, not knowing quite how to explain the meeting, why Akulov was able to walk away, and whether he believed anything Akulov had told him. He called Plato again.

  ‘Sorry, I’ve not been able to locate him yet—’

  ‘Neill, I need you to look at something else.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Check footage of all arrivals at Hamad International on the date of the Camden attack.’

  ‘Er, right …’ Plato paused. ‘That shouldn’t be too much of a huge hassle, providing they still have the tapes. Shall I bracket it two days either way?’

  ‘You know best.’

  ‘Got it. Who am I looking for?’

  ‘Akulov.’

  ‘Ruslan Akulov?’

  ‘No his brother Bob,’ Tate said sarcastically, and instantly regretted it.

  ‘Um, OK. Does this mean you think he wasn’t in London?’

  ‘He says the London footage is fake.’

  ‘It’s not.’

  ‘Either way, can you check the footage?’

  ‘Leave it with me.’

  ‘Thanks, Neill, I owe you one.’

  ‘You can get me a bottle of absinthe from duty-free.’

  ‘Will do.’

  Tate finished the burger and was glad he’d ordered it. He paid the bill, left the customary tip, which Americans seemed to hold sacred, and left the diner. He turned right out of the eatery and was soon walking past the multi-storey that Akulov had entered. The Russian would be long gone by now.

  Tate’s mind was a mess. If the footage was fake, why was Akulov in Doha? Why hadn’t anyone noticed the doctored footage? Plato had run all of the usual tests on the smartphone, even more than usual. He had been convinced it was genuine. Tate stopped at a crossing and realised that he had no idea where he was. He dialled Hunter and asked to be picked up. He would rather have the conversation about Akulov face to face.

  Chapter 11

  St. Regis Hotel, Houston, USA

  Wearing a fresh set of clothes and rubbing his clean-shaven face Tate exited the bathroom. It felt good to be himself again. His body had no idea what time it was, but his eyes could see that night was falling outside the hotel window. He joined his brother by the full-length window.

  ‘So what, we wait?’ Hunter’s voice was terse.

  Tate said nothing. His brother had every reason to be angry with him. In his mind he had let the man he’d been pursuing for a year slip away. In truth Tate had started to believe there may be something in Akulov’s story, but he couldn’t explain it to Simon or to himself. ‘We need to rest; that’s what we need to do.’

  ‘Rest? I’ve been bloody resting since last August. Now is the time for action!’

  ‘OK, boss. Tell me what to do.’

  ‘Find him and kill him.’

  ‘You know I would if it would make things right but …’ Tate’s voice faded away.

  ‘But what?’ Hunter turned, leant against the glass and looked at his younger brother. ‘You don’t think he did it – is that what you’re trying to say?’

  ‘I’m saying that given his actions—’

  ‘Jack! This guy planted a bomb that blew our parents to pieces! And last year he assassinated, among others, two British diplomats and attempted to murder a third!’

  ‘Something isn’t right here.’

  ‘Yeah, your head!’ Hunter turned back, and gazed out at the city. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Hey, if you can’t shout at me, who can you shout at?’ Tate put his arm around his brother’s shoulders. ‘Look if I had no doubts then Akulov would be nothing more than a stain on the floor and a bad memory, but it doesn’t make sense.’

  Hunter sighed. ‘Tell me again what he said?’

  Tate removed his arm and leant with his forearms against the cold, wall. ‘He didn’t say an awful lot – just that it wasn’t him on the tape because he was on the other side of the world at the time.’

  ‘In Doha.’

  ‘In Doha.’

  ‘That’s a coincidence. Did anything happen in Qatar back then? Did anyone vanish loudly, or quietly?’

  ‘You’d know more than me.’

  Hunter shrugged. ‘Perhaps. But I heard nothing.’

  ‘He said we should be concerned that someone has the ability to manufacture fake footage that is indistinguishable from the real thing.’

  ‘We know that Kirill Vetrov checks out. He was the team leader of the Werewolves, but again what of it? Where’s the link?’

  ‘He’s a demolitions expert.’

  ‘And Akulov isn’t?’

  ‘Fair point.’

  ‘Did you ever think we’d be doing this, Jack?’

  Tate was confused. ‘Doing what?’

  ‘The pair of us, standing in a suite in a luxury hotel a million miles away from Camden and trying to decide who lives and who dies?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s exactly what I told the careers adviser at school I wanted to do when I grew up.’

  Hunter smirked. ‘Who are we to decide?’

  ‘Who is anyone to decide? We’re a line of defence, that’s all. We keep the monsters at bay.’

  River Oaks, Houston, USA

  The price of real estate in the central Houston community of River Oaks ranged between one point six and twenty million dollars. And because of this it was a place the Mendez Cartel liked to call home. Both Caesar and Angel owned houses there as did several of their lieutenants including Luis Bravo, aka the Giant. Of course the “dons” had the largest houses out of the group but neither had succumbed to the same greed that had led many narcos to want the biggest and the best. The Mendez Cartel men lived among the wealthy and successful of Houston, seemingly as equals. Houston was not a place for them to flaunt their wealth; it was a place to make it and to invest.

  As natural attrition caused homeowners to move on, the cartel moved in to purchase what they could. Never paying over the odds enough to draw any attention to themselves and always through an impressive array of Caribbean-based shell companies. Each company had a different point of contact within the cartel and it was this point of contact only who would liaise with the relevant real-estate brokers. Over time they bought up entire swathes of River Oaks with dirty money, filtered through legitimate business. Some places were even rented out to young professionals or retirees for a reduced rate, just to add to the legitimacy of the op
eration.

  The most important three homes in the cartel’s portfolio – those belonging to Caesar, Angel and Bravo – were surrounded by an invisible tripwire of cartel-owned houses, whose residents were either on the payroll and enjoyed a reduced rent or were full-blown cartel men. Security cameras had been subtly angled to provide network coverage of the entire area and linked into a main control centre. And the control centre was based in a room in the home of Luis Bravo.

  Vetrov mused, as he stood in the Giant’s living room, that Bravo was the monster guarding the gates to the Houston underworld, a real-life, and modern incarnation of the mythical Cerberus or perhaps the giant cyclops Polyphemus. Either way the monster now sat in his mansion on River Oaks’ Del Monte Drive with his tail between his legs as Angel Mendez gave him a dressing-down the likes of which even a seasoned Russian soldier like Vetrov appreciated.

  ‘That cabrón beat you with one strike? One slap on the head and you were down, down for the count like a sack of shit. Shit in the gutter and he takes your pistol, and he kills MY BROTHER?!’

  Even sitting taped to a dining-room chair in the centre of his living room, Bravo was taller than Angel, a fact that made the cartel leader even angrier. His mouth was taped closed and his eyes were wide. The only part of Bravo’s body that could move was his head and it was twitching and jerking from side to side vigorously, shaking angrily, denying each sharpened syllable of Angel’s vitriol.

  ‘Estás pero si bien pendejo! Oh? You wanna speak? You wanna tell me I’m a liar? That this didn’t happen like I say it did? That the film on this camera is faked?’ Angel held up the iPhone, his brow furrowed for a moment as he swiped at the screen and then the footage played in full HD on Bravo’s top-of-the-line 85-inch Samsung television set. On the screen, Akulov was clearly visible arriving at the corner of the bar building. Angel let the footage continue for a while and then he paused it.

  He placed the iPhone delicately back into the pocket of his jet-black jeans and advanced upon the hulking form of Bravo. ‘Now you wanna tell me this didn’t happen? We all hallucinating here?’

  Bravo continued to shake his head.

  Angel ripped the duct tape away from the man’s mouth making him gasp. ‘What d’you wanna say, cabrón?’