by Alex Shaw
‘Fix the device?’ Knight took another sip of tea. ‘OK, we know the CIA already has one RA-115A. Why would they want another?’
‘To control the technology, or at least stop others from having it?’
‘Is it really that hard to fathom how the thing works?’
‘Probably not, but you’d still need to be able to create new parts or adapt the existing device.’
‘Which Al-Qaeda hasn’t got?’
Patchem shrugged. ‘That’s something we don’t know. Why fix it?’
‘Easier than reinventing the wheel?’ Knight proffered.
‘According to the file, it’s something to do with the firing unit decoder that stopped the US bomb from working. The whole device could be replaced and put in a new case, but then that defeats the purpose of the design.’
‘So, the gist of what you’re saying is that the mention of Moscow as a target is a ruse? And who’d expect a terrorist to be able to get through a warzone lugging a suitcase nuke, anyway? Is that it? The device would simply disappear?’
Patchem nodded. ‘The more I think about this, the less sense attacking Moscow makes, let alone the effort of getting there. The conflict zone in Eastern Ukraine would be the perfect place to pretend to lose a bomb.’
‘Confront Casey. Put everything on the table, no secrets. We need to end this, either way.’
‘What about the PM? He’s discussing with the US Commander in Chief about how to tell the Russian President that a nuclear weapon is en route to the Kremlin…’
‘I have to inform him.’ Knight cut Patchem off mid-sentence. She picked up her desk phone, took a deep breath, and then pressed a button. ‘I need to speak to the Prime Minister, immediately.’
*
Unknown Location
Aslan Kishiev made no attempt to hide his face or conceal his identity as he stared into the camera lens. Behind him the black flags of both the Islamic International Brigade and the Mujahideen of the Caucasus Emirate had been secured to the wall to provide a backdrop for his statement. Kishiev spoke first in Russian, the language of his enemy, and then in Arabic, the language of the prophet. ‘For too long the infidels have defiled our lands, murdered our brothers and sisters, and been shameful in front of the Prophet Mohammad, peace be upon Him. I am nothing more than His messenger, and the message to you is this: we will not stand idly by while you continue to attack our people, our lands, and our faith. This is not a threat, nor is it a warning. This is a statement of fact. You shall be driven out of the lands that you have taken and the price shall be your infidel blood. As I speak, Holy Warriors under my control prepare to attack. They have no demands, they are not terrorists; they have the will of Allah, peace be upon Him, on their side. His will dictates that all non-believers, all Russians, leave our Muslim lands immediately. This is but the start of our crusade and it shall not be the end. We grow now stronger than ever, and have joined our holy brothers in their Emirate. Allah is merciful, Allah is great.’ Kishiev nodded off camera and a black-clad figure moved behind him and tore down both flags to reveal beneath one large flag of Islamic State.
The message, recorded in a Turkish safe house, was uploaded to several Islamic websites and instantly picked up by Al Jazeera and then all the major international news channels. Screened by the Kremlin-funded RT channel, it was instantly dismissed as an old and worthless recording. Western news agencies noted, however, that it showed Aslan Kishiev without a beard and looking much older than he had been at the time of his arrest. And they pointed out that Islamic State hadn’t existed when he had been captured. The video was screened for the next two hours in news packages until Kishiev’s words became true. Making full use of commuter traffic as cover, a convoy of vehicles smashed through the Russian security ring that surrounded the Chechen capital of Grozny. Unexpected and unstoppable, a group of ten fighters reached the city centre where they assaulted local government offices and the FSB building. The Kremlin went into lockdown mode. The Russian President was immediately taken from his dacha and transported back to his office by a motorcade over-watched by helicopter gunships, and Moscow airspace was closed to all civilian air traffic.
Chapter 12
Kryvyi Rih, Ukraine
Stretched out on the frigid forest floor, Gorodetski ignored the pervading cold and falling snow. He and Beck had watched as Target One’s Lada crunched over the frozen dirt track and came to a halt outside the dacha; now, an hour later, they were still watching as a VW Passat drew up. A passenger got out and walked towards the dacha before the Passat drove away. The dacha’s front door opened and Target One emerged onto the highest of the three steps that constituted the veranda. The two men spoke and the new arrival gave the other a bottle.
‘Target Two confirmed,’ Beck stated as he examined the scene with his field glasses.
Gorodetski slowly readjusted himself, looked down the scope of his Dragunov SVD-M sniper rifle, and awaited the fire command from Beck. But then he blinked and recognised the second man, Target Two, whose face now filled his crosshairs.
‘Take Target Two first. Take the shot,’ Beck ordered as he kept ‘eyes on’.
For the first time since basic training, indecision hit Gorodetski. His trigger finger didn’t move as his brain tried to process what he was seeing, who he was seeing.
Beck hissed, ‘Take the shot.’
‘Target Two is not an X-ray,’ Gorodetski replied. ‘I recognise him!’
‘The target is the target, take the shot.’
Gorodetski inhaled deeply. ‘Look, I’m telling you something’s not right…’
Beck dropped his binos, letting them swing by their lanyard, and jammed the business end of his silenced Sig Sauer into Gorodetski’s neck. ‘Pull the fucking trigger or I will. Are we clear?’
‘Yes.’ He felt the Sig move away and squeezed the Dragunov’s trigger. A suppressed round instantly raced towards the dacha. Immediately, Gorodetski used the rifle’s recoil to start his move. With his hands still clamping the Dragunov he jerked sideways as, a millisecond later, a 9mm round tore through the air where his head had been. Gorodetski thrust the Dragunov’s barrel into Beck’s chest. The former Navy SEAL opened his mouth to speak but Gorodetski’s trigger finger was faster. The 7N14 round tore a hole through Beck, blasting him backwards. He was dead before his body had finished sinking into the fresh snow.
*
‘Stay down!’ Snow pushed Kozalov inside the house. The flight of the round had been silent; the noise it made as it shattered the kitchen window anything but.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ Kozalov demanded.
‘Keeping you alive! Get away from the door and stay low!’
Snow crouched behind the doorjamb, retrieved his Glock, and scanned the treeline. All was quiet, all was still, save for the falling snowflakes made to dance by a light breeze. He felt his iPhone vibrate and quickly retrieved it.
‘Aidan, are you hit?’ Nedilko asked in an earnest voice. ‘I saw the shot on camera.’
‘I’m fine. I need you to work your way into the treeline and see who’s out there.’
‘Got that.’
Snow now saw movement fifty yards away, in the trees. The shooter spoke, his words in the international language of American-accented English. ‘Don’t shoot. I’m alone. We need to talk. I’m coming out.’
‘Hold your weapon above your head and walk towards me!’
The shooter, rifle held aloft in submission, stepped out of the gloom. Snow tracked the shooter with his Glock. As the man drew level with Kozalov’s Lada he spoke again: ‘I am alone.’
‘Keep moving and keep your hands up.’
The shooter reached the veranda.
‘Put the rifle on the top step, then take a pace back and lace your hands together behind your head.’
He did as requested.
‘Sidearm?’
‘Left pouch pocket.’
‘OK. Take it out slowly and remove the magazine.’ Snow tried not to tense as the
shooter reached for what he saw was a Sig Sauer. He’d have less than a second to react if the shooter drew. ‘Now put both pieces on the step.’
‘We have to talk.’
Keeping his Glock trained on the shooter’s centre mass, Snow ignored the Sig but picked up the rifle he now recognised as a Russian Dragunov fitted with an ugly-looking suppresser. ‘Talk.’
‘I’m Agency. I was sent to eliminate you and Kozalov.’
‘Agency?’ Snow’s surprise was evident.
‘Central Intelligence Agency,’ the shooter clarified.
‘I didn’t think you meant estate agency. Get inside.’ Snow stepped back to allow the shooter to enter the hall, quickly shut the door with his foot, and then pushed the shooter left into the kitchen. He could now see that the Dragunov’s round had shattered the kitchen window, and then embedded itself into the far wall, where it had finally lost momentum.
‘Disgraceful!’ Kozalov leant against the worktop, pouring a shot of cognac with a shaky hand.
‘Take a seat, my Agency friend.’ Snow sounded more relaxed than he felt.
Keeping his hands behind his head, the shooter smoothly sat on a chair at the kitchen table.
Kozalov straightened his back defiantly, tossed back his drink, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve before stabbing his finger angrily at Snow. ‘He tried to kill us and you bring him in here?’ The language was Russian, the tone outraged. He stamped his foot on the glass shards. ‘And who will pay to repair the damage?’
‘Please, just let me explain,’ the shooter replied, the language also Russian but directed at Snow.
Snow placed the Dragunov on the floor out of reach of both men, and then switched to the same language. ‘Speak and speak quickly. You’re alone?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who are you?’
‘I’m part of an “Agency” team targeting Kozalov. Intel stated he was in the process of selling classified technology to Islamic terrorists.’
‘Fairy tale!’ Kozalov roared. ‘How dare you make such allegations!’
Snow needed a moment to think. The Americans knew he was in Ukraine; but why would they act unilaterally against a possible lead, and, more importantly, against him? If the shooter was really part of an Agency team, something was wrong in Langley. ‘You told me you were alone. Where is the rest of your team?’
‘Two, including my field controller, are holed up somewhere in town, and my spotter is in bits back in the forest.’ He gestured to the Dragunov with his chin. ‘I wasn’t meant to miss. When I did he tried to put a bullet in my brain.’
‘He’s dead?’ Snow didn’t hide his surprise.
‘Yes.’
To Snow this made no sense at all. ‘Why didn’t you hit either of us? It was an easy shot.’
‘I recognised you.’
Snow froze. ‘Who am I?’
‘My field controller said you were part of a European terror cell.’
‘But you knew that wasn’t true? How?’
‘I’d seen you before, on a roof in Kyiv. You were with Bull Pashinski.’
Snow felt a crushing weight in his chest, as though he’d been kicked by a mule. The memory flooded back… the rooftop chase after the merciless Spetsnaz commando who had killed his friends wounded him and was about to shoot him, before a single round from a sniper had put a dead-stop to Pashinski and his plans. ‘Explain.’
‘Pashinski murdered my brother. It was my duty to execute him.’
What had happened in Kyiv had been kept secret by Dudka’s SBU directorate. No one outside a handful of trusted people knew of Snow’s involvement in chasing down Pashinski and his mercenaries, let alone Pashinski’s fight with Snow, or how the man had died. Snow now knew without a doubt that the man he was facing had saved his life on that Kyiv morning several years before. But was he Agency? Snow still had doubts. He lowered his Glock and placed it on the table.
‘What are you doing?’ Kozalov demanded.
‘Taking a leap of faith.’ Snow addressed the shooter. ‘Pashinski killed three of my men.’
‘My enemy’s enemy is my friend; Pashinski was my enemy,’ Gorodetski stated as he slowly lowered his hands and removed his gloves. ‘My name is Sergey.’ He offered Snow his right hand.
‘Aidan.’ They shook.
‘Irish?’
‘No.’ It was a common mistake.
‘British?’ Gorodetski seemed surprised. ‘I thought you were SBU? What are you, SIS?’
‘Yes.’
‘What?’ Kozalov spluttered and fell against the sink for support. Even in the watery winter-afternoon light he had clearly turned pale.
Snow ignored the Ukrainian. ‘Was this a kill mission?’
‘I was ordered to retrieve whatever Kozalov was selling and then eliminate all those involved.’
Was this proof his hunch had been correct, that the RA-115A would be brought to Kozalov for repair, or was Casey just covering his bases? Snow asked: ‘And what was he selling?’
‘Classified hardware, that’s all I was told.’
‘I don’t know what you are talking about! I’ve done nothing wrong!’ Kozalov prattled rapidly.
Snow again ignored the Ukrainian. It was still a far cry from being proof positive, but Snow was convinced. ‘What intel did you have?’
‘I have no idea, but I was told it was confirmed.’
‘How long until your next check-in?’
‘Minutes. My boss is expecting a call.’
‘From you?’
‘No, my field controller. He’s waiting for Beck to call him.’ Gorodetski tapped his jacket pocket. ‘I’ve got his sat phone.’
‘Beck was your spotter?’
‘Yes. Why is the SIS here?’
The fact that ‘Sergey’ hadn’t known of Snow’s presence was odd, and the fact that he had the voice of a native Russian speaker odder still. Did he know that Moscow had now been confirmed as the target for the nuke? Snow was circumspect in his reply. ‘We’ve been trying to find the buyers – an Al-Qaeda cell.’ Snow thought for a moment as he put the pieces together in his head. ‘Do you understand what’s happened here?’
Gorodetski shrugged. ‘I’m beginning to. The Agency was using me to get rid of its rivals, to get the package, to eliminate Kozalov, and then it gets rid of me?’
Snow was confused; what was the point of securing Kozalov’s spare parts without the bomb itself? ‘You really weren’t meant to miss.’
‘I never do.’
‘Who’s running this?’
‘You mean whom do I report to?’
‘Yes.’
‘My field controller is called Harris.’
‘And his boss, the guy who’s running the entire operation?’
‘I’m sorry, I can’t tell you that.’
‘Perhaps I can. Vince Casey?’ Gorodetski remained silent but Snow noticed a momentary flicker of surprise in his eyes. Snow didn’t like to think of himself as expendable, regardless of the stakes involved. ‘Something is wrong here.’
Kozalov had no idea how, but these men knew about the bomb, and about him. Did they know about Eliso? He swigged more cognac… and then he realised they had no proof. They would have to find his components first and there was no way he was going to tell them where they were hidden! There was no way on earth they could make him talk! As the last rays of sunlight started to sink behind the wintery trees he glanced at his cabbage patch. The ‘package’, as the American agent had called it, was safe. Even if it was discovered, the parts were useless unless connected to an RA-115A, and where would they get one of those from? They would have to find his buyers, and even he didn’t know who they were or where they were! Emboldened by the cognac, he called out indignantly, ‘I’m going to phone the militia! You must leave! You have no right to come bursting in here like this!’
Snow regarded the former KGB colonel. ‘Very true, but my friends at the SBU do. You should just count yourself lucky I haven’t put a bullet in your greedy old head.’
<
br /> Kozalov opened his mouth to say something then thought better of it. He grabbed his cognac bottle and drank directly from it.
Snow felt his iPhone vibrate. He removed it from his pocket and pressed the rubberised speaker button on the matte black Otter Box.
‘One body. All clear. Are you secure?’ Nedilko asked.
‘Yes. Come on in.’ Snow ended the call.
‘Who was that?’ Gorodetski asked.
‘The cavalry,’ Snow replied as Ivan Nedilko appeared from the hall. He had his Glock held in a two-handed grip and trained the business end on Gorodetski.
‘You can holster that, he’s CIA.’
Nedilko frowned as he put away the sidearm. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘And neither do I, not fully.’ Snow turned to Kozalov. ‘It’s time for you to answer some questions.’
Kozalov, who was now working his way through the last of the cognac, looked up. ‘I do not have to tell you anything! What official capacity do you hold here?’
‘None.’
‘Exactly! You forget I was KGB!’ Kozalov stabbed the air with his forefinger. ‘It was I who gave orders, who asked questions!’
‘Kozalov…’ Nedilko sounded stern. ‘I am an agent of the SBU, and you will answer our questions.’
‘I was giving orders when your parents were still shitting themselves!’ Kozalov snapped.
Nedilko nodded slowly. ‘Bowel problems run in my family.’
Snow tried to keep a straight face and Kozalov looked confused before he spoke again. ‘I will tell you nothing.’
‘I know that you worked at the weapons research centre, and I know that you produced the RA-115A there,’ Snow stated. ‘I also know that you have agreed to help foreign terrorists repair their RA-115A.’
Kozalov grabbed at a kitchen chair and sat, his legs trembling. How did these men know so much? Who had told them? Had it all been a charade to trap him? No, it couldn’t be. He wasn’t going to tell these men anything! ‘You have been eating too many of the mushrooms that grow in the forest.’
‘What I need to know is, what exactly have you agreed to sell?’
Kozalov folded his arms and shook his head like a petulant child. ‘I have agreed to nothing. Now, all of you leave my house!’
