by Will Jordan
Like a cyber hunter stalking her digital prey, she had slashed through its defences to get at its vulnerable underbelly. Now it seemed she was poised to make the kill.
‘What have you found?’
‘Our roadkill friend has been busy lately, mostly deleting stuff,’ Frost explained. ‘Unfortunately for him, deleting something doesn’t get rid of it. All it does is flag that disk partition as available to overwrite, and even then a trace of the original data can stay for—’
‘Just give me the short version,’ McKnight interrupted. As fascinating as the technical aspects of her profession were, she was more concerned with the information Frost had uncovered than how she’d found it.
‘Jeez, what a way to kill my buzz,’ Frost griped. ‘Anyway, I managed to reconstitute several emails between Umarov and a guy called Anatoly Glazov. They started a few weeks ago. I had to run them through a translator program, so they read like a pair of fucking Martians talking to each other, but the gist of it seems to be that Glazov asked Umarov to supply him with several cases of D, which I guess refers to Danubit – the explosive.’ She paused a moment to read on a little further in the emails she’d only just finished reconstituting. ‘Umarov says … it’ll be risky but he thinks he can do it.’
‘Fuck the translator program,’ Stav said, sensing she was having difficulty. Tossing aside the papers he’d been examining, he strode over to her computer. ‘Bring up the original emails, please.’
Hesitating, Frost glanced at McKnight, who nodded her assent.
Hitting a couple of keys to revert to the original Cyrillic versions, Frost leaned back from the computer. ‘Knock yourself out, big guy. Not literally, of course,’ she added with a fake smile. ‘You did that already.’
Giving her a look of annoyance, Stav went to work, his eyes quickly darting across the screen. Even Frost was surprised at the rate he was able to take in information.
‘She is right,’ he said at last. ‘It seems the two men were old work colleagues. Glazov approached Umarov asking him to supply the explosives, and offering fifty thousand roubles in return.’
‘So where did they go?’ McKnight asked.
‘According to this, Umarov was to take the explosives to an abandoned warehouse on the south side of the city, where some men would be waiting with his payment. There is nothing more beyond that.’
McKnight nodded. It wasn’t perfect, but it was a whole lot more than they’d had a few minutes earlier.
‘Then we need to find out who Anatoly Glazov is, and where he lives,’ she decided. ‘If the two of them were old work colleagues, he should be on the mining company’s personnel database.’
‘This is not problem,’ Stav said, reaching for his phone. ‘FSB will find what we need.’
It took less than a minute for Stav to be connected to the right department within the FSB’s immense organisation, and even less time for him to put forth his request for information. With the enquiry submitted, he hung up and folded his arms, whistling under his breath.
Sensing their eyes on him, he smiled. ‘Chill and be patient, my friends. We wait.’
‘I’m chilled enough,’ Frost assured him.
Thirty seconds later, his phone pinged with an incoming message. Manipulating the comically small touch-screen phone with his massive hands, he called up the message and scrolled down to read.
‘Well?’ McKnight prompted, eager to know more.
Stav let out a snort of amusement as a grin slowly split his face.
‘You will love this.’
Chapter 32
Grozny, Chechnya
‘We have him,’ Miranova announced, reading off the information forwarded by FSB headquarters in Moscow.
McKnight had called them with the news of their breakthrough only moments earlier, quickly explaining the email chain they had found between Umarov and Glazov, and that all available information on Glazov would be sent on to them.
Miranova turned her laptop around, allowing Drake and Mason to see what she was looking at. Staring back at them was a passport photo of a ruggedly handsome, practical-looking man of middle age, the sort who seemed as though he belonged in a sawmill or a factory. The date stamp announced that the photo had been taken seven years previously.
‘Anatoly Glazov, born here in Chechnya in 1948. He served in the Red Army engineer corps for nearly a decade,’ she explained, rapidly summarising the information in his dossier. ‘When the Cold War ended, he moved into the private sector and started working for Norilsk Nickel as an engineering contractor.’
Mason could see where she was going with this. ‘The sort of guy who’d be responsible for rock blasting, that sort of thing?’
‘Precisely. He retired from mining operations about three years ago due to ill health. He has been living off a company pension ever since.’
Drake was elated. As far as the evidence went, it didn’t get much better than this. They were dealing with a man with possible sympathies to Chechen separatism, and who had the knowledge and experience to build improvised explosive devices.
‘So he could be the guy behind this,’ Mason reasoned.
‘Possible, but unlikely,’ Miranova countered. ‘He was not flagged by our internal security directorates, and his file shows no history of political activity. Even his military record mentions no anti-government sentiment. He does not fit the profile of a terrorist leader.’
‘But he is hard up for a few quid,’ Drake chipped in.
The FSB agent frowned at the unfamiliar expression. ‘Excuse me?’
‘He’s a Brit,’ Mason apologised on Drake’s behalf.
Drake gave him a disapproving look before continuing. ‘He wouldn’t be living here if he had the money to get out. A guy like that might be willing to build bombs for the right price, especially for a fellow Chechen.’
‘That is my theory also.’ He saw a faint smile; a tacit acknowledgement that they were both on the same page. ‘His last known address is less than twenty miles from here.’
For Drake, the next course of action was obvious. ‘Then let’s pay Mr Glazov a visit.’
Chapter 33
Anatoly Glazov grasped the edge of his chipped, stained kitchen sink, his thin body convulsing in another coughing fit that felt as though it was tearing him apart from the inside. With a final racking gasp, he spat a glob of foamy mucus into the sink, trying to ignore the fact that it was pink with blood.
He turned on the tap to wash it away, then straightened up and ran a shaking hand across his mouth. The attack had left him feeling sick and weak, but it had passed now. It always passed.
Reaching for the bottle of vodka on the shelf beside him, he poured a generous glass and took a gulp, forcing the stinging liquid down his throat. It made him want to gag, but gradually the pain subsided as a languid warmth began to spread outwards from his stomach.
He was just laying the glass down when he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the grimy kitchen window. He saw his face, gaunt and haggard, his clothes hanging slack on his spare frame, his hair thinning and grey. He was barely sixty, yet he felt decades older.
Twenty years ago he’d been a strong, vibrant man in the prime of life. A little thick around the midsection perhaps, and an inch or two shorter than he might have liked, but still ruggedly handsome and with a successful army career under his belt. Now it was all gone. Chechnya had eaten away his life just as Norilsk had eaten away his health.
Still, none of that mattered now. Now he had the means to escape this war-torn hellhole. A quarter of a million roubles had just been deposited in his bank account; generous payment for a few days of easy work. The buyer, whose name he’d never learned, had promised him justice and retribution for the Chechen people, claiming his work would change the course of history and other such bullshit. In truth, Glazov had no interest in it. He had never considered himself terribly nationalistic, and was too old to start now.
He had agreed to the man’s offer for the money, and in that reg
ard he was very passionate. A quarter of a million roubles was enough to get him booked on a flight out of Chechnya, enough to get him the medical treatment he could never afford before. Enough perhaps to give a man a second chance at life.
He was just pondering the future that lay ahead when the phone in his living room started ringing. Turning his eyes away from the unpleasant reflection, he shuffled through the untidy hallway and into the cramped, cold room that smelled of damp and mould and decay. The room that served as both his main living space and, in light of his declining health, his prison.
He scooped up his phone, irritated at the distraction. ‘Yes?’
‘You’re in danger.’
The voice that spoke to him was deep, pleasant sounding, clearly belonging to an educated man. Glazov knew exactly who it was. It was the man who had just given him a second chance at life.
Only now he seemed poised to take it away again.
‘W-what did you say?’
‘You’re in danger,’ the man repeated. ‘The FSB are on to you. They found Umarov and unless he was very careful, they’re likely to make the connection to you.’
Glazov’s breath caught in his throat. Umarov, his old friend from the days when the two of them had worked for Norilsk Nickel together, had smuggled out the explosives he’d needed to build the bombs. He’d assured Glazov that he would take care of any red tape, and that the matter was unlikely to receive any police follow-up.
‘But … how?’ Glazov asked. It should have been an angry demand, but instead it came out as a pathetic whimper.
‘Perhaps I should ask you the same question. You assured me the bomb wouldn’t compromise us.’
‘And I meant it,’ Glazov stammered, feeling utterly helpless. He was afraid, and there was no hiding it. His hands were starting to tremble, and he was beginning to wish he hadn’t left his glass of vodka in the kitchen. ‘I don’t understand how this happened, but it wasn’t me. I didn’t let you down. You have to believe that.’
‘But you are a liability. If the FSB capture you, they could make you talk.’
Glazov was practically shaking with fear. He knew well enough the ruthless measures the FSB took with suspected terrorists. Man or woman, old or young, sick or healthy, it made no difference to them.
He wasn’t cut out for this sort of thing. Even during his army days he’d been an engineer, not a soldier. He’d never killed a man in his life, and had certainly never been hunted and shot at.
‘What do I do?’ he asked, pleading for help, for understanding. How could he make this man understand that he wasn’t the enemy, that he hadn’t betrayed him? ‘Tell me what I can do.’
Agonising silence greeted him for the next few seconds. He was a condemned man waiting for the judge to pass sentence.
‘I can get you out, but we must move quickly,’ his employer decided. ‘Pack some warm clothes and be ready to leave. I’m sending someone to pick you up. They’ll identify themselves with the password Alexander. Do you understand?’
Glazov swallowed, trying to force down the bile that seemed to be rising in his throat. ‘Y-you promise you’ll help me?’
‘You’re a man with skills, Anatoly,’ the voice admitted. ‘Skills that could be valuable to us in future. If you agree to work for us, we can protect you. Now get moving. Good luck.’
With that, the line went dead.
Laying down the phone, Glazov turned and slowly surveyed the room: the threadbare furniture, the old-fashioned TV and the peeling wallpaper. His home, his life, his prison.
It took all of three seconds for him to make his decision.
‘Fuck this,’ he said, hurrying into his bedroom. If he had to throw in his hand with a bunch of nationalistic zealots, so be it. At least he’d be alive.
The rest he would figure out later.
Chapter 34
Drake braced himself as the 4x4 ploughed through another deep hole in what was laughably called a road, the impact practically jolting him out of his seat. The dipped headlights illuminated a grey world of leafless woods, muddy overgrown fields and the occasional crumbling ruins of long-abandoned homesteads.
He hadn’t seen a single electric light in the past ten minutes, and it didn’t take much imagination to guess why. Most residents here would have cleared out during the First Chechen War, with few willing to return to a country scarred by conflict and suffering.
And yet here, in the midst of this remote war-torn landscape, Anatoly Glazov had chosen to make his home. Drake couldn’t wait to pay him a visit.
Gearing up for a house assault was a ritual he’d gone through more times than he could count, and always it involved the same round of last-minute equipment and weapon checks, the same worries over trivial details, the same recitals of whatever plan they were expected to carry out.
In this case there wasn’t much of a plan to follow. Their objective was simply to get to the isolated farm where Glazov had set up shop, find him and secure him for questioning. With little knowledge of what to expect once they were on site, it was impossible to formulate a more sophisticated strategy.
Still, the FSB were clearly erring on the side of caution. He, Mason and Miranova were accompanied by a pair of tactical agents in full body armour and woodland BDUs (Battle Dress Uniform).
They were certainly ready for a fight. Drake had spotted tear-gas canisters, breaching shotguns and stun grenades amongst their gear, but their weapon of choice seemed to be AKS-74s: compact and modern variants of the legendary AK-47 assault rifle. Such weapons were accurate and reliable even in severe weather, and powerful enough to punch through most body armour without difficulty.
It rather smacked of overkill to apprehend one frightened old man, but as the saying went, it was better to have a weapon and not need it than the other way around.
Drake glanced down to inspect the weapon he’d been issued with – an MP-443 Grach. A big, chunky automatic pistol, the Grach was a relatively new weapon that had only been adopted by the Russians a few years back. It felt solid and durable, but Drake had a feeling the balance was wrong for him and would hurt his accuracy. This one had been fitted with an integrated flashlight and laser sight for night operations, which further added to the weight. Still, he was confident he could hit most man-sized targets at up to 30 yards.
Holstering the weapon, he glanced at Mason, who was busy lacing up his boots. He seemed to be making a real meal of it, as if his fingers weren’t listening to the commands from his brain. He could see the tension in the older man’s face, as well as the faint sheen of sweat on his brow.
‘You all right?’ Drake asked, perplexed by his behaviour. Even if he’d been out of the game for a while, he was an experienced operative who had done this sort of thing dozens of times. Why was he acting like a rookie on his first mission?
‘I’m hot as hell in this thing,’ Mason replied, shifting uncomfortably inside his winter BDUs. The layered, thermally insulated uniform had bulked out his already large frame.
Drake frowned, sensing there was more to it than mere discomfort. ‘Need a hand with that?’ he asked, gesturing to his bootlaces.
Mason flashed him an angry look. ‘The day I can’t lace up my own fucking boots is the day they put me out to pasture.’
With a final hard yank he finished tying the lace, then reached up and wiped the sweat from his brow. He looked as though he’d just finished a strenuous workout.
Before Drake could question his friend further, Miranova twisted around in her seat.
‘We are less than five minutes out,’ she reported, having consulted the GPS unit mounted on the dash. Using a printed map to navigate in these parts would have been an exercise in futility; he doubted if most of the roads here had even been surveyed. ‘When we get there, Agents Pushkin and Vasilev will handle the breach. We will go in once the building is secure. Understand?’
Drake nodded. Being the most heavily armed and armoured, it made sense for the two tactical agents to spearhead the assault. There
weren’t many problems that their combined firepower couldn’t overcome.
‘As long as we find Glazov, I don’t care how it’s done.’
This wasn’t why he had come to Chechnya. He was here for Anya, not to get involved in the FSB’s war. But there was still a chance that this Glazov, whoever he was, might lead Drake to her. He could only hope the man had something worthwhile to share with them.
He flexed his gloved hands, eager to get moving. The action itself he could handle; it was the waiting that did his head in. So much of his military career had been spent waiting – waiting to attack, waiting for support, waiting for an ambush, waiting for a release from the endless tension and paranoia of being in a hostile country.
But beneath it all, he sensed another reason for his unease. He had no cause to suspect the assault wouldn’t go exactly to plan, yet something in the back of his mind wouldn’t let it go.
Their adversaries had been one step ahead of them the whole time. Had they really managed to gain the upper hand now?
Chapter 35
Glazov was gasping in shallow, ragged breaths as he shuffled down the corridor, clutching a single suitcase that represented everything of value to him in this world. He had to pause every so often as another coughing fit overtook him, but somehow he found the strength to pick it up and keep moving.
Strangely, he felt little remorse at the things he was leaving behind. There was nothing here that meant much to him. He’d moved back here to his family home years ago for no other reason than because he couldn’t afford to buy a place of his own. He’d even tried to sell the farm and its surrounding land to anyone who would buy it, but such a desperate scheme had been doomed to failure from the start. All of the adjoining farms had long since been abandoned, and no property developer worth his salt would buy land here.
