by Alex Shaw
“What type of irregularities, officer?” Snow slowly rose, but as he did so, saw the younger guard, eyes fearful, start to reach for his sidearm.
“An officer from the KGB is on his way to question you.” This sentence was said in English.
Feigning ignorance, Fox stood. “KGB?”
“There is a security alert. You will wait here. It is the law.”
Snow saw his chance and moved. His left hand grabbed the forearm of the advancing young guard as the pistol left its holster and he twisted. Meanwhile, with his right foot, he kicked the man in the groin. The guard’s legs buckled and he fell, leaving the pistol in Snow’s hand. Fox now reacted, slamming his fist into the chief guard. The man fell from his chair and hit the floor with a jolt. Fox advanced for a second blow, but as he did so there was a flash and an ear splitting roar. Time seemed to slow. Cordite fumes rose from the chief guard’s weapon, Fox stumbled backwards. Another two roars, this time from behind as Snow returned fire sending a double tap into the guard’s chest.
Snow looked down with horror, he’d had no choice. The guard had shot first. Fox hit the concrete floor. Snow grabbed him by the collar and scrabbled back out of the building and towards the Lada. All was silent until a siren went off and then rounds flew overhead from the remaining guards. Snow heaved Fox into the car’s backseat and was about to clamber into the front when the barking of a Kalashnikov joined the fight. Snow dropped into the damp grass, pinned down as heavier 7.62 rounds thudded into the Lada. He shouted through the open door. “Paddy, Paddy! Can you hear me?”
“Aidan, get out of here.” Fox wheezed
“I’m not leaving you, you dopey sod.”
Snow popped his head up and sent two quick rounds back over the bonnet at the building. Their options were limited. Driving on was madness, the Ukrainian side of the border would now be closed. They could only drive back down the two lane highway and hope that they didn’t run into any militia coming in the opposite direction. The shooting stopped and Snow scrambled into the seat. As he did so a loud hailer opened up.
“American agents. Put down your weapons and give yourselves up. You can-not escape.”
“Leave me…just go…”
Snow gritted his teeth. “Sorry, you’ll have to put up with me a bit longer.” Key still in the ignition, he started the car.
“Put down your weapons.” The loud hailer ordered again. “This is your last warning…”
The windscreen smashed as the Kalashnikov started up again, Snow felt a piece of glass nick his forehead. He slammed the car into reverse and attempted a J turn. The Lada bounced off of the tarmac, briefly slid on the wet grass before momentarily coming to a halt facing the opposite direction. Into first gear, they lurched forward. Snow risked a glance in his rear view mirror as it was shot away.
“Just keep your foot down!” Fox’s voice was distorted by pain.
“Paddy, where are you hit?”
Fox lay spread out on the back seats, his left hand braced against the driver’s seat, his head knocking the door insert. “In the chest…I can’t breathe…”
They rounded a bend and left the border post behind. Snow was under no illusion that unless they could find another route away from the border, their chances of escape were slim. The wind whipped his face causing his eyes to stream as they powered on, hitting 100 km the Lada started to judder. They couldn’t out run anyone in this heap, Snow was certain. The road they were on, the E95 went north to the town of Gomel before intersecting with the M10 West, leading eventually to Brest then Poland, and the M5/E271 North West to Minsk. Both routes were main arteries for Belarus and would have road blocks being set up. Snow saw a sign to the right for the village of Novaya Guta and took the turning. At least they were off the main road, but unless they kept moving it would only be matter of time until they were found.
A dense forest on one side of the road straddled the border extending over a mile into Ukraine. It would be too much to hope for, that they could find a route through. Straight ahead, to the east, thirty miles or so would take them to the border with Russia. But could they cross? The road worsened, giving out to pot holes, the Lada’s suspension groaned.
“Paddy, you still with me?” Snow shouted.
“Where else would I be?” Fox managed to wheeze back.
Above the noise of the wind in his ears, Snow heard a sound that made him tense. Sirens. Looking over his shoulder he could see a militia vehicle tearing down the road after them. It was a 4X4 Niva and as such oblivious to the pot holes. Snow pushed his foot flat to the floor and hoped that their Lada would respond. Up ahead were farm buildings and the beginning of the village. Shots were fired from behind and the Niva started to gain. Snow urged the car on, knuckles white gripping the wheel.
There was a blur to his left and something large lurched into his vision. From a concealed junction, an ancient Soviet tractor pulled out. In a millisecond Snow had reacted and turned the wheel hard right. It was almost too late. The car clipped the side of the much heavier farm vehicle and was pushed onto the grass before it spun and came to a halt facing back the way they had come. The tractor shuddered to a halt and blocked the road ahead. The Niva stopped, now no more than thirty feed away. The passenger gingerly climbed out, his side arm trained on Snow.
“I take it we’re in the shit?”
“Paddy, stay still and shut up.”
Snow raised his hands and climbed out of the car, all the while keeping his eyes on the advancing militia officer.
“Don’t move or I’ll shoot!” The officer’s voice was shaky.
“Ok.” Snow saw the uncertainty on his face. “Please don’t shoot me.”
The officer straightened slightly, emboldened by Snow’s pleads. “Turn around.”
The officer changed the grip on his weapon from a double to single handed and pushed Snow in the back with his left hand. Snow pivoted, grabbed the officer’s outstretched arm and threw him to the ground. Before he had chance to realise what was happening, Snow was holding his pistol. “Tell your friend to get out of the jeep.”
The voice was jittery. “Igor, get out. Please! Igor!”
Snow pulled the frightened officer to his feet and held him by the neck, with the end of the handgun still pressed firmly against the man’s temple. “Tell Igor to take his shoes off.”
“Wh...what?”
“Tell him.” Snow dragged him to the side of the road.
The officer shouted the order to his colleague who having warily dismounted from the Niva now undid his laces.
Snow hit the officer in the back of the head with the Makarov pistol. Unconscious the man fell to the ground. Snow now covered the remaining distance to ‘Igor’. “Where is the key?”
“In the car. In the ignition. Please don’t hurt me. I’ve got a mother.”
“Strip.”
“Sorry...”
“Take your jacket off. Have you got a mobile phone?”
Igor nodded and reached into his pocket. He held it out, his hand trembled.
“Thank you. Now go and lie down next to your friend.”
Igor’s eyes widened. “Please no...”
Snow rolled his eyes; he had no time for dramatics. “Just do it or your mother will lose a son.”
As Igor walked slowly to his colleague and lay in the muddy grass, Snow heard the tractor groan into life and pull away. The farmer did not want to get involved. Snow started up the Niva and positioned it next to their Lada. With the engine running he jumped out and opened the back of their estate car.
“Can I talk now?” Fox eyes were red with pain.
SIXTEEN
Moscow, Russian Federation
Gurov sat back in his chair and watched the international news reports via satellite. He could not have expected a more successful response to his tape. What had initially been placed on the internet with links sent to international news agencies was now ‘global’ headline news. The Director of the Belarusian KGB, and the Deputy Director of t
he Russian FSB on tape discussing how to destabilise the sovereign state of Saudi Arabia, was explosive. Some were proclaiming it the story of the decade others, whom Gurov had toasted, said it was the most shocking story to arise in living memory.
He finished his ice cold vodka and poured another shot. His work was almost done. Nevsky, the man who had the position that the PM had promised to him, would be ruined. It was a promise made by the man he had once trusted all those years before, a deal that had been reneged upon, a betrayal that he had ‘pretended’ to accept and forgive. Now the Premier Minister too would be ruined, for how could he not know that his ‘chosen man’ Nevsky had planned this? President Melnikov’s only real rival for re-election would be vanquished. Gurov would then be able to slip into the shadows again, a happy man, as Russia rose from the flames. For Gurov revenge was something which commanded no upper price.
Unknown location, Belarus
Snow eased the Riva into traffic and tried to steady his breathing. Wearing the uniform jacket and cap of the militia officer he drew no attention. A line of cars and trucks had started to build up heading towards the, now closed, border crossing. Snow kept his head still but constantly used his eyes to scan for signs of danger. He had secured the militia officers with their own cuffs to the battered Lada estate, but knew that it was not a question of ‘if’ but ‘when’ they were discovered and he would have to ditch the Niva. At that point he had no idea how he would move Fox.
Slumped in the back Fox was wheezy. “So where do we go now?”
“Pripiatsky National Park.”
“You want to take me on a picnic?”
“The Pripiat marshes cross the border and so can we via the exclusion zone.”
“The Chernobyl exclusion zone?”
“Yep.”
“You want to irradiate me, turn me into the bloody ‘Ready Brek’ man?”
Snow looked at Fox in the rear view mirror. Fox’s face was grey. “It would save on light bulbs.”
Fox coughed. “Aidan…I don’t know how much longer I can hold on.”
Suddenly serious again, Snow nodded. Fox would die without medical intervention. “Paddy you can make it. Just try to keep breathing.”
“What…you think I’d rather stop?”
Snow reached down for the militia officer’s Nokia. Slowing the 4X4 slightly he tapped in a number from memory and placed the handset to his ear.
In his office at the British Embassy in Kyiv Alistair Vickers picked up his mobile phone. Looking at the screen he didn’t recognise the number. “Yes?”
“I need help. We’ve been compromised. I have a casualty.” Snow spoke in Russian, a language that both men understood fluently.
Vickers recognised the voice. The line was unsecure; he couldn’t use the man’s name. “There is nothing I can do.”
Snow tried not to lose his temper. “We need an out now, today or my friend will die. Do you understand me? Call me back on this number in thirty minutes, that’s 3’Oh minutes.”
“I can’t…”
The line went dead.
The operation was deniable, Vickers, representing HM Government, could officially do nothing. His hand shook; he balled it into a fist and slammed in on his desk. He ached, his neck, his jaw. He knew that it was mainly psychosomatic now, that the fear he had felt fighting for his life with the Belarusian had stayed with him, as the physical pain lessened.
He was a wreck, the pain medication had him hooked but he was going to fight. He shut his eyes, took a deep breath, opened them then stood. There had to be something he could do to get Snow and Fox out.
There was one person he could ask, one person for whom this whole operation truly meant something. Vickers picked up his phone and dialled.
10 Downing Street, London, United Kingdom
David Daniels was both mentally and physically drained. The call was possibly the most important and delicate of his political career. He had never felt such pressure before in his life and was now regretting having sworn off of the bottle a year before. Daniels had organised a conference call between himself and both Presidents of the United States and The Russian Federation.
The Russian Premier was in a foul mood and could barely contain his anger at his so called ‘Western partners’. The US President, backed up by Daniels, had stated categorically, via a translator, that they had not released the ‘new tape’ and that they believed it to be wholly or in part manufactured. The Russian was slightly placated by this, as to him the very idea that a director in his FSB would plot such a thing was unthinkable.
SIS had sent, via a secure email, the laboratory report on the video. It concluded that the data had been recorded with either a camera phone or a device with a similar quality lens. In essence the images, in particular the face of Valentin Nevsky could not be verified. The quality of the lens was not high enough. However the audio could be verified with a higher percentage of certainty and had been compared with the first tape. The voice on the original tape had a 98% match to that of Director Sverov, on the second 92%. It was however the other voice that was interesting. On the new tape there was a 78% match to Nevsky but the original recording, made on an HD device, produced only a 36% match. The laboratory had therefore concluded that the second tape, whilst containing the same voice print for Sverov had been altered to enable the second voice to sound closer to Nevsky’s.
Daniels looked on as the young Russian Premier thought about what he had heard. As he did so a man entered the screen from the side. Unknown to both, Daniels and the US President, Nevsky himself had been in the room and listening.
“Prime Minister, Mr President. Can I confirm that you do not consider me responsible for this?”
Daniels was stunned but tried his best not to stutter. “Director Nevsky that is certainly our opinion.”
“Who do you suspect?”
Daniels cleared his throat and wished that his glass didn’t contain water. “Maksim Gurov, a former colleague of yours.”
Nevsky blinked. “He is dead.”
“Director, we know that is not the case.”
“Who has given you this information, Prime Minister?” President Melnikov now asked in perfect English.
“I’m afraid that the source is classified.”
The Russian frowned and turned to the FSB officer. They conversed for several seconds in hushed Russian that neither Daniels nor his American counterpart could understand or indeed hear.
The Russian Premier then addressed both his counterparts. “Gentlemen, was this name given to you by Director Sverov of the Belarusian KGB?”
The shock on Daniels’ face could not be hidden but before he had a chance to speak the American took over, his Bostonian tone sounding quite commanding.
“Mr President, the name was indeed given to us by Ivan Sverov.”
“So it was you who kidnapped him?” Melnikov laughed.
Daniels felt his toes curl. He did not know how they had persuaded the Belarusian to give up the name. “No, that is not something HM Government or the United States would do.”
“Officially.” The Russian held up his hand. “Prime Minister Daniels, although I laugh this is no little matter. Someone has represented my Government abroad without due authority and has attempted to implicate us in a series of terrorist attacks. As we speak, I am informed, that protesters have gathered outside my country’s embassies in London, Washington, Paris.... These protesters are blaming me for this situation and demanding not only my resignation but in addition, that of Premier Minister Privalov! My ambassador to the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia has been summoned to the Royal palace and will, I believe, be expelled. But most of all the image of mother Russia has been tarnished.”
Daniels felt a chill of fear, even though the face and voice came to him via satellite from Moscow. “I of course, regret what has happened Mr President…”
“Regret? What are you going to do to help with this situation?”
There was a silence. The Russian’s eyes remain
ed fixed on Daniels.
“I have an idea.” The American President said.
“I am listening.” The Russian President folded his arms.
KGB Headquarters, Skaryny Avenue, Minsk, Belarus
“This is Deputy Director Dudka of the Ukrainian State Security Service. Please connect me to Director Sverov.”
There was a pause before the secretary in Minsk spoke. “He is not in his office today. He is unwell.”
“Then give me his home number and I will call him.”
“No. I mean, no sir I cannot hand out such sensitive information. Perhaps I can take a message or is there someone else who could help you?”
“Very well. Put me through to Deputy Director Maltsev.”
“I will see if he is available. Can I take your name again?”
“Dudka, he knows me.”
Maltsev was old guard like Sukhoi had been, Maltsev however had been a life-long irritant of both Dudka and his late friend. An extremist who’s belief since 1991 that the Soviet Union should be reconstituted was shared by the Belarusian President. There was a brief silence and then a feint humming on the line before a gruff voice spoke.
“Director Dudka. What does Ukraine want now? To further insult the Nation of Belarus by making abusive telephone calls? Is it not enough to expel our ambassador?”
“Director Maltsev. I am calling to offer the ‘olive branch’ to Belarus. I will come to Minsk to speak with you personally about this.”
“You will, will you?”
“Ivan Fedorovich, we are both ‘too long in the tooth’ to waste our time with politics. Let us discuss this in person. I will travel today so we may meet tomorrow morning.”
“Hm. Agreed. You will be met by a car at the airport.”
“Thank you but I intend to drive. I no longer have any faith in air travel.”
“As you wish Dudka.” Maltsev put the phone down. He would enjoy arguing with and humbling the old Ukrainian idiot.
Moscow Oblast, Russian Federation
