Exile

by James Swallow

  Fedorin’s lips tightened into a hard line. He nodded to Vladimir, and the other man carefully slipped the rucksack off his back. ‘What I need is twenty million US dollars paid into my Swiss account, tonight.’ He met the eyes of the Kurjak brothers, and for a moment the commanding, flinty glare of the old General Fedorin was there once more. ‘And believe me, when you see what I have, you are going to give it to me.’

  FOUR

  Pavic stashed the VW in the alley behind a three-storey shopping arcade and Marc followed him up a rickety metal staircase until they were scrambling onto the tarpaper roof, ducking low so that they wouldn’t be seen by anyone on the street.

  The sun was already below the skyline and shadows were growing dark and ink black. Aside from a couple of late-closing shops on the arcade’s lower levels, there was no activity around to get in the way of surveilling the apartment block across the street.

  ‘Over here.’ Marc found a turret-shaped air vent near a low wall and crouched down next to it. He dropped the daypack off his back and drew out a long-lensed Panasonic digital camera, taking aim with it.

  Pavic squatted next to him, studying the building. ‘I see some men down on street level. Standing around, trying not to look suspicious.’

  Marc found them with the camera’s low-light lens and snapped off a dozen shots. ‘Recognise any faces? Your mate Vanja, is he there?’

  ‘I don’t see him.’

  ‘How did you find this guy, anyhow?’ He didn’t need to reiterate what they both knew, that the Kurjaks encouraged silence in their ranks by paying with gold or lead, depending on the relative loyalty of their hired goons. An inability to penetrate their organisation was one of the reasons the NSNS had never got close to them.

  ‘I called in a debt,’ Pavic told him, and he said it in a way that told Marc he wasn’t about to offer any more explanation.

  Marc filed that away for later and concentrated on the job at hand. He let the camera hang from a strap around his neck and used the thermographic sensor in his smartphone to scan the side of the apartment block. In a few moments, he had found the yellow-orange blobs of human heat imprints on an upper floor and switched back to the camera again. He pointed and handed the phone to Pavic. ‘There we are. Looks like the meet is already happening.’ He kept shooting with the camera, filling up the memory card with stills, catching glimpses of faces through tears in the plastic sheathing around the scaffolding. ‘Shit, I wish I had a parabolic mike.’

  ‘I see a face. Is that Bojan?’ Pavic pointed, scowling.

  ‘Hello there.’ Marc zoomed in and got a nice side-profile shot of the elder Kurjak brother. ‘That’s him, in the flesh. And if Bojan’s here, so is Neven.’ He knew the faces of the Serbians on sight, along with the mugs of a handful of their gun-thugs, having studied them over and over from photo captures in Europol files. He caught a glimpse of another man – older, with greying hair and a Slavic face – gesturing to someone else. ‘New player,’ he said to himself, taking more shots. ‘Maybe the client?’

  ‘How do you want to handle this?’ Pavic said quietly. His jacket was open, and Marc could see his shoulder holster, and the butt of his HS2000 service pistol glinting in the half-dark. ‘Without more men, the two of us aren’t enough to take them in.’

  ‘We do the next best thing. We get proof of whatever it is they’re doing in there.’ Marc scowled as he said it, knowing that the policeman was right. ‘Something Schrader won’t be able to dismiss.’ He tapped a button on the digital camera’s control pad and activated the wireless functionality, automatically syncing it to his phone and a cheap cloud server he was subscribed to. The pictures he shot began silently uploading to the Internet, where they couldn’t easily be deleted or lost.

  Pavic was looking over Marc’s shoulder at the camera’s display and his eyes narrowed as the device flicked through the images of the men across the street.

  ‘Something wrong?’

  The policeman shook his head and looked away. ‘It does not matter.’

  *

  Bojan’s patience for the arrogant Russian’s performance crumbled and he shook his head, glaring at the general’s handsome male companion. ‘Your boyfriend here is out of his mind,’ he spat. ‘You think we’ve got that much money to spend on the likes of you?’

  Neven was frowning at Bojan. The elder Kurjak knew what his younger sibling was thinking. Twenty million in American dollars represented almost the entire operating capital of the Kurjak operation in Croatia. Although they were fairly resource rich, with stockpiles of guns and bullets hidden in warehouses all over the country, when it came to actual currency they were tight on the margins.

  Bojan had come to think of their money as if it was the sea. It washed in and washed out with every deal they made, and most of it belonged to others who used the Kurjaks’ shell companies to launder their gains in return for a healthy percentage. People like the Georgians or the Ukrainians, their African connections or the cousins in Canada, funnelling that silly-looking toy money of theirs back into Europe.

  He snorted at the nerve of the Russian for suggesting such a figure. Twenty million? Fedorin might well have asked for the moon, because both were equally unlikely for the Kurjak gang to provide.

  ‘We’re not interested in Cold War relics like you,’ Bojan went on, annoyed at having his time wasted. ‘You dropped us when we became too vulgar for you to be associated with, but now you’re here making insane demands?’ He shook his head, and waved his men away, out of earshot. Bojan looked at his brother. ‘He’s taken us for idiots, Neven. You were right, we never should have entertained this fool.’

  Fedorin gave a wary chuckle. ‘That is funny, Kurjak. Because a relic from the Cold War is exactly what I want to offer you.’ He made a go ahead gesture to Vladimir.

  The Russian’s companion opened up the neck of his rucksack and removed a large, heavy suitcase made of metal, the kind that were usually lined with thick foam for carrying antiques or fragile pieces of equipment. Vladimir held it like it was poisonous, carefully laying it atop a collapsible metal workbench. He backed away, sweating, as Fedorin unlocked the case’s heavy latches.

  As he worked the locks, he started to lecture them. ‘Your bullshit business with the Red Mercury. Did you ever stop to wonder who it was that first invented the story?’ He didn’t wait for them to answer. ‘It was us. The KGB liked to play the long game when it came to disinformation strategies. We seeded the idea of it out in the world, used the myth to blind our enemies in the West to the truth. We were less powerful, less advanced than they thought. But we had to make sure they never knew that. America has always been brute force and no subtlety, so we used that against them. After all, a lie is so much cheaper to make than something material, don’t you think?’ He flipped open the last latch on the case, and the snap of metal on metal made Bojan’s hand reflexively slip toward the Glock semi-automatic stuffed in his belt.

  He hesitated, but the tension was suddenly hard and sharp in the air. He glanced at his men, warning them to hold off with a narrow shake of the head.

  ‘What’s in there?’ Neven was asking, his curiosity getting the better of him.

  ‘Another kind of lie,’ said Fedorin. He lifted the lid and turned the case so everyone could see inside.

  A fat steel cylinder lay across the longest axis of the case, webs of connectors threading out from both ends to a complex control panel made up of clunky electronics that were thirty years out of date. The Russian produced a key from his pocket and inserted it into a lock-switch. With a twist, the device came to life, a string of numbers spinning up along thick red LEDs. He tapped in a code on a small keypad next to it.

  ‘A bomb,’ said Neven, backing away.

  ‘Not just a bomb,’ Fedorin corrected. ‘The bomb. Say hello to a toy from the bad old days, gentlemen. This is Item Three from the Exile programme. I imagine you’ve heard of it. One of five portable tactical nuclear devices developed as first-strike weapons for a war with th
e United States of America.’

  A nervous burst of laughter spilled out of Bojan’s mouth. ‘You are joking, of course. No such weapons exist. It’s a fake, like Red Mercury!’ He snorted. ‘You can’t con a conman.’

  Fedorin met his gaze, and at his side Vladimir had gone as white as a sheet. ‘Six kiloton yield. A masterpiece of Soviet science and engineering. If this was detonated here, the city of Split would become a radioactive wasteland for hundreds of years.’

  Neven was shaking his head. ‘No, no, no. The Russians dismantled the Exile programme in 1991, when Gorbachev was President. The Americans strong-armed him into it, that’s what I heard!’

  ‘Partly true,’ Fedorin countered. ‘Two devices were rendered inert and retained. I acquired one of them as . . . an insurance policy, and had it reactivated.’ He studied the other men, now fully aware that he was in total control of the narrative. ‘You know me, Neven. You’ve seen me play cards. Seen me win a million dollars in a Macau casino and then lose it all again the same night. Think, now. Am I bluffing?’

  ‘No.’ Bojan’s brother said woodenly. Vladimir handed him a particle detector from the rucksack, and after checking it to make sure it hadn’t been tampered with, Neven ran it over the device. The insect-like clicking of the counter rose alarmingly as he waved it at the case. ‘Oh, mother. This is . . . This is . . .’ He couldn’t finish his sentence.

  ‘The last of the USSR’s ghost weapons,’ Fedorin completed his sentence for him. ‘You boys have sold enough fakes in your time to know when you are looking at the real thing, I believe. I’m offering you the chance to trade up.’

  Bojan took a wary step closer. He was familiar with the stories of so-called ‘suitcase nukes’, compact weapons that were designed to be smuggled across the borders of enemy powers and left in place, there to be triggered close to the seats of government or key military installations if the Cold War turned hot. He glanced at his men, wondering if any of them understood what they were standing next to.

  The general retrieved a thick file from the rucksack and tossed it on the workbench next to the device. Bojan blinked, barely registering it. It was hard not to be drawn to the crimson glow of the bomb’s digital display. ‘The asking price gets you all the technical specifications and blueprints of the devices as a bonus. Act quickly. This is a limited-time offer.’ Fedorin gave a grim snort at his own gallows humour.

  Bojan drew his pistol. ‘Suppose we kill you and the handsome one here, and we take this thing? Why should we pay so much?’

  ‘I’ve set the weapon’s anti-tremor trigger,’ Fedorin told him. ‘Only I have the deactivation code. Hurt Vladimir or myself and we all die. The city out there along with us.’ The general’s companion turned to him, a pleading look on his face, but Fedorin waved him away, becoming hard and cold. ‘This is how it will be. If you prefer, consider the money as an “unlocking fee”. But don’t take too long about it.’

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ Neven demanded. ‘If this explodes . . . !’

  ‘I am desperate, remember?’ Fedorin told him. ‘You do not know how much! Tomorrow, in Moscow, news will be released that will accuse me of . . . terrible things. I have no time. I must disappear. I have been forced to this extreme.’ His mood shifted into sudden anger. ‘I know you have the money! Don’t lie to me! I’ve seen the details of your accounts in the Caymans. You have it!’

  ‘That isn’t ours to –’ Bojan snapped, but Neven put a hand on his arm to stop him, pulling his brother to one side.

  ‘It is real,’ Neven whispered. ‘It is. We know Fedorin had access to these kinds of devices. We know he could do what he says he has done. Brother, he’s brought us the prize of a lifetime.’

  ‘A nuclear weapon?’ Bojan shook his head, cold fear gripping his chest as he accepted the fact. ‘This is much more than rifles and shells, Neven. It’s too much, we can’t . . .’ He stopped, shaking his head. Fear was not something that often came upon him, but it did now. ‘Tell him to disarm it. Take it away.’

  Then Neven asked the question that made the panic ebb. ‘How much do you think it is worth? We could sell it for five times what Fedorin wants, at the very least. You know I’m right.’

  ‘Yes.’ Bojan’s throat went dry and he fought off a moment of light-headedness. ‘Yes. But there’s just one problem.’

  ‘The money.’ Neven nodded. What Fedorin had seen in the Kurjaks’ secret bank accounts was laundered cash being held for their clients. Not a penny of it was theirs to spend, not unless they wanted to embezzle from violent men with short tempers. Men who, unlike the terrorist marks the Kurjaks had defrauded in the past, knew exactly where to find them. ‘You are thinking short term, big brother. We spend that money now, tonight. Then we replace it later with interest. And still we would retire from this life as rich, rich men with what remains.’

  Unbidden, a grin began to force its way across Bojan’s face. He felt the same rush of adrenaline and daring that had always accompanied the most dangerous of their con games. He looked at the silver case with new eyes, and found he wanted what was in it. Wanted what it represented.

  ‘I’m losing patience,’ said Fedorin. ‘What is your answer?’

  Neven and Bojan shared a knowing look, each of them feeling the same thrill in that moment.

  ‘Pay the man,’ said the elder brother. In the end, greed always wins out, he told himself.

  *

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Marc. ‘Maybe they’ve got a sewing circle going on up there.’ He panned the camera along the length of the building.

  ‘Movement,’ said Pavic, with a jut of his chin.

  Marc leaned in and lay the camera lens across the edge of the roof, quickly finding and then framing the men emerging from the ground floor of the apartment block. Bojan Kurjak was among them, lighting a cigarette, and his body language was all tension and edges. The older man with the Slavic look Marc had glimpsed earlier was with him, as was his athletic companion. Both of them were drawn and tired.

  The camera’s artificial shutter whirred as Marc captured more stills of the men. They walked to the kerb where a silver Skoda was parked, and the younger man scrambled into the driver’s seat as though anxious to get out of there. Marc snapped his face and then zoomed in as closely as he could to get Bojan and what had to be their client.

  ‘You can see what they are doing?’ asked Pavic.

  ‘Yeah.’ The client was looking intently at his phone. He saw something that agreed with him, because he nodded with relief and offered the Kurjak brother a folded piece of paper.

  Bojan snatched it out of his hand and was immediately making a call of his own. As the client climbed into the Skoda and the car peeled out, Marc dithered, finally deciding to hold the image on the Serbian. He watched Bojan look up at the higher floors of the apartment building as he read something aloud from the paper he had been given. One of these days I’ve got to learn how to lip-read, Marc told himself.

  ‘He’s talking to someone up there,’ said Pavic. ‘Neven, probably.’

  Marc nodded as Bojan ended his call. Then, very deliberately, the Serbian took the lit cigarette from his mouth and used it to set fire to the slip of paper.

  As he flicked the ashen remains away, a pair of vehicles – a sleek Mercedes town car and a dark blue Renault van – emerged from the concealed entrance of an underground car park beneath the apartment block, and swung around to where Bojan was waiting. Marc swore. The meeting was done and dusted, and now the Kurjaks were moving out.

  He slipped back from the edge. ‘Come on, we’ve got to go!’

  Pavic followed him down the rattling metal staircase at a run, the rusted frame shaking alarmingly as they descended. Marc reached the VW, but his heart sank as he saw a blur of taillights up beyond the far end of the alleyway. He sprinted to the street in time to see the Renault and the Merc vanishing around the corner and into the flow of evening traffic. Acting on reflex, he aimed the digital camera in the direction of
the vehicles and hit the shutter button. ‘Bollocks!’ He spat out the word. ‘We’ll never catch them now.’

  ‘Did you get a shot of the plates?’ Pavic asked, jogging up to his side.

  Marc handed him the camera. ‘Should be enough to read.’ He shook his head, angry at himself. ‘Maybe we can get something from it, but I don’t know . . . This is what happens when we don’t have backup.’

  This is what happens when you go off-book, said a voice in his thoughts. It sounded unpleasantly like Samantha Green.

  ‘We’re not done yet,’ said Pavic, glancing right and left as he watched for a break in the traffic. ‘Come on.’ He dashed out across the street and made a beeline for the silent apartment building.

  Marc grimaced and went after him.

  *

  Horvat was sneering as he watched the Englishman sprint across the lanes of traffic, and for a moment he entertained the fantasy of running him down with the Lada. Parked beneath a dead street light, the car and Horvat were lost in a puddle of shadow, free to observe what had happened and remain unseen.

  His instincts had been good, as they always were. He found the gaudy gold iPhone Bojan had given him and dialled a number. He hated the thing. It looked as if it belonged to some vapid streetwalker, and Horvat suspected that was part of the reason that Bojan had forced him to keep it on him. The Kurjak brothers liked to have their little jokes at the expense of others. Well, tonight the joke is on them.

  Bojan picked up on the second ring. ‘Got something useful for me this time?’ he sniffed. The background noise told the cop that the Kurjaks were still inside the Mercedes he had seen pull away moments earlier.

  ‘What were you doing at the Dolphin Apartments just now?’ said Horvat, recalling the name for the shuttered building.

  ‘What?’ He heard anger in the other man’s voice. ‘You snooping on me?’

  Horvat ignored the question. ‘I ask because I guess you didn’t know you were being followed by some dog working for Europol.’