Cold East

by Alex Shaw

  ‘He overpowered the man guarding him. He then threw him out of the balcony window. After that he booby-trapped the apartment.’

  ‘Do you realise how ridiculous you sound?’

  ‘Yes, Valentin Romanovich.’

  ‘How could he do all this? You said he was weak.’

  ‘He was.’

  ‘Yet he overpowered a younger, stronger FSB operative?’

  ‘He did.’

  ‘He had help. Who knew of the safe house?’

  ‘No one.’

  Nevsky drank more tea. ‘We can safely say that if the safe house was not compromised before this incident, it is now. Do you have any idea whatsoever about where the device might have been taken? Where Kishiev might go?’

  ‘Mainland Europe was always their target.’

  ‘Red Square is in Europe.’ Nevsky’s rage had been replaced by sarcasm.

  ‘We recovered Pakistani passports from the bodies of two of the terrorists. They were issued in the same place and had Schengen visas commencing on the same date.’

  ‘So, you are saying our missing terrorists are heading for the EU?’

  ‘Yes, Valentin Romanovich.’

  ‘Their target?’

  Strelkov took a deep breath. ‘Any of the major capital cities. London, Paris, Berlin.’

  ‘We need more than guesses. I have alerted our embassy teams. Do you at least still have Kishiev’s wife and child?’

  ‘We do. What shall we do with them?’

  ‘Keep them for now; they may come in useful. This is really no good, no good at all.’ Nevsky hammered his desk, making his cup jump. ‘It would have been better for us not to have known about this weapon’s reappearance. The only small comfort I can take in all this is that the device will not be used against us or on our soil. But you have still lost it!’

  ‘I swear, Valentin Romanovich, that I will retrieve it.’

  ‘Use all available methods. You understand me?’

  Strelkov bobbed his head, but Nevsky had already ended the call.

  *

  London, Undisclosed Location, Secret Intelligence Service Safe House

  The new clothes felt fresh against his skin; they were soft, smooth, and warm. The quality was far superior to anything he had worn before he joined the Red Army and beyond comparison with what he had owned since. Mikhail was puzzled – was this the result of capitalism, or was it the British monarchy he should thank? He was, after all, in the UK at the behest of Her Majesty’s Government. He added milk to the tea, the way Karen Campbell had shown him; he had found he liked it the English way. His visitor, a man he had not met before, sat facing him and placed a cardboard box file on the table. The right wall of the room contained a huge mirror which Mikhail had little doubt concealed a viewing room and another guest.

  ‘It’s nice to meet you, Mikhail. My name is Jack,’ the guest in the room said.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Jack.’

  ‘Likewise. I’m hoping you can help me. I have some surveillance photographs taken in Istanbul that I’d like you to look at.’

  ‘I have never been to Turkey.’

  ‘But there may be a chance that you know these men who have.’ Patchem opened the file, removed a pile of 10x8 photographic prints, and pushed them towards the Russian.

  ‘Then I shall take a look.’ He put his china cup down and picked up the nearest image. It was a close-up of one of the bodies left in Inci’s apartment.

  ‘He was executed?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. I knew this man. He was twisted by the Taliban’s rhetoric and then recruited by Al-Qaeda.’

  There was a rushing in Patchem’s ears as his heart started to pump faster. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. He is from a village several valleys away from my home.’ Mikhail paused as his wife and family swam into his memory. ‘His group controlled the local market. The last time I saw him he was with an Al-Qaeda man from Pakistan.’ He tapped the print. ‘But then, of course, he had a beard, and was not wearing Western clothes.’

  ‘You have a very good memory.’

  ‘Photographic.’

  ‘The correct term is eidetic memory.’

  ‘Oh? I did not know that word. I shall use it.’

  ‘Do you remember the man’s name?’

  ‘Abdul Shinare. His father had only one leg and blamed the Soviets for his loss. He did not like me.’

  ‘Can you look at the rest of the photographs and tell me if you know anyone else?’

  ‘Of course.’ Mikhail picked up the next and placed it beside the previous one. It was also taken postmortem. ‘He, I also met at the camp. His first name was Sharib – I did not hear his family name. He was younger than the others. He told me that he wanted to go to London one day and blow up the Queen.’

  This was the first time the UK had been mentioned as a possible target. Patchem managed to hide his concern, his right fist clenched under the table. ‘That’s not on any tour I’ve seen.’

  ‘British humour is like Russian humour.’ Mikhail grunted and a thin smile split his lips. ‘The only difference is that British humour is funny.’

  ‘So, you had a conversation with this man?’ Patchem’s hands were now clasped tightly together as he subconsciously leant forward in his seat.

  Mikhail shrugged. ‘A few words. He brought me my meals. They kept me shut in a hut for several days.’

  ‘Did these men say anything about a target or an attack?’

  ‘No.’ He went on to the next two images, both of corpses. ‘This man I do not know, but he looks to be Pakistani, or Afghan, and this one looks different.’

  ‘His name is Orhan Inci. He’s the owner of the building.’

  ‘That name means nothing to me.’ Mikhail’s hand hovered over the next photo. With its visible grain, which was actual pixels, and muted colours, it looked to him exactly like a colour print from the Eighties. ‘What is this?’

  ‘It’s a still from a surveillance video.’ Patchem searched the Russian’s face for any trace of recognition as he studied the photograph of a group of six suited men being ushered inside by Inci.

  ‘Ah. This is Inci and these two other men I have identified, but I cannot see the faces of these four.’

  ‘Look at the next photograph.’ It showed Inci with one of the six men.

  ‘Only one man? What of the other three?’

  ‘We don’t have any photographs of their faces.’

  ‘I see. Yes, this man I recognise.’

  ‘Who is he?’ Patchem’s chest felt tight.

  ‘He is the leader of the dead men you have shown me. His name is Mohammed Tariq.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  Mikhail folded his arms. He had told the story initially to Webster in Afghanistan and then to Karen Campbell, who had been the first to question him in the UK. No doubt ‘Jack’ knew this, but it wouldn’t hurt to tell it again. ‘When I was taken to the training camp I saw many fighters, but the group containing the men I have identified drew my attention. That was because they were with the man from Al-Qaeda who had stolen my bomb. They were present when I explained how the device worked to the Pakistani and studied the diagram I had drawn. One of the fighters especially was interested in the plans.’ He tapped the photograph again, ‘This man, Mohammed Tariq.’

  ‘The men at this base, were they Taliban, Al-Qaeda, or local fighters?’

  ‘They were a mixture. The Pakistani was Al-Qaeda; he told me so proudly. I think that Mohammed Tariq was from the borderlands, the Tehrik-e-Taliban perhaps? But these fanatical groups are interchangeable.’

  ‘I see. Were you a fanatic, Mikhail?’

  ‘I was fanatical in not wanting either the Soviet Union or the terrorists to possess my bomb.’ Mikhail fanned the photographs across the table. ‘So I can name two of the dead. But what of Mohammed Tariq? Is he not dead?’

  ‘We believe he escaped.’

  ‘That is very serious. Of the group of six fighters I showed the bomb to, three a
re missing.’

  Patchem knew as much. ‘Do you know their names?’

  ‘Alas, no, but I do know their faces.’ He tapped the side of his face. ‘I have an eidetic memory. If you get me a sketch artist I can provide you with drawings of their faces.’

  ‘I shall do that, but we use computers now.’

  ‘Ah, the world continues to move on.’ Mikhail looked down. He felt an uncontrollable wave of remorse hit him. The loss of his family was a seeping wound that refused to heal. If only he had forgotten about the bomb, taken his family and left the village… but he hadn’t. He had made a vow with his life to keep the bomb out of the hands of all enemies. The vow had been broken and it had cost him his family.

  There was a knock on the door and Snow stepped into the room. He made eye contact with Mikhail, who gave him a friendly nod, before speaking to Patchem. ‘Development.’

  ‘If you’ll excuse me, Mikhail.’

  The Russian bowed his head as both SIS men left.

  Snow shut the door behind his boss and held up his iPhone. ‘Neill, I’m handing you over to Jack. Can you repeat what you said to me about the passport?’

  ‘Hello, Jack.’ The voice of Neill Plato, the Russian desk’s technical officer, was jovial in Patchem’s ear. ‘Good news. The Schengen visa in the dead man’s passport was one of sixty-five issued by the Italian Embassy in Islamabad on the same day two months ago. I was also able to get a match for the two other dead gentlemen. That means three to find. I’ve discounted twenty for being female – we know the terrorists to be male – and a further fifteen due to their age. So that leaves us with twenty-seven possible suspects. Unfortunately, none of the surveillance tapes we have catch the suspects’ faces.’

  ‘Send the pictures over here.’

  ‘Already done and as a precaution I’ve updated the Schengen Information System with the passport numbers tied to the visas. If anyone on this mini-watchlist does attempt to enter the EU, they’ll get pinged.’

  ‘Good.’ If the Russians had the terrorists, Patchem saw them travelling only one way, and that was six feet down. ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Yes. It did take me a while to get the visa information; the Italians are quite slow.’

  ‘I was being flippant, Neill. Thank you.’ Patchem handed the phone back to Snow. ‘So we now have more photos to show Mikhail. Get the computer while I go back in.’

  ‘Boss,’ Snow said, adopting SAS-trooper mode.

  Patchem rolled his eyes and opened the door. ‘I’m sorry about that.’

  Mikhail considered Jack with mild amusement as the Englishman retook his seat. ‘That is not a problem; I have no other meetings scheduled for today.’

  Patchem smiled politely before once again becoming serious. ‘One thing I don’t entirely understand, and forgive me for asking, is this: why did you stay in Afghanistan?’

  Mikhail was thoughtful; his eyes flickered. ‘To prevent the RA-115A from ever being used. The KGB wanted it to be deployed against the Mujahideen, so I stole it. I did not want the KGB or the Afghans to possess it. And there was no way that I could destroy it. It is an abomination.’

  ‘You sound like a pacifist.’

  ‘Perhaps I am? As I am sure you are well aware, the KGB controlled my life in Russia and they controlled the life of my entire extended family. In Afghanistan I was attacked and left for dead on the orders of a KGB political officer, by my own commanding officer. This was before they knew of my deception. I was meant to disappear; perhaps the entire nuclear programme I was a part of was supposed to vanish? So I did. There was no route I could take back to Moscow, and even if I had miraculously managed to arrive home, how would I have explained myself? I was a conscientious objector to nuclear weapons, not a traitor. How could I have told my parents the truth without in turn implicating them? And what if I were to be seen by a neighbour or acquaintance?’ Mikhail drank his tea.

  ‘You could have tried to return to Russia after 1991.’

  ‘What would I have seen? The same KGB but now wearing different hats? It was best for all that I remained dead and forgotten in Afghanistan, and I was until Al-Qaeda took my bomb and murdered my family.’

  Patchem saw fire in the Russian’s eyes so chose his words carefully. ‘Would you like to know what became of your relatives in Moscow?’

  ‘What good would that do? It has been a quarter of a century; they may very well be dead.’

  ‘Or they may not. Your father was an English teacher?’

  ‘That, as you may have guessed, is the reason I can speak English. He was also an idealist, which is probably the reason I am the way I am.’

  Another knock and Snow entered. He placed a Dell tablet computer on the table in front of their guest. ‘Mikhail, we have some more photographs for you to look at.’

  ‘Then I shall.’ Mikhail became baffled. ‘How do I work it?’

  ‘It’s touchscreen.’

  ‘Ah, of course it is. Where do I touch?’

  Snow explained.

  ‘The photographs you are looking at are taken from visa application forms. I need you to tell me if you recognise anyone,’ Patchem said.

  ‘A terrorist must now apply for a visa to detonate a bomb in Europe?’

  ‘Yes. It’s Health & Safety gone mad,’ Snow quipped as he exited.

  Patchem moved his chair so he could see the screen as Mikhail swiped for the next jpeg. Eight passport photos in, Mikhail said: ‘That is one of the missing men.’

  ‘It is?’ Patchem’s chest tightened again.

  ‘That is what I said.’

  Patchem made a note of the image. ‘Please continue.’

  Five more swipes and the remaining men had been found. Patchem leant forward and took the computer, as he did so getting a waft of coal tar soap from the Russian. ‘You have been very helpful.’

  ‘What will you do now?’

  ‘Issue a European-wide border alert.’

  ‘I have a question.’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Who has the bomb?’

  Patchem frowned. ‘I’m not sure I understand.’

  Mikhail folded his arms. ‘The cell was attacked and three members were assassinated. The killers now have the remaining men and the bomb. Yes?’

  ‘That is our belief.’

  ‘So my question is, who has the bomb?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that.’

  ‘Can’t or won’t, Jack?’

  ‘Can’t,’ Patchem bluffed. ‘We don’t know for sure.’

  ‘OK, I understand. But, for all our sakes, I do hope it isn’t a rival terrorist organisation that has taken it. Since leaving Afghanistan I have heard many things about the Islamic State and I know they are active in Turkey.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking the same.’ Patchem felt a chill. ‘Before I leave, is there anything I can do for you?’

  ‘Can you get me a razor?’

  ‘Isn’t it haram for a Muslim to shave?’

  ‘It is forbidden, yes, but as well as losing my family, I have lost my faith. So I wish to lose my beard.’

  Patchem wasn’t a religious man and said calmly, ‘I can’t give you a razor, but I can arrange for a barber to pay you a visit.’

  ‘A barber for a barbarian?’ Mikhail stated humourlessly. ‘Thank you.’

  *

  Snow closed down the monitoring equipment in the viewing room and met his boss in the entrance hall. ‘What’s your take on his point about IS?’

  ‘I bloody well hope the Russians have the bomb, Aidan. If they do we can just go home and forget about it.’

  ‘It’s a shame we can’t just ask them.’

  ‘That’s a fact, especially now their President has gone mad.’

  ‘Is that the official view of the Secret Intelligence Service?’ Snow asked drolly.

  Patchem shook his head. ‘You know it’s not.’

  ‘All done for the today, Jack?’ Karen Campbell asked, appearing from a side door.

  ‘Yes.’ Patchem noticed her n
ails had been painted black with intricate white paisley droplets. ‘Thank you, Karen.’

  ‘I’ll let you out.’ Campbell signalled to the guard at the front door to release the electronic lock.

  Patchem’s car was parked immediately across the road from the townhouse, the driver waiting at the wheel. To a casual observer the pair had just left the London office of a small export company, the building’s façade itself a façade for the SIS safe house. Patchem and Snow slipped into the backseats. Snow looked out of the window as the Jaguar joined the flow of London traffic. They stopped at a set of lights and two motorcycle couriers drew up alongside them. Wearing the liveries of competing companies, they jostled to be first when red turned to green. ‘Something’s not right.’

  Patchem glanced over. ‘Like what?’

  ‘It’s too easy, too simple.’

  ‘Aidan, sometimes you forget that, even though I am a section chief for the Secret Intelligence Service, I’m not a mind reader.’

  ‘How did the Russians know the location of the Al-Qaeda team?’

  ‘Kishiev.’

  ‘Assuming the Russians have him and he’s being cooperative, wasn’t he locked up in Black Dolphin for, what, three years?’

  ‘So, the attack was planned before he was arrested.’

  ‘Mikhail said the bomb had only been taken by Al-Qaeda three months ago. How did Kishiev know about the Hand of Allah? Did Al-Qaeda take the bomb earlier than he led us to believe?’

  ‘We know from the NSA intercept of Strelkov’s call that the name the Hand of Allah relates specifically to the RA-115A we’re tracking. Mikhail must have lied to us or become confused. I don’t think his memory would have failed him. Karen’s team will be questioning him further; they’ll get the truth out of him, but that’s not an issue now. What is an issue is confirming that the Russians have the bloody thing!’

  The Jag purred onwards towards Vauxhall Cross. ‘Why did the Russians leave a passport behind? Even they aren’t that slapdash.’

  Patchem shrugged. ‘They got interrupted or simply didn’t see it.’

  ‘Or they wanted it to be found by whoever discovered the bodies?’

  ‘You think it’s a red herring?’