by Alex Shaw
Sukhoi felt his eyes close as the world around him started to go black. Just before it did, he heard a concerned Dudka ask the medic if the patient would be ok, then he lost consciousness.
Riyadh, Kingdom of Saudi Arabia
Fox, dressed in a pair of cargo shorts and a white polo style t-shirt, neared the barbecue area. An ex-pat wearing a tight lime green t-shirt with a faded sun-god like face logo and denim shorts intercepted him.
“Hi I’m Paul Clements, head of the Escape Committee.” He extended his podgy hand.
“Paddy Fox.”
“Welcome to Stalag 17, Paddy. I bet you could do with a beer?”
“You read my mind.”
Clements took a bottle from a cooler and handed Fox an opener.
“Cheers.”
Fox took a long swig of cool beer. “Real?”
Clements nodded. “We do, from time to time, get the real stuff. The label says it’s non-alcoholic but then not all shipments in from Bahrain are tested.” He tapped his nose conspiratorially.
Alcohol was ‘available’ in all ex-pat compounds, but was highly illegal. It was smuggled in from various embassies and sources usually via the Bahrain Bridge. However the supply and quality varied. Several years before the Police had made an example of a couple who made and sold home brew. Their wine, although tasting nothing like ‘Tesco’s finest’, had been in great demand.
“You join us on a happy occasion when we have the real stuff; otherwise we rely on home brew. You get a taste for it after a while.”
Looking around Fox could see that most of the compounds residents had now descended on the pool and barbecue area. “Friendly lot?”
Clements nodded. “Yep. We’ve got about fifteen different nationalities here as well as a few ‘tame’ Saudis who come for the parties. We all put a few quid into the kitty monthly and have these events every weekend. There’s always something to drink to, birthdays, promotions and err the weekend. So how long are you here for then?”
Fox took another sip. “A year, but the contract is open ended.”
Clements looked surprised. “Just you or are you bringing your wife?”
Fox nearly snorted his beer. “My wife, I imagine will be contacting me only via her solicitor. We’re getting a divorce.”
“Oh. Well I’m afraid that this is not the best place to be a bachelor, unless you like camels?”
Fox replied deadpan. “They’re ok for the occasional hump.”
Clements slapped Fox on the back. “I can see you’ll fit right in.” Both men drank. So, just you in the ‘large’ villa then? Unusual, the boss must like you.”
Fox did not want to explain any more than he had too. “Scottish charm. What brings you to this place then?”
“This Garden of Eden?” Clements took another swig, “Fashion.”
Fox blinked.
“I know that I don’t look like a Versace catwalk model”, he pulled at his t-shirt “but I am in charge of the Al Kabir Clothing Group.”
“Nice.”
“I am responsible for bringing international fashion brands into the Kingdom and selling them to the locals to wear when they travel abroad or lounge about at home. Our biggest sellers are handbags and shoes.”
“Is Saudi a hot bed of fashion?” It was not something that Fox had ever paid much attention to.
“Ah, you’d be surprised. Next time you see a woman walk past in her abaya, have a look at her shoes. Chances are that they are designer, French or Italian and she’ll have a matching handbag. When they meet at their girlfriends’ houses, off come the abayas to reveal the latest ‘Paris collection’. I was at a friend’s place, local guy, and I thought I’d wondered into the set of Fashion TV!”
Two more residents approached them. The younger of the two held out his hand. “Alright? Lordy” he pointed to his chest, “and this is Franklin.”
“Frank.”
Fox shook both men’s hands “Paddy.”
“You the security guy, then?” Lordy’s south London accent was soft on the‘t’s.
“That’s me.”
“What’s yer background? Army or summit?” Franks own accent was strong, Newcastle.
“I was in the Highlanders a while back.”
“Could av guessed. No offence.” Lordy held his bottle up as a salute.
“None taken.” Fox replied deadpan.
“So why do they call you Paddy then, seeing as you’re a Jock?” Lordy smiled innocently.
“My father was from Belfast.”
“Right.”
There was a pause as all took a swig of beer, Clements spoke first. “It was a hairy time a few years back – before your time lads. We could have done with you then Paddy.” Clements addressed the others. “The compound attacks had us all worried.”
Lordy and Franks nodded, they had heard the stories. Fox himself had been briefed on the Riyadh compound bombings.
In the early hours of the 12th of May 2004, two cars, a pickup truck, and a 4X4 drove through Riyadh. Three of the vehicles were car bombs whilst two carried armed assault teams. Their targets were three expatriate compounds, The Dorrat Al Jadawel, owned by the London based MBI International, the Al Hamra Oasis Village and the Vinnell Corporation Compound. Vinnell, a defence contractor at that time was training the Saudi National Guard. All three compounds contained a large number of Americans and other Westerners. Each compound was therefore a high priority target for the Khawarij insurgents. Their goal being to drive ‘the infidels’ out of the Kingdom and topple the Saudi monarchy.
The terrorists failed to gain entry to the Jadawel compound, blowing themselves and the gate guards up in the process, but the other suicide bombers successfully gained access to the remaining two target compounds. Both targets were devastated. Al-Qaeda later claimed responsibility, although they had not had a direct hand in the acts.
The response from the Saudi authorities was swift and as ruthless as the terrorists’. The Saudis arrested in excess of six hundred terrorist suspects and seized bomb making equipment and thousands of weapons cached around the kingdom.
Clements finished his beer and reached into the cooler for another. “I was scared shitless, I won’t lie.”
Part of Fox’s brief was to also advise and update the security of the compound, a job made all the more difficult as it was a new position.
“What was the plan in case of attack?” Fox deliberately stayed away from military terms.
“Bugger all.” Clements wiped his lips. “They put a couple of extra blokes on the gates but didn’t give us any instructions. I took to sleeping in my clothes and had an escape plan laid out in my mind but a lot of others left. The embassy was in a difficult position; it couldn’t order everyone to leave as it did not have the authority. Also it would have offended the Royal family. So it ‘recommended’ that, unless it was vitally essential to remain, all British nationals should leave immediately. Me and some of the other ‘old sweats’ decided to stick it out. Mind you it turned out alright in the end. The Prince rewarded our loyalty.” Clements shook his wrist and the diamond encrusted gold Rolex that adorned it.
“It’s amazing what them knock off shops can do nowadays.” Frank gestured with his chin.
“I’d have gone home. I’m here to build things not get demolished me self!” Lordy chuckled at his own joke.
“So Paddy, you gonna make us all safe then?” Frank looked at their new neighbour.
“Starting tomorrow.”
“We better get you fed then. Grab a plate from the pile and enjoy some of Frank’s finest cooking.”
“I hope you brought some Rennie?” Lordy, smirked.
Military Hospital, Kyiv Oblast, Ukraine
The strapping prevented his ribs from moving too much and the morphine stopped the pain. Physically, Sukhoi was feeling better, if slightly light headed. He had been at the centre overnight and had slept well for the first time since recent developments and learning of his agency’s plans. This was however due to t
he morphine, and not the fact that he was out of danger.
Dudka sat next to the bed in the large room and ate a fresh roll and butter with a glass of sweet black tea. “You are sure you don’t want to eat Leonya?”
Sukhoi slowly waved his hand. His appetite had all but vanished four days earlier. “No, you go ahead.”
Dudka shrugged, “If you insist.” He was anxious to know what his friend had to say, but did not want to drag it out of him. The concussion had been such that the doctors thought he should be left to sleep sedated overnight to avoid any potential swelling which may have caused concern for a man in his seventies. Dudka looked down at his friend with the bandaged head. “You look like a war hero.”
Sukhoi pointed to Dudka’s own face. “Did they hit you?”
Dudka self-consciously felt his cheek and forehead, “From the curb – a couple of chips of concrete hit me that’s all.” He continued to look at Sukhoi waiting for him to talk.
Sukhoi motioned for the glass of water that stood next to his bed. Dudka passed it to his long-time friend.
Sukhoi sipped. “The Russians are not happy with the new world order and take great offence to the Americans’ claim that they are now the world’s only ‘super power’. The Chinese are growing in importance all the time and have already surpassed Russia. They have more money to spend on their military, manufacture most of the world’s goods and have been a member of the WTO since 2001. As we know, Russia and Belarus are not. In the Middle East the Arabs, led by the house of Saud, are holding the world’s economy to ransom with their oil. In essence Russia is no longer a first league player, they have been relegated.”
Dudka finished his tea. He hoped that there was more to hear than a modern history lesson. “So what have you learnt?”
“Two weeks ago I learnt of a meeting between representatives of my President and Russia’s Prime Minister.” Dudka leaned forward, Sukhoi continued, “Prime Minister Privalov wants to use force to stop the Russian slide, to once again make Moscow a force to be feared….”
Dudka cut in, unable to control himself. “How? Military action against China and Saudi Arabia? That would be complete madness.”
Sukhoi wagged his finger slowly. “Not directly. Russia has the world’s largest known oil reserve.”
Dudka knew this. “They have a name for it, ‘Cold Black’. In ten years ‘the West’ will be their largest client.”
“That is the point Genna; Russia cannot wait for ten years.” Sukhoi drank again. “For if they did so they would not be in charge of their own reserves. Russia has asked her ‘friends’ to do her bidding. They need the West to be reliant upon Russian oil much, much sooner.”
“How?”
“Russia wants to destabilise the current oil supply. If the West cannot get oil from the Arabs then they will look to Moscow. Moscow will fill the immediate deficit and then offer the West terms which they cannot refuse. China already uses some Russian oil as a fuel and raw material, they too would become dependent.”
Dudka leaned back and let out a sigh trying to imagine the magnitude of such events. “Such a coup would be all but impossible to achieve, hands would point at Russia. When will all this start?”
Sukhoi shrugged. “It already has Genna.”
“What!” Dudka nearly fell from his chair.
“They know that I know, my friend, that is why they tried to stop me from telling you.”
“Who are ‘they’?” Dudka wanted it made very clear.
Sukhoi looked deeply into his friends eyes; it weighed heavily on his heart. “The KGB, my KGB.”
Dudka’s shook his head. This was the craziest thing he had ever heard. But he had seen the evidence – his friend of over fifty years shot in front of him, a man whom he knew had never lied to him. “How did you find this out? You have a source?”
“President Lukachev’s dacha is bugged.”
“What!” His friend was very crafty, “But is it not swept regularly?”
“It is but the officer in charge of the sweeping is also the officer responsible for placing the bugs. He turns them off, sweeps, and then he turns them on.”
Dudka nodded, “Who is watching the watchers. You have tapes?”
“Don’t be so old fashioned. I have a memory card.”
Dudka had heard the term but did not quite understand. He left the ‘technical stuff’ to his subordinates. “Where is this device now?”
Sukhoi looked around the room. “Where is my phone?”
“You need to call someone – is that wise?”
“The card is in my phone.”
“Oh.” Dudka frowned and then bent sideways, placed the empty hospital plate on the floor and brought his briefcase up and onto his lap. Flicking the catches open he removed Sukhoi’s phone. “Safe keeping.”
Sukhoi held out his hand. As Dudka watched Sukhoi’s shaky hands opened a slot on the side of the Sony Ericsson and retrieved a thin piece of plastic less than the size of his thumb nail.
“An M2 memory card. This particular one can hold over one and half thousand photographs or two hundred minutes of video or three thousand minutes of audio.” He pushed it back inside, switched the phone on and pressed play on the media menu. “Listen.”
Dudka took the phone and held it by his ear. The sound quality was not great but he could hear the unmistakable voice of Ivan Sverov, head of the Belarusian KGB.
Sukhoi watched as his friend listened intently to the conversation. He held out his hand and Dudka returned the phone.
“You have it all on this chip?” This really was incredible.
“Yes.”
For the first time in his career Dudka had no answer.
Sukhoi broke the silence he couldn’t bear his grief alone any longer. “The intelligence officer was my son in law, Shidlovsky. They found his bugs. They shot him.”
Dudka’s eyes flicked open. “My god. What about Masha? He suddenly had concern for his god daughter.
His old friend shook his head as his eyes started to water. “The militia found her….she had been….strangled.” His head slumped; he held his hands over his face and started to sob.
Dudka felt powerless. How dare they! His own eyes were wet but anger stopped him from breaking down. He stood and placed his hand on Sukhoi’s head as images from the wedding danced before his eyes, then much earlier ones of Masha picking flowers with him – her godfather, in the woods. He started to shake, so removed his hand and paced the room. His fists were clenched, he was no longer the seventy two year old SBU deputy director, he was once again the Red Army soldier with revenge on his mind. He would personally kill the men responsible for his god daughter’s murder. “Who knows that you have come to Kyiv?”
Sukhoi raised his head, his eyes wet and red. “I told no one, they presumed I was at home crying. But I travelled on my own passport, no use giving them extra ammunition if I am under surveillance.”
Dudka thought aloud. “And they let you board the plane because?”
“They wanted to assassinate me on foreign soil?”
“To make it look as though it was someone else.” The two directors were thinking alike.
“But there is no body.” Sukhoi paused and wiped the last tear from his eye. “How did I get here Genna?”
“What? You don’t remember our conversation?”
“No.” Sukhoi shook his bandaged head slowly.
“Ambulance staffed by SBU medics.”
“How many people know I am alive?”
Dudka totted it up on his fingers, the ambulance staff, two doctors, several nurses and Blazhevich. “Less than ten. They can be ‘spoken to’. But we cannot fake a body. There were witnesses, their weapons were silenced but mine was not. I have a feeling that your Embassy and the KGB will be knocking on my door very soon, wanting to know where you are.”
“I cannot go back Genna. I now have nothing to go back for. You must hide me, at least until we can act on this information.”
“Agreed. But we
must keep this quiet. You know that my SBU has its own problems like your KGB? There are some in the agency who are not as dedicated to independence as I.”
“Chief Zlotnik and Director Utkin?”
“How did you know?”
“I am KGB, remember?”
Dudka let his mouth curl into a thin humourless smile. He pointed at the phone. “I need to listen to that. We have to take you somewhere anonymous, off the radar.” Dudka retrieved his own phone. He would summon Blazhevich.
Riyadh, Kingdom of Saudi Arabia
Fox gulped down the water as though he’d not had a drink in days. He had forgotten how vicious the heat of the desert was. This time he was finding it much harder to acclimatise than before. He did not want to admit it, even to himself, but now he was older. He was however relishing the role that lay ahead.
Prince Fouad had given him full autonomy in the implementation of changes to the security set up and training of personnel. Fox’s role was very much like the tasks he had carried out in the Regiment, training private armies and carrying out threat assessments. In his first two days he had drawn up contingency plans in case of a terrorist attack on both his compound and Prince Fouad’s palace. Training of the security guards at the compound had started. Most were also expatriates from the subcontinent and it had not been easy for them to grasp that they needed to be proactive i.e. to actively assess all possible threats and implement protocols. They were used to being told what to do by their Saudi masters.
The military personnel guarding the Palace however were a different story. The usual lack lustre attitude to work that most Saudis displayed, had been drilled out of them by the Americans. The Saudi Arabian Royal Guard Regiment, having received training from both Delta Force and a ‘private security company’ were, so far, amongst the best unit Fox had worked with. He had complemented both Captain Barakat, ‘Basil’ as he insisted Fox call him, and his commanding officer Major Hammar. Fox had not detected the usual arrogance associated with officers when asked to take instructions from a non-commissioned officer, as Fox had become in the Regiment. Once his protocols for the Palace and compound had been fully implemented he would then move onto the other compounds, offices and facilities owned by the Al Kabir Group. It was a large job and he knew that a lot was expected of him. He felt valued again.
