by Alex Shaw
‘Oh, dear, Sergey, why did you do that? That’s two more innocent men you’ve killed,’ Harris said sarcastically. He pushed Gorodetski in the back with his Kalashnikov. ‘Get in the other room.’
Gorodetski allowed himself to be hustled into the living room. Beck’s body was still on the ground where he had placed it earlier.
‘Where’s Needham?’
‘The SBU has him.’
‘You killed Beck, didn’t you, Sergey?’
‘Yes.’
‘I liked Beck. I recruited him, and I recruited Needham. I don’t like you, but you’re actually not bad for a Russian. Perhaps if we had to do this all over again things would be different?’
Under his fleece hat Gorodetski heard a burst of static in his ear.
‘Or perhaps not.’
Eliso raised her Beretta and cocked her head to one side. ‘Can I?’
Another squelch in his ear and this time Nedilko’s voice. ‘Get down!’
‘Go ahead,’ Harris ordered.
Gorodetski dived sideways as 9mm rounds entered from the rear window and peppered the room. Harris threw himself back into the kitchen. Eliso screamed and fell as she pulled the trigger; her round dug itself safely into the wall.
‘Get out!’ Nedilko said.
Gorodetski jumped out of the window and dropped into the back garden.
*
A gunshot sounded somewhere in the far distance… and another… He felt the cold and then the pain in the back of his head. Snow slowly opened his eyes and saw nothing but shadows. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, opened them again, and then realised his nose was touching a tyre. A familiar noise registered in his ears and then it materialised directly overhead, a black shape against a dark sky. It swooped down and almost kissed the dacha’s roof. It was a military helicopter and, before Snow had time to understand the implications, its doors opened and ropes dropped out of either side, immediately followed by black-clad assaulters. The downdraft forced Snow’s eyes to close. This was not Casey; this was not good.
Chapter 14
Kryvyi Rih, Ukraine
Boroda was the first on the ground, quickly followed by the rest of Strelkov’s men. He hurled a flashbang through the shattered kitchen window and another assaulter sent one into the hall. Weapon up, Boroda stormed the house, caring nothing for stealth or personal safety – speed and surprise were what he was relying on. Kishiev wasn’t going to get away from him this time. The team split in half; Boroda steamed left into the kitchen with his half and the others charged upstairs. He scanned the room and saw three bodies on the floor, two dead, and the third lying facedown with its hands laced behind its head.
The helicopter was definitely Russian and appeared to be a Kamov Ka-60. Even in the whirlwind caused by the rotors there was no way Snow could get away without being seen. He flattened himself into the ground and slid under the Lada. The Kamov turned sharply and landed in the empty plot behind the dacha. Through the swirling snow he saw two commandos grab Kozalov and haul him to his feet. The old man waved his arm wildly. More commandos now exited the dacha and jogged around the side of the building. A figure was frogmarched out of the dacha by a single commando. The man lifted his head up and, for a fraction of a second, Snow locked eyes with Harris before a violent shove moved the American along. Snow steadied his Glock. He couldn’t let him be taken like this; as a senior CIA officer he’d be a huge prize for the Russians, but the implications would run much deeper than that. Snow opened fire. His first shot went just wide, slamming harmlessly into the wooden exterior of the dacha; his second hit the commando high in the chest. Boroda stumbled to the ground and his AK74SU swung on its sling. Snow pushed up to his feet, adrenaline now masking the hammering in his skull, and covered the distance to Harris as quickly as the soggy ground and his groggy head would let him.
Harris scuttled away but Boroda was already on his haunches, his AK rising… and then he was propelled onto his back, hit in the chest by another round. Snow turned his head to see Gorodetski before both men gave their attention to Harris. Wrists plasticuffed together, he started to raise his arms, but then something made him freeze. More commandos reappeared from around the right side of the dacha and sent a barrage of rounds in their direction. Snow hurled himself at the porch, landing behind the steps, and Gorodetski bolted down the side of the building. What seemed like minutes, but was in fact seconds, later, the Kamov’s engine note changed; it lifted into the air and powered away. As the noise of the helicopter faded, the sounds of the street grew to take its place. Dogs barked and a car alarm incongruously bleeped and announced a warning in English.
‘Snow!’ Gorodetski shouted.
‘I’m here. Are you hit?’
‘No, they couldn’t shoot for shit.’
Snow squinted as a pair of headlights illuminated the front garden.
‘Aidan?’ Blazhevich called.
Standing, Snow massaged the back of his head. It hurt. ‘I’m here, Vitaly… just.’
‘I’ve called it in,’ Blazhevich shouted over to the pair. ‘I saw it go. It must have been the Russians.’
‘It’ll be too late to intercept them. They’ll run straight for Crimea.’
‘Did they…’
‘Yes.’ Snow confirmed Blazhevich’s fears. ‘They took Harris, Kozalov, and the parts.’
Blazhevich slammed his fist onto the roof of Kozalov’s Lada in disgust. ‘And the bomb?’
‘I don’t think Harris had it on him. He must have left it with Kishiev.’
‘Well, that’s hardly a sensible thing to do, is it?’ Blazhevich kicked the 4x4. Snow and Gorodetski exchanged looks. ‘I’m sorry.’ Blazhevich shook his head. ‘But we’ve got Needham. He’ll know the plans; he’ll know where Kishiev is!’
Snow’s iPhone rang… Casey. ‘We’re twenty minutes out.’
‘We’ve lost Harris, Kozalov, and what he was selling.’
‘You’ve what?’ Casey’s voice raised an octave.
‘What looked like a Russian Spetsnaz team just grabbed them. But we’ve got Needham.’
‘OK. Stay put.’
Snow closed the phone. ‘How did the Russians know to come here?’
‘My guess would be a local informer in either the SBU or the militia.’ Blazhevich was despondent.
‘I see,’ Snow said. ‘I wonder if Kozalov has anything to drink indoors?’
*
Ukrainian Airspace
It wasn’t the first time he’d been captured by the Russians; it had happened in 1988 when he’d been fresh-faced and foolish. But this was far more serious. There would be no rescue this time by Mujahideen fighters. Harris lay on the floor of the helo with a black sack over his head, his ankles and wrists tightly secured. He kept his mouth shut and listened to the Russians talking among themselves. They had been looking not for him but for Kishiev and the nuke, that much was clear; but what wasn’t clear was how they had tracked him to Kozalov’s dacha. Harris ran the scenarios through his head. How would he play this? Would he claim to be an American businessman, swept up by an illegal Russian operation? That scenario did have potential. The Agency would want him back. Social media and American-funded news channels would make a meal of his abduction, his legend backed up by women playing his wife, mother, and two daughters. Campaigns would start, the embarrassment and pressure on Moscow would be huge; but, alas, he couldn’t do that. Casey knew about him, the Agency knew about him, the British knew about him. What was his next option? Confess to being a senior CIA officer? Bargain with intel for his life and become the new Edward Snowden? Harris decided that was it. That’s what he would do. He may even become famous and get to meet the Russian President and his celebrity friends. But then he heard groans, and Kozalov started to speak.
*
Kryvyi Rih, Ukraine
‘They are like buses,’ Blazhevich joked. ‘You wait days for one and then two arrive within minutes of each other.’
‘Let’s hope this helo is a friendly,’ Snow sa
id.
Nedilko jogged over from the road where he had been talking to two militia officers. ‘I’ve managed to calm things down and persuaded them that the Russians aren’t invading Kryvyi Rih.’
‘And let’s pray they never try to,’ Snow replied.
Gorodetski looked up at the sky. ‘It’s a different helo. Completely different sound.’
The four men watched their second helicopter of the night land in the empty plot behind the dacha. Two men quickly alighted as the rotors slowed. Snow recognised Vince Casey and Gorodetski recognised Michael Parnell.
‘Where’s Needham?’ Casey asked without preamble.
‘Inside, tied up,’ Snow replied.
Casey flashed Gorodetski and the others a quick, tight smile before walking past them and into the house. Parnell followed in silence.
‘Vince?’ Needham was surprised to see his chief enter the room.
Casey shook his head. ‘Why did you do it, Steve?’
‘I was following Harris’s orders.’
‘C’mon, we all know that’s bullshit. You’ve messed up big time. I’m not sure I can help you, unless you tell me everything.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘For what you’ve done?’
‘No. I’m sorry that I can’t tell you – it’s too late. But I can tell you I’m not sorry for taking a friggin’ nuke away from a bunch of jihadis, and I’m not sorry for sending those jihadis to hell.’
Casey pursed his lips in disgust. ‘Mike, he’s all yours.’
Parnell had an autoinjector in his right hand and a professional look on his face. ‘Steve, if you keep still you won’t feel a thing.’
‘Perhaps just a little prick,’ Casey added, ‘but I know you’ve felt a lot of those.’
Needham glared. He knew there was no way he was getting out of this now. ‘OK, I’ll talk, damn it!’
Parnell paused, his hand next to Needham’s neck. ‘Shall I?’
‘Go ahead, he had his chance.’
Parnell pushed the pen against Needham’s skin and injected the serum.
*
Russian-Occupied Ukrainian Territory of Crimea
A pair of strong hands pushed Harris down into a chair. His hood was roughly removed, causing him to squint. Bright fluorescent lights made the room look like the interior of a refrigerator. Harris shivered; the temperature made it feel like an icebox too. A man with a neat moustache, short back and sides, and several scratches on his face sat in a chair opposite him.
‘Your friend, Mr Kozalov,’ Strelkov said in Russian, ‘has been very talkative. He has answered every question that we have posed. In my opinion it is very unusual that a man should talk so freely and look so relaxed while he is being questioned. Don’t you agree?’
Harris said nothing.
‘I thought initially that Mr Kozalov’s candour was due to the fact that he was intoxicated, drunk on cheap Ukrainian cognac; but no, he told me himself that you had drugged him. So I think I should thank you for, in part, making my job much easier. Kozalov has told me everything he knows; however, the issue is that he does not know the answers to a pair of very important questions. I think you can answer these for me. Will you do that and save yourself an awful lot of pain?’
Harris remained silent, his face a blank mask.
‘Very well, I shall ask you. Where is the bomb?’
Harris gave no visible reaction.
‘Where is the bomb?’
Harris was thinking, and thinking logically. He had missed the ERV with Kishiev, so the Chechen would now be in the process of bugging out and starting to action the backup plan. He would be on his way south to Odessa, where he would meet up with the crew of a Turkish ship breaking international sanctions by delivering supplies to Crimea. Once in Crimea, Kishiev would strike their secondary target, the Russian-controlled Crimean parliament building. But all this would take time. Harris had received anti-interrogation training, but still knew he wouldn’t be able to hold out much more than a couple of days. And he imagined that the techniques the Russians had now developed would cut the time shorter still. He knew what he had to do. Resist and then drip-feed. But first he’d try to stall; there was a chance the man interrogating him did not speak English.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand you. I don’t speak Ukrainian. Can you please explain to me what is happening? I am a US citizen. Who are you and why have you kidnapped me?’
‘I was speaking Russian, the only true language of the Russian people.’ Strelkov’s eyes narrowed as he spoke in English. ‘I know very well that you can understand and speak my language; it is what you used to address Kozalov. I believe that you are American and that you are an agent of the CIA.’
‘I am an American citizen, and demand that you inform my embassy immediately of my whereabouts!’
‘You are in no position to make demands.’
Harris didn’t reply.
‘Very well, it is as I thought. We have drugs that will loosen your tongue.’
Unless the Russians had improved their serum since the CIA had bought a sample to test, Harris believed he’d be able to resist. Unseen by Harris, a needle was thrust into his neck. A cold sensation streaked along the vein and his eyelids became heavy. He smirked at the Russian. ‘Very relaxing; I could do with a sleep.’
‘That is good. Oh, and by the way, you will be pleased to know that the man who was shot while apprehending you is fine. His body armour prevented everything but bruises.’
‘Please get him some flowers on my behalf. Pansies would be appropriate.’ Harris cracked up.
Strelkov scowled. ‘You will now answer my questions.’
Harris felt his head loll and a smile spread across his face.
‘Where is the bomb?’
‘I don’t know.’
Strelkov frowned; the American was resisting. ‘Where is the bomb?’
‘I told you I don’t know.’
‘Where is it?’ Perhaps the drugs had been slow to work?
‘I don’t know exactly.’
‘But you know roughly?’
Harris shrugged. ‘Somewhere in Ukraine.’
Strelkov took a deep breath to control his rising anger. ‘Which part of Ukraine?’
‘The southern part of Ukraine.’
‘Who has the bomb?’
‘A friend.’
‘Who?’
Harris raised his head. ‘Aslan Kishiev.’
‘Kishiev has the bomb?’ Strelkov felt his whole body tense.
‘Yes, he does, and that’s bad news for you… what’s your name?’
‘Strelkov.’ He read the American’s eyes; they were still defiant, even though the pupils had dilated. Perhaps he should up the dose? But he knew what that could lead to. ‘And your name is?’
‘Strelkov?’ Harris started to laugh hysterically, the drugs exaggerating his every emotion. ‘So you’re the buffoon who called your boss from Black Dolphin on an unsecured line?’
‘What?’ Strelkov snapped back.
‘The NSA were listening in, got every word. Well, thank you, buddy, for letting us all know there was a nuke on the loose!’
Strelkov took a deep, calming breath. He knew what he had done. It was an error that might still cost him everything. ‘So you are CIA?’
Harris realised that the drugs were slowly acting on him; they weren’t as fast as his own, but could he beat them? He’d have to take his time and fight this, but surely a little information here and there wouldn’t hurt anyone? It might even help him. ‘Yes.’
‘What is your name?’
‘Nabiev,’ Harris said, and then wondered why he had given his birth name?
‘Nabiev? That is a Russian name?’
‘Tatar. My parents emigrated. I’m now called Harris.’
Strelkov’s mind started to whir – was it a CIA trick? Was he trying to confuse matters, or was he not grasping the whole picture? ‘And you were sent to find the bomb?’
‘Yes.’ There was no poi
nt in denying this fact.
‘Where did you find it?’
‘Istanbul.’ No reason not to state this.
‘So you took it from the Al-Qaeda cell?’
‘Yes.’ Just information, not intel. He could tell the Russian this.
‘Did you rescue Kishiev?’
‘Yes.’ A simple fact.
Something strange was happening, something Strelkov couldn’t understand. Why would the CIA stay in the field once they had the bomb and the terrorist? Kozalov had told him that the man, whom he now knew was a CIA agent called Harris, had wanted to purchase parts to make the bomb function. The realisation of what was going on hit Strelkov like an iron hammer. The CIA wanted the bomb so they could use it against Russia and blame the Chechen terrorists! This was an act of war. Harris’s head now lolled to one side, drool starting to drip from his mouth. Strelkov’s jaw tightened; he had to find the bomb and Kishiev. ‘Kishiev has the bomb in the south of Ukraine. Where exactly?’
‘I don’t know.’
Strelkov lost his temper; he didn’t have time for this. ‘WHERE IS THE BOMB?’
Harris’s head jerked. ‘With Kishiev.’
‘WHERE?’
‘It is travelling south, towards Odessa.’
‘Is he alone?’
‘Yes.’
‘He is driving?’
‘Yes.’
‘What is he driving?’
‘A camel.’
The man was still resisting. ‘I asked you what he was driving?’
‘An SUV.’
‘What type?’
‘Nissan X-Trail.’
‘What colour?’
‘Pink.’
‘What colour?’
‘Black.’
‘Registration number?’
‘BITE-ME.’
‘Registration number?’
‘No idea.’
Strelkov turned his head left and nodded. The interview was being recorded, plans were being made. ‘Where is he going in Odessa?’
‘He’s not going to Odessa.’ Harris smiled a wide, sloppy, drunken smile.
‘What is his destination?’
‘The place he’ll end up at.’
‘What is his destination?’
‘I can’t tell you that.’ Harris now tried desperately to keep quiet but he felt so relaxed, and happy.
