Every window had been blown out by the blast. Glass shards crunched under their feet as they entered through an empty pane, tactical lights penetrating the gloom, searching for Taliban targets.
The ground floor was empty.
Outside, the firefight was intensifying, stray tracers zinging.
Sokolov mounted the steps of the marble stairway and followed the corridor to the master suite, with Andy at his side.
The door to the huge bedroom was wide open.
They rushed in and found a man standing there, in the middle of the room, gazing at the flames and billowing smoke of the destroyed electric generator building. He was dressed in a traditional, white, loose Afghan undergarment. The stench of burning diesel fumes carried in the air was palpable as it filled the room through the smashed window. The blaze outside cast an eerie orange glow to his pockmarked, bearded face. He turned toward them as Sokolov and Andy trained their weapon-mounted flashlights on him. Squinting, he raised an arm, shielding his eyes from the harsh glare as he tried to make out the faces of the two ghosts who had attacked his home.
“Who are you?” he demanded in English. “What do you want?” There was no trace of fear in his voice.
“You don’t know me, Abdul,” said Andy. “But you may remember what you did to me and my men. And to the civilians in that village. I’ve waited a long time for this moment to arrive.”
“Ah, so you’re British.” Azizi spat out the word. “I didn’t forget. First you invaded my country, and now my home. Why?”
“We’re here to make you talk. And trust me, you will. You’ll tell us everything about the ammonium nitrate shipment and the deal you’ve struck with Korolev.”
“Getting straight down to business, I see. It will be my pleasure,” Azizi replied. “To tell you the truth, there is no shipment. You won’t find the ammonium nitrate because it doesn’t exist.”
“Don’t lie to me, Azizi, you’ll only make things worse for yourself, you bastard. We know about the attack. We’re here to stop it.”
“How foolish. You’re right. The attack is imminent. But you are powerless to prevent it. No, you will actually help us. I have been expecting you. What about your friend here? Is he Russian? His name is Sokolov, no?”
There was something demonic in that voice. Sokolov tightened his grip on his submachine gun, his alertness kicking into overdrive.
“You want to know about the attack?” Azizi continued. “I have something on my phone. Please allow me to demonstrate.”
“Go on,” Andy growled.
Carefully, the Afghan warlord reached into his pocket and produced the mobile device. He taped a finger on the screen and turned it so they could see the image displayed.
It was a photo showing Constantine.
He was staring into the camera with a look of steely determination, strapped to a chair, two tattooed Albanians flanking him, one of them pressing a knife blade to Constantine’s throat.
Azizi’s mouth broke in a devilish grin.
Coupled with the darkness of the night and the fire raging outside, looking at the horrific image Sokolov felt las though he might have been transported straight into hell. He squashed a terrible urge to shoot Azizi on the spot. His mind reeled. He desperately hoped that the photo was fake, but deep down he braced himself for the worst.
“You see, Sokolov, we have your brother. If you don’t want him to die, you will do what we tell you. You will be the one who is going to carry out the attack against Harry. But first, we need you to pass a small test of loyalty. You can start by killing this English dog here. Shoot him!”
Andy swung his weapon, leveling the barrel at Sokolov’s head, the bright light blinding him momentarily.
“This is madness,” Sokolov said. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Better you than me. I don’t know what’s going through your head right now. I can’t take any chances. You’ve been compromised, gaffer. One way or another, they’ll exploit your weakness against you. I’ve got my orders to stop them, even if it means killing you. I can’t let you undermine the mission in order to save your brother. A tough call but I’ve got to make it.”
Submachine gun fire echoed from outside as the battle raged on.
Sokolov heard the rumble of a powerful outboard motor, approaching the jetty.
Reinforcements?
Andy must have also caught the sounds. He hesitated.
Azizi reached for a handgun tucked under his waistband at the small of the back. He whipped it out, aiming it at Andy, and two quick shots boomed in rapid succession as the former SAS man spun around and squeezed the trigger. Twin geysers of blood popped in the Afghan’s shirt as the bullets pierced his chest and he toppled.
Sokolov let out a breath.
“Is your next bullet meant for me, Andy?”
“I’ll sort you out later,” the operator replied. “On second thought, it’s up to Sir Gray to decide what to do about you and your brother next. Right now, it looks like we’ve got far bigger problems on our hands.”
Azizi certainly had been expecting their arrival.
The island’s understaffed security had baited them. Now it was joined by a much stronger force.
A large, dhoni sailboat had moored at the jetty. The traditional fishing vessel with a peculiar curved bow, fitted with a diesel motor, was disgorging AK-wielding Taliban terrorists.
Sokolov struggled to keep track of their numbers. It was hard to tell in the darkness of the night, their silhouettes haloed faintly by the distant glow of the fire ebbing away.
They were no match in terms of military skill, but they would overwhelm the SAS veterans with sheer numbers. The E3 mercenaries would be swept away. It was another ambush, and they had nowhere to run. They were trapped on the island.
“Bluefish Two, this is Bluefish One. Large number of hostiles incoming,” Andy warned. “Do you copy? Over.”
“Roger, Bluefish One.” McGill’s voice came from the radio earpiece. Then, “We have visual on the targets … We’re under fire! Repeat, we’re under fire! Over!”
A cacophony of gunshots resonated, audible inside the villa’s suite, tracers streaking in the night.
“Bluefish Two, engage enemy targets. We need to secure the jetty and evac,” Andy commanded. “Out.”
The ex-SAS officer headed for the exit. “Come on, let’s go,” he told Sokolov.
“Stop.”
“What?”
“You’re wrong. Don’t do it. Trying to fight your way through is suicide. They’ve swarmed the beach. You’ll never make it to the boat.”
“What are you suggesting instead?”
“Take cover behind the trees, split up and spread out.”
“It’s a bloody island, and a tiny one at that, there’s no place to hide.”
“Make a run for the beach at the other side of the island.”
“And then what?”
“Swim.”
“What a load of bollocks.”
“You know there’s no other way out, Andy.”
“The only way out is to blast those bastards to hell and take the boat. We’re not some cowards.”
“You can’t accept the fact that Azizi has tricked you again. Passing off your stubbornness for courage will only get you and your men killed. Swallow your pride.”
Frantic radio chatter exploded suddenly.
“I’m hit!”
“Bluefish Four down!”
The voice of Nick Townsend, a twenty-five-year-old, big-eared, husky combat specialist.
“They’re everywhere!”
“Regroup!” McGill ordered.
It was mixed with gunfire, screams, and obscenities. Explosions flashed and boomed as hand grenades went off.
Andy held his gun up.
“Try to get in my way, and I swear I’ll shoot you, Sokolov.”
Andy stormed past him, rushing downstairs. Sokolov followed him outside.
A gun-toting terrorist materialized, prowling the gro
und floor. Andy scythed him down with a burst of bullets.
Only when they had cleared the terrace and approached the beach did they grasp the full scale of the Taliban assault.
It was a massacre. There were corpses everywhere, sprawled in the sand. Most were Taliban. But as Sokolov’s eyes scanned the area, he could discern the burly form of Townsend lying prone on the ground, as well as two other E3 team members.
They saw a lone figure shooting at a group of attackers from behind the wall of a bungalow.
Andy and Sokolov assisted him, firing at the terrorists, gunning down a couple, wounding a few more, pinning back the rest or forcing them to flee for cover.
“Bluefish One, this is Bluefish Two!” McGill’s voice shouted. “I got hit! Everyone else is dead! Run for it, I’ll cover you! For fu—”
He was cut short by a fierce fusillade that felled him. He was trying to pick himself up when another salvo ripped into his torso and finished him off.
Sokolov and Andy retreated, dashing toward a row of palm trees. Angry shouts and AK fire followed them. Bullets hit the ground around them, kicking up sand, and the palm-canopied tropical undergrowth, chopping up low-hanging leaves.
The vegetation was dense, jungle-like, with no footpaths carved out in the thick greenery. Sokolov pushed his way through. Moving blindly in the dark across the inner landscape of the island was fraught with lethal danger. One wrong step could lead to injury, which meant being as good as dead.
Something rustled in the foliage. Flying fox bats fluttering their wings. Sensing human presence, the vampire-like nocturnal creatures screeched wildly.
Then he heard something behind him. A groan and a thud. Sokolov spun around to see that Andy had crashed to the ground. He must have tripped on a treacherous root or vine, and Sokolov reached out to help him up. The ex-SAS man lay unmoving. As he touched his arm, Sokolov’s fingers became slick with blood. Andy had caught a bullet as they were rushing toward the trees, and could only make it so far.
Sokolov checked his pulse and instantly knew the wound had been mortal.
Sokolov’s jaw clenched. He said a quick mental prayer for Andy’s soul.
He had to keep going, though.
The terrorists were scrambling after him. He heard their frenzied cries in the distance. Growing louder. They were closing him down and they knew he was somewhere near.
Muzzles flashed and bullets hit the bark of a banyan tree next to Sokolov, splinters flying.
He darted through the tropical growth lashing at him, finding his way to the other side of the island. Once he cleared the thicket and reached a pristine beach, he found himself facing a lagoon. The waves rippled in the pale moonlight, lapping on the sandy shore. Sokolov bolted to the tepid water. He waded knee-deep through a shallow strip of the lagoon, the seafloor occupied by a growth of coral, until the reef dropped off and he dived into the ocean. He stroked rhythmically, arms slicing through the waves, legs pumping like pistons underwater so as not to kick up any telltale bubbles in his wake that would betray his position to the terrorists.
He worked out a steady pace, but then the sound of an engine came at him.
The boat. It was circumventing the island. The terrorists were searching for him. If they spotted him, he was fish food.
He hyperventilated, filling his lungs with oxygen, and swam under water. He thrashed his legs as hard as he could for propulsion. When his lungs burned and he could no longer remain submerged, his head broke the surface to get a gulp of air, as he dived below immediately.
Sokolov was fit, but hadn’t trained to become a triathlete. As fatigue set in, he slowed down and floated on his back. Looking around and listening for any sound, he could detect no vessel pursuing him. He glanced at the luminous dial of his dive watch. He estimated his swimming pace at around two minutes per one hundred meters, dragged down by his wet clothing and heavy shoes. He’d done just under twenty minutes, covering around a kilometer.
One down, one to go.
He observed the starry sky to get his bearings, just like his Cossack ancestors navigating the seas. Hopeful that he hadn’t strayed off course, he stroked and scissor-kicked his way to the base camp island, pausing occasionally for a celestial check.
The last push was the hardest. After the initial surge, the level adrenaline in his system was dropping. With each stroke, his tired limbs felt wooden.
When he finally crawled ashore, the exertion and the pull of wet clothes weighed him down and he pressed against the sand as the surf washed over him.
42
Groggily, he got to his feet, and trudged toward the villa. He entered the house, leaving a trail of dirt, sand, and water across the floor. He found his phone where he’d left it and powered it on. As soon as the device booted, he dialed Constantine’s number.
No answer.
He pressed the call button again, hoping against hope, but felt a crawling sensation in the pit of his stomach.
After three or four more attempts, it was no use trying any more.
He padded to the grand bathroom where he stripped down and took a scalding shower, scrubbing his body clean and clearing his mind.
His mind reeled. He was mad at himself. He felt lost, unable to tell the truth apart from a myriad of lies. The data from Phil’s phone. Was it carefully planted deza, a ruse meant to deceive him? Or was there any substance behind the information? And the consignment, had it actually been shipped and did it really contain ammonium nitrate?
One thing was certain. Korolev had drawn him out and he’d fallen for it.
Above all, Constantine’s life was now hanging in the balance.
Had the SVR really kidnapped his brother? What were they going to do to him?
Perhaps the objective of the initial attack on the safe house had also been Constantine’s abduction, instead of assassination. And, if Azizi was to be believed, they were going to keep him hostage to make Sokolov do their bidding.
Kill Harry.
Insanity.
Assuming that the photo wasn’t fake, and he had every reason to think it was real, he had to plan accordingly.
If Sir Gray became aware of it, the E3 lodge would also mark Eugene and Constantine for death.
The cabal would not allow any threat to jeopardize the project. Even Andy had come close to pulling the trigger when doubt shadowed Sokolov’s commitment. Still, Sokolov regretted his death. But now the mercenary team was gone, and he was the sole survivor of the disastrous raid. It might give him a half-chance going back to England.
He got dressed into fresh spare clothes and grabbed the phone. After yet another futile attempt to ring up Constantine, he got in touch his the E3 contact in Male and requested to be picked up by the seaplane.
As he waited for the arrival of the amphibious aircraft, he went on to pack whatever gear remained. A couple of pistols, a submachine gun, and several magazines of ammo.
He knew he’d be needing much more than that.
43
Like his predecessors, President Frolov did not find the Moscow weather agreeable for much of the year, so he left the capital for the subtropical resort of Sochi whenever he felt like it.
Directorate S Chief Yaroslav Nikitin was not amused by having to take a two-hour plane trip just to deliver his update to the President, but there was nothing he could do about it. The beautiful garden of the Bocharov Ruchey residence, and the fantastic views of the Black Sea did little to alleviate his annoyance.
Frolov. Why him, dammit? What had he done to consolidate support inside the Kremlin and achieve his position? Nikitin believed he deserved to take his place at the top and enjoy it all every bit as much as Frolov, if not more.
Nikitin wondered if he would one day become Czar.
Yaroslav the Great.
It had a nice ring to it. How appropriate. Then he would pass the money and power on to his son.
There was still a long way to go before that happened.
The air quality was pure, the sea breez
e mixing with the scent of pines and cypresses of the sprawling, park-like grounds of the presidential retreat ensconced at the edge of the Caucasus mountains.
Frolov and Nikitin strolled along the stone-lined walkways running through the premises under the watchful eyes of FSO bodyguards whose invisible presence could still be felt.
“How is everything advancing?” the Russian President asked.
“We are making good progress,” Nikitin replied. “Better than expected, in fact.”
“How come?”
“There has been a slight alteration to our plan. Hopefully, it will allow us to kill two birds with one stone.”
“Please elaborate.”
“Our arrangement with Azizi has worked out well. However, while the Taliban share our goal regarding Captain Wales, they don’t want to take the fall if the plan backfires.”
“And you found someone for the role of fall guys?”
“Indeed. A perfect opportunity presented itself. It was too good to pass up.”
“Who are you talking about?”
“The Sokolov brothers. Before killing them, we will use them one last time. They will shoulder the blame for the death of Harry and his family. Just like the Chechen brothers who bombed the Boston marathon. Remember them?”
“Certainly. Back when I was in the FSB, I had a hand in their preparation at a training camp not far from here, in Dagestan. It was your Directorate S that ran the operation in the States, though. But the Sokolovs aren’t some brainless kids who can be easily manipulated and framed as radical Islamists. They’re dangerous. They won’t go down without a fight. You might be playing with fire, Yaroslav. I’m not sure I like the sound of it. I don’t want any random factors to come into play. I’d much rather you just eliminated them.”
“No cause for concern. There is zero risk involved. For us, at any rate. The only ones who will end up in hot water are Constantine and Eugene Sokolov. The latter has already walked straight into a trap set up in the Maldives. The team of mercenaries supporting him will be wiped out, and Sokolov himself will be captured. If he proves too stubborn to deal with, Azizi will make quick work of him.”
Czar of England (SOKOLOV Book 6) Page 17
