Red Strike

by Chris Ryan

  Still, he told himself. It was only a couple of days. All he had to do was inspect the factory site, meet one or two of the workers, endure whatever godforsaken cuisine they had on offer at the canteen, and then get back on the plane to Moscow. Three days from now he would be back home in Chelsea.

  He turned to Butko, decided to ask the question that had been eating at him since they had flown out of Budapest.

  ‘You’re quite sure that the president isn’t upset with me?’ he asked.

  The Russian belted out a laugh. ‘Of course not! Why would he be, Derek?’

  ‘I thought, perhaps, that unfortunate business with my bodyguards . . .’ He shrugged.

  ‘Nonsense! No one blames you for what happened, my friend. Least of all the president.’

  ‘They tortured me, Vitaly. I resisted for as long as possible, I swear. But those animals threatened me.’ He shook his head. ‘I would never betray Kolotov, you know that.’

  Butko patted him chummily on the back. ‘There’s no need to explain. Really. The president is very understanding about the whole business. You were under a lot of pressure, cornered by two extremely violent SAS men. Who wouldn’t have confessed, under the same circumstances?’

  ‘But the operation,’ Lansbury persisted. ‘Having to call the whole thing off. Kolotov isn’t angry about that?’

  ‘Not angry, no.’ Vitaly paused while he searched for the right word. ‘He’s disappointed, Derek. But the president is a very forgiving person. He’s willing to give you a second chance.’

  Relief flowed through Lansbury’s veins. He nodded keenly. ‘I won’t let him down again.’

  ‘I know you won’t.’

  They reached the security gate and slowed to a purring halt. A guard emerged from the hut, exchanged a few words with No-Brows, waved the Tacoma through. They continued north on the track, the barracks and ablution blocks at their left, the steel treatment tanks and ISO containers to the east. They passed Caterpillar trucks piled high with rock loads and hydraulic excavators and SUVs buried up to the windscreens in pure white snow.

  Lansbury frowned. ‘Where are we going, exactly?’

  ‘Your accommodation,’ Butko said. His thin lips spread into a smile. ‘You didn’t think we’d put you up in the barracks with the mineworkers, did you? Relax, Derek. You’re going to be staying in somewhere far more suitable for a man of your standing. We’ve even had some crates of your favourite beer flown in for you. John Smith’s, isn’t it?’

  ‘Very kind of you,’ Lansbury replied, feigning a grateful smile. He hated beer, and particularly despised bitter. That was all just for show, part of his carefully constructed public image as a true Brit, a man of the people. In reality, Lansbury much preferred a glass of French cabernet.

  They skirted around the edge of the vast open-pit mine, past dormant machinery and piles of rocks. Butko gestured towards the facilities with a sweep of his arm.

  ‘Look around you, Derek,’ he said. ‘This is all yours now. You’re king of all you survey.’

  It was, Lansbury had to admit, rather impressive. The scale of it, certainly. And the money he would be earning . . . incredible. He imagined all the things he planned to do with his wealth. The doors it would open. President Drummond wouldn’t treat him like a mere underling anymore, not when Lansbury had several zeroes to his name. Who knows, he might even buy a penthouse in the president’s Manhattan tower block. The most expensive one in the building. That would really rub the guy’s nose in it.

  The driver took a narrow ice-track and headed north, away from the main mining campus. The track took them past huge snow-capped spoil tips, a mountain range of excavated earth and rubble.

  ‘The accommodation is outside the mine?’ Lansbury asked uneasily.

  ‘We’re going to show you something else, first,’ Butko replied. ‘This won’t take long, Derek. You’ll be putting your feet up and drinking beer soon.’

  They carried on for another nine or ten kilometres past the dumping ground, towards a series of rocky outcrops to the north, until the mine was just a distant speck on the horizon.

  The Tacoma stopped.

  Lansbury said, ‘What are we doing here?’

  ‘Get out, Derek,’ Butko said.

  For a moment, Lansbury hesitated. Then he suddenly realised: this must be the planned extension of the gold mine. Hadn’t Butko mentioned this before, in passing? Something about additional deposits in the area, new opportunities to expand the mining operations. This is why Butko insisted on bringing me out here, Lansbury told himself happily. The chap wanted to unveil his new business plan.

  He was going to be even richer!

  He debussed from the back of the Tacoma cabin. So did Butko.

  So did No-Brows and the driver.

  The two guards stood either side of Butko. Gloved hands resting on the butts of their holstered pistols. Butko extended a hand towards Lansbury and said, ‘Take off your jacket.’

  Lansbury chuckled nervously. ‘You can’t be serious. This is your idea of a joke, is it?’

  ‘No joke.’

  Lansbury started to worry. ‘But . . . the temperature. I’ll freeze, Vitaly.’

  ‘Just fucking do it.’

  The guards shaped as if to deholster their pistols.

  Lansbury swallowed, unzipped his Fjallraven coat, handed it to Butko. The wind ice-picked at his torso, finding tiny gaps in his under-layers, cold burning his flesh. He shivered.

  ‘Your hat, too,’ Butko said.

  Lansbury took off his hat.

  ‘And your gloves,’ Butko said.

  Lansbury took off his gloves.

  The cold numbed his fingers. He couldn’t feel his toes, his testicles. His teeth chattered involuntarily. ‘I d-don’t understand. What’s g-g-going on?’

  Butko ignored the question. He handed the gloves, hat and coat to No-Brows. Then he pointed to a spot on the horizon. Lansbury squinted at it. He saw nothing but flat, frozen wasteland.

  ‘The nearest town is about two hundred miles that way,’ Butko said. ‘I suggest you start walking. It’s going to be dark soon, and the wind chill gets very bad at night. The dry, cold air will burn your lungs, cause internal bleeding. Although personally I think the hypothermia will kill you first.’

  Lansbury stood, mouth agape, trembling with the fear and the flesh-burning cold.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’

  ‘The president sends his regards. He’s sorry things had to end this way. But you betrayed him, and he cannot let your treasonous behaviour go unpunished. However, Kolotov is willing to give you a chance to redeem yourself. If you can make it as far as the nearest town, all will be forgiven.’

  Lansbury looked aghast. ‘Dressed like this? In these conditions? I’ll never make it!’

  ‘In all likelihood, no. There was a gulag here once, in Stalin’s time. I hear one prisoner escaped and actually made it thirty miles before he died. But it’s better than a bullet to the head, no?’

  ‘You can’t do this!’ Lansbury screamed. ‘We had an arrangement!’

  Butko gave an indifferent shrug. ‘We did. Not now.’ He smiled thinly. ‘If I were you, I’d get moving. The bears come out at night. Plenty of them in these parts. I hear they get hungry at this time of the year. Not so many nuts and berries left for them to feast on. And don’t even think about coming back to the mine, either.’ He nodded back in the direction of the security guards. ‘My men have orders to shoot any trespassers on sight. For security reasons, you understand.’

  ‘No! Please, for God’s sake!’

  The Russian placed a hand on Lansbury’s shoulder. He was shaking violently from the cold, ice thickening in his nostrils. ‘Good luck, my old friend.’

  Butko climbed back into the wagon. No-Brows and the driver followed. The Tacoma reversed, snow crunching beneath the tyres as it pulled away, heading back in the direction of the gold mine.

  The cold spread through Lansbury, chilling his insides. His hands and feet and fac
e were completely numb. Every intake of breath stabbed his chest, felt like he was swallowing shards of broken glass.

  In the distance, he heard the howl of a Siberian husky.

  Lansbury turned away from the mine, and started walking.