The first figure arrived alongside and peered into the car. He was dressed in dark camouflage gear and carrying a submachine gun across his chest. Gurov recognized the model as a Vityaz-SN with an extended magazine. The man wore the badge of a military police unit.
Gurov dropped the window. ‘Problem?’ he asked.
‘There’s a deserter on the run in the area,’ the soldier replied, peering past Gurov’s shoulder to check the rear seats and footwell. ‘We’re trying to make sure he’s contained and doesn’t get away. There’s no need for alarm.’
‘What did he do, this man?’
‘He ran away – it’s what deserters do. Only this one raped a fifteen-year-old girl first. Where did you begin your journey?’ The soldier stared past Gurov at Tzorekov, who ignored him. ‘And what’s your business in this area?’
Gurov almost told him Finchley Park in north London, but stopped himself in time. ‘Saint Petersburg,’ he said instead. ‘We’re on a last camping trip.’ He gave a brief nod towards Tzorekov who had turned his head away, and touched the side of his own head.
The soldier pulled a sympathetic face. ‘Shame you didn’t choose better weather for it, then. Have fun. By the way, the guy’s desperate so don’t pick up any hitchhikers. Before you go, I need to check the back of your vehicle. Is it open?’
‘Help yourself,’ Gurov replied. ‘It’s only our gear. Forgive me if I don’t get out, though.’
He watched in the side mirror while the soldier walked to the rear of the car and opened the door, and moved their bags aside to make sure nobody was hiding there. Moments later he slammed the door and waved them on, then turned and strode along to the next vehicle in line.
‘Do you believe that rubbish?’ Tzorekov muttered sourly, turning to look back as the traffic moved forward and picked up speed. They passed several soldiers standing on the verges either side, most of them looking bored and wet. ‘This many men for one deserter?’
‘What else do you think they were doing?’ said Gurov. ‘If it was us they were after, why would they let us go? Anyway, there are training camps in this area; there’s always one bad apple in a hundred men.’ He nudged the old man’s knee, aware that the tension of this trip was making his boss see dangers at every turn, even while objecting to Gurov taking basic precautions on their behalf. ‘You’re a suspicious cynic, you know that?’
Tzorekov sniffed and wiped away a film of moisture on the car window. ‘Maybe I am. Are you saying you don’t think they will try to stop us – that there are those who won’t feel threatened if Putin is persuaded to soften his stance?’
Gurov said nothing. He knew the tone of voice too well. A response wasn’t expected.
All the same, he had a pinched feeling in his gut that the ball had been set in motion. As sure as the sun set in the evening, somebody, somewhere, if they weren’t already on the move, would shortly be on their way to intercept them.
Behind them, the soldier checking the traffic told the next driver in line to stay in his cab, before walking to the tailgate. Once he was out of sight he took out a cell phone and dialled a number. It was answered after three rings.
‘Report.’
‘They’re on their way through,’ the soldier said, and recited the licence plate number. ‘A green Touareg. The tracker’s in place.’
FIFTEEN
Four hundred miles away in the Golyanovo District of Moscow’s north-eastern suburbs, four men were gathered around a table in a rundown, first-floor apartment. In the street outside, the squeals of children could be heard, and the relentless, high-pitched whine of a starter-motor failing to catch echoed up right beneath their window.
‘Why doesn’t that dickhead give it a rest?’ muttered Andrei Kruglov. ‘It’s never going to start, even I know that.’ He was sitting with shoulders slumped, staring into an empty glass that had been full of vodka, and rubbing the side of his head against a blinding hangover from the night before. Lean and hungry-looking, he had a shaved head and the small stylized tattoo of a parachute on the side of his neck.
‘You could always lean out the window and toss an egg under the hood,’ said his close friend and ‘twin’, Jacob Ignatyev. ‘I’m sure I’ve got an RDG-5 around here somewhere. That would get it moving.’ He was referring to the Russian hand grenade, which all four had used many times in their military careers.
‘Listen up, children.’ The man at the head of the table, a tall and imposing figure with broad shoulders and a beak of a nose, snapped his fingers twice. His name was Alex Chesnokoy, a former master sergeant, and it was his customary signal for a briefing. The other men stopped talking immediately. ‘Good news: we have a job to do.’
‘Great,’ said the fourth man, a squat, bullish individual with a widow’s peak and dark, intelligent eyes. His name was Georgi Gorin, a former junior sergeant but now, like the others, unemployed. ‘I could do with some work.’
Each of the four men had been together for a long time. They had been released from their original units to serve in the 3rd Spetsnaz Brigade based near Stavropol in the south west. After serving in several conflict zones, including Africa and Chechnya, they had now left the military looking for more lucrative contract work outside. So far, that had led to precious little that didn’t involve working for one of the many mafiya gangs in the country.
‘Damn right.’ Kruglov tapped the table and sat upright, eyes gleaming in spite of his hangover. ‘Who are we taking down?’
‘Who said we were taking anyone down?’ Chesnokoy queried. ‘Did I say that?’
‘Well, why hire us otherwise?’ Gorin murmured with a knowing grin. ‘If it was for anything less they could use a bunch of women.’
Chesnokoy smiled indulgently. ‘You’re a cynic and a sexist, Georgi. But you’re not wrong.’
‘I knew it,’ said Ignatyev. ‘Tell me it’s some jihadi bastard. I could do with taking one of them out. Every one counts, right?’
Chesnokoy waited for silence, then said, ‘It’s not a jihadi. And it’s not one target, but two.’
‘Same difference. Twice the fun. Who are they?’
‘How about former KGB?’
A stunned silence. Then Ignatyev shrugged. ‘That’s cool. I’ve never dropped a KGB thug before. Is it anyone we know?’
‘No. Not unless you’re a lot older than you look.’ He handed each man a sheet of cheap photo paper showing a series of monochrome shots of two men, one old, one young. They were full-facial and side shots, and looked like file photos from military service records. The last ones were different; they were in colour and had clearly been taken in the street by a covert camera, and both men looked slightly older. ‘Their names are Tzorekov and Gurov. Tzorekov is the main target and used to be an instructor in the old KGB. The younger one, Gurov, looks like a ballet dancer but don’t be fooled; they say he’s very good at what he does.’
‘And what is that, exactly?’ said Gorin. He was staring at the photos as if to commit them to memory.
‘He’s Tzorekov’s bodyguard.’
‘You’re right, boss,’ said Kruglov, tapping the photos. ‘Gurov’s a shuffler. Put him in tights and a frilly shirt and he’d be a lead in the Bolshoi.’ He shrugged at the looks from the other three. ‘I read books, OK? You clowns should try it sometime – you might learn something before you die. Oh, I forgot, you can’t read.’
‘Enough.’ Chesnokoy said softly. ‘These are serious people. Make no mistake, you sad bastards are going to have to be on top of your game for this job. You hear me?’
They all nodded. Chesnokoy had never been known to exaggerate or underplay an opponent’s skills or capabilities. If he said they were good, you had better believe it.
‘So, just because one target is old and the other looks soft, doesn’t mean we take them for granted. Remember they will have had tough training and they won’t have forgotten it. Once KGB, always KGB. If you screw up, they’ll send your balls back home in a plastic bag.’
‘They’ll need a big
bag for mine, then,’ muttered Ignatyev, clutching his groin with both hands and grinning lewdly. Kruglov sniggered in response.
‘There’s one other thing. This job pays top rates – better than top rates, in fact. But it carries one specific condition: we all have to disappear afterwards. For a long time.’
The silence lasted a lengthy few seconds as each man considered the implications of that statement. None of them was married – or, at least – not with any great conviction, and their homes were wherever they happened to put their heads, like this squalid apartment which had been sub-let while the official tenant was in hospital. But disappearing for a long time? That was an unusual demand to make of anyone.
‘Like where?’ said Gorin. ‘And how long is long?’
‘Where you go will be up to you, and however far the money will take you. As for how long, you should think about retiring … while you still can. On the other hand, if you have a low boredom threshold and a hunger for more action, you could try taking a job with one of the American security contractors. They’re always looking for gun-fodder.’
Gorin glanced at the others. He hadn’t said much but he was looking serious, the thinker of the group. He put a finger on the photo and said, ‘If the payment you’re talking about is big enough to take us away for a long time,’ he said quietly, ‘and presumably overseas, if I read you right … that’s a ton of money.’
Kruglov leaned forward. ‘So what? That’s good, right? At least we can get out of this dump and a dozen others like it.’
Gorin shrugged, conceding the point. They’d all had a tough time since leaving the military. In uniform they had been accorded the respect they had earned in tough campaigns, and regarded by other units with something approaching awe. Here they were nobodies. He looked at Chesnokoy. ‘So who are these two really, Alex? I mean, if the money’s so good, what’s their status? Are they related to somebody very important, or what?’
Chesnokoy said nothing for a long while. Then he said, ‘I was told only as much as I needed to know – which wasn’t much. But reading between the lines, I got the feeling these two are a threat of some kind, and we have to stop them in their tracks.’
‘A threat to who?’ asked Gorin.
‘That’s what they didn’t tell me. But what difference does it make? When were we ever given the full story instead of a line of bullshit and told to follow orders? At least now we’re being well-paid for doing what we’re told and not asking questions. Are we all in or not? If so, we need to move right now.’ He stood up and waited.
‘Fuck it,’ Ignatyev muttered softly, his tone sombre. He got to his feet and slapped his friend Kruglov on the shoulder. ‘What else are we going to do with our lives – join a biker gang and wear tin helmets and leathers? Fuck that.’
Kruglov shrugged and stood up. ‘OK. But where do we go afterwards? Have you thought about that?’
‘Anywhere you like, my friend. Personally, I’ve always wondered what South Africa was like at this time of year.’
SIXTEEN
By the time I got to see past the fat rear-end of the truck in front of me, with the driver holding the centre of the road trying to see what was causing the hold-up, it was too late to back out. And turning around at this point wasn’t an option.
An armed soldier was walking down the line of traffic, checking each vehicle. Beyond him a couple of others were tailing him at a distance, with others standing at the side of the road. They all looked primed and ready for something to kick off.
Logic told me that whoever or whatever these men were after, it couldn’t be me. It was unlikely to be Tzorekov, either; it was way too soon for the news of his arrival to have got out and to have activated this kind of response. In any case I doubted whoever wanted to stop him meeting with Putin would have involved the military, no matter how much pull they had. It would have raised too many questions. Or maybe I was underestimating the opposition.
My guess was, any interference thrown in Tzorekov’s way would come from forces unconnected with any machine of state.
I made sure the door panel hiding the pistol was secure and waited for the first soldier to stop and look in the car. He did so without acknowledging me, but gave my face the once-over for good measure, with no flicker of emotion. I didn’t offer to talk and he didn’t look receptive, anyway. He moved to the rear of the pickup and checked it out, his free hand resting right above where the Saiga was hidden. Finally he nodded and walked away to the next in line.
Five minutes later I was on my way again. It was slow-going in the stack of vehicles, but at least we were moving. My only problem was, the red light that should have been showing the Touareg’s position was dead. Either the signal had died temporarily or the Touareg was out of range. I put on speed, pushing past three trucks in line and earning a wailing air horn of frustration as I went by. I shared their feeling, but there was little I could do other than keep going and put my foot down. In the short time I’d been detained in the tailback, the traffic had got strung out like beads on a string and the faster-moving Touareg was long gone.
I called up Lindsay.
‘Go ahead, Watchman.’
‘I need a fix on the Touareg,’ I told her. ‘We got separated by a military roadblock. Any ideas?’
‘I have them on the screen, Watchman. I’d say about thirty-five miles ahead of your location and travelling fast. Are you in the clear?’ She was referring to the roadblock.
‘Yes, I am. What’s the other traffic like? They were several places in front of me until now.’
‘They have a lot of traffic behind them and a reasonably clear road ahead.’
‘Thanks for that. Listen, I have another question. Wherever Counselor is going, it has to be somewhere specific and safe for meeting up with somebody. He probably doesn’t know where that is yet, but somebody on our side might have that information … or at least might know somebody who does.’
‘I understand. I’ll get on it. Do you have someone in mind?’
‘Tom Vale. The British have been operating here for years, both commercially and in other ways. They have people who probably know the area well. Ask him for me, will you? The more I know about likely meeting places around here, the better. Counselor is currently heading north, and I get the feeling it won’t be any of the obvious locations. Callahan will know what I mean. Wherever this is going down – if it is going down – it will be somewhere quiet and away from the usual spots. It means a location the main man would know about but not his entourage.’
‘Copy that. I’ll call Vale now. He’s here in New York so he’ll probably want to call you back himself.’
I thanked her and disconnected, then focussed on driving. Tzorekov and Gurov had done the clever thing and used the impact of the roadblock to pile on the speed once they were free and clear, and to power past the slower trucks the same way that I was doing now, only a lot further back. I wondered why they had shot ahead. If they had a definite destination in mind, it was either still quite a way off, in which case they were simply getting impatient, or something must have spooked them into putting a foot on the gas.
Yet speed at this point made no sense, if what Lindsay had said earlier about Putin’s agenda was correct. I was willing to bet the Moscow veterans’ parade was carved in stone, since there would be too much to lose for Putin to show disrespect by not being there. Even if he cut short the visit to the troops in Kursk, I doubted he’d be able to make it to this region until the day after tomorrow.
But that left a whole lot of north-western Russia for a potential meeting place. And something told me it would not be where any of us expected.
I decided to risk it and keep up the speed. If the two men got too far ahead of me, without the tracking signal I’d never find them again in this vastly wooded region. Searching side turnings and tracks in the hopes that I’d happen on their trail would take forever, and with the light soon beginning to fade, that would be a no-go, anyway.
And all the time
whatever opposition forces might be on their way here to stop them would be getting closer and closer.
It took over an hour for the tracker light to come on again. When it did, it showed the Touareg was just a few of miles ahead of me and not moving.
I slowed down. If they were doing what I suspected, they’d have stopped to check their back-trail. Both men would have been well aware of what they were up against coming here, and after travelling at speed to get this far, they must have begun to wonder if it could really be this simple.
A lot of the earlier traffic, just like the rain, had thinned out by now, and the road itself, once again bordered by acres of dense conifers on each side after miles of near-open countryside and a broad river crossing, had developed occasional wider stretches of verge. It opened the surroundings to more light and the less oppressive feel of travelling in a long tunnel. I’d passed two small truck pull-ins and a police post, the former temptingly near to getting me in for a quick coffee and some food, the latter less so, but I decided to press on. With the rations I had on board, I wasn’t about to starve or dehydrate.
I checked the map, which showed a turn-off to the left. It ran north-west towards the eastern shore of Lake Ladoga and a town called Olonets. From there the road ran all the way north to the top of the lake before veering north-east towards what would ultimately become the Kola Peninsula, or cutting off west again towards the Finnish border crossing near Nirala.
If Tzorekov was playing very cute, he might be close to doubling back by going right round Lake Ladoga counter-clockwise and eventually reaching Lake Komsomolskoye – which was where he might have been heading all along. But somehow I didn’t get that feeling. They had now spent several hours on the open road, all the time vulnerable to interception if the opposition had got their asses in gear. By heading direct for the suspected meeting place – if that’s where it was going to be – they’d have been able to get close and off the road with plenty of time to sit it out in relative safety and wait for the signal to go in.
Hard Cover Page 8
