I looked at the tracker. It showed the Touareg was ahead of me by a couple of miles but now moving at a consistent rate. It was almost on top of the turn-off and I had a side bet about what they would do, hoping it would be to stay on this road. I slowed some more, giving them plenty of space.
Seconds later they were passing the turn-off and continuing north. I’d won my bet.
SEVENTEEN
‘Gentlemen, welcome. Can you all hear me?’ Victor Simoyan’s voice echoed around the large boardroom of his commercial premises in the Mozhaysky District of Moscow. He was seated at a table, a large oval structure of old but polished European oak big enough to host thirty places with ease, a relic from when this building was a workers’ cooperative. The room was easily the most impressive part of the premises, guaranteed to show customers that he valued their comfort while they were here, while not overloading his prices to pay for unnecessary spending on areas that did not call for it.
Right now he was facing the far wall some thirty feet way, on which was a giant screen split into twelve squares. Each square held the face of a man, each dressed in a smart suit and tie, and nodding in confirmation.
On one side of Simoyan sat Evgeniy Koroleg, nursing a glass of whisky and a two-day stubble, while on the other was Lev Solov, the country’s deputy defence minister, a man with a narrow face, slanted eyebrows and a widow’s peak which detractors had suggested gave him the appearance of a bird of prey.
The twelve men on the video screens were a disparate group from all over Russia, each with his own perspective of what was important in life, which was why Simoyan had struggled to get them all together this afternoon – or rather, this evening, he reminded himself, checking the fading light outside the windows. Still, they were all assembled now, and he could enlarge on the plan he had outlined earlier, person by person, to gauge their responses and see who was likely to be in disagreement. So far, none of them had.
They called themselves the Wise Men, and between them controlled large sections of the fabric of the Russian economy and structure. There was Solov from the defence ministry, Koroleg in energy and gas, and others holding key areas in the military, manufacturing, technology, telecommunications, banking, aircraft and armaments. All had become wealthy and influential in the new Russia – and all wished to stay that way.
Which was why they had been called together.
Every one of them, thought Simoyan, had assets and futures to protect, and were unwilling to allow anyone – especially an outsider like Tzorekov – to spoil their game by influencing the most powerful man in the land to allow a situation that would see a reduction of spending on military equipment and energy supplies.
‘You have all heard,’ he began, ‘about the traitor Tzorekov’s decision to return to Russia in what we believe is an attempt to influence those above us in their decisions regarding the current course on which our country seems set.’
They all nodded, heads moving in unison on the screens. It wouldn’t have escaped anyone’s attention that he had carefully avoided mentioning Vladimir Putin’s name, but that was clearly who he meant. He had already shown them his seriousness by allowing them to watch while his head of security had swept the room with an electronic detector – a device with which they were all well-acquainted in their own lives – to set their minds at rest. Equally, he had pressed each man to do the same in their locations, and had reminded them to be doubly careful about using certain key words or names during this discussion.
‘Our latest information is that he has had contact via an intermediary here in Moscow with one at the heart of government, the plan being to meet face-to-face.’
‘Where?’ The first to speak was Solov, alongside him. ‘And how does he plan to do this – by magic? A cloak of invisibility?’ He chuckled, drawing an echoing response from the others. ‘Has this Tzorekov turned himself into Harry Potter?’
Simoyan didn’t rise to the bait. Solov was a political performer and was well known for playing the clown. But he carried a lot of weight and rubbing him up the wrong way would be a major mistake. Let him have his laughs; it was safer to let the tiger roar than take him on by sticking an arm into his mouth.
‘We don’t know where yet. He is at this moment in the company of one Arkady Gurov, another former KGB officer, proceeding north from Saint Petersburg to a destination so far unknown. But it’s clear to us that he is doing so in the knowledge that a meeting is on the cards. There has been mention of “the lakes”, but that could be anywhere within five hundred miles and as you know there are hundreds to choose from.’
‘Could it be the lake, do you think?’ This from Andrei Maltsev, the oil and telecommunications mogul. It was known by his colleagues that he had invested in a dacha, although not alongside the Ozero Cooperative, on Lake Komsomolskoye, to which he was referring. His holiday home lay on the shores of another stretch of water a few miles away, less prestigious but still protected from the encroachment of the lower classes. As a business competitor had once remarked slyly in his presence, eliciting his lasting hatred, ‘Close, Andrei … but not close enough.’
‘We think not. It would be too obvious – which is a good thing for us. There are security personnel constantly monitoring the area, which would be problematic for anything we may have to do. Tzorekov is not an unknown figure and word would get out sooner or later. If we intend to stop him, it’s going to happen somewhere else.’
‘You’ve talked before about this situation,’ said Oblovsky, a former KGB man, now an arms dealer. ‘We all know the dangers for us as individuals if the current situation changes. But how do you know Tzorekov will try to … affect such a change? He’s only one man – and still an outsider.’
Simoyan flicked a hand at Koroleg for support.
‘We know because he has been heard talking about it,’ Koroleg supplied. ‘We have transcripts and recordings of telephone conversations. We also know – and you, I suggest, Dmitry must know – how close the two men are.’
‘They were, once, that is true,’ Oblovsky agreed. ‘But now, who knows? Situations and loyalties change.’
‘Dare we take a chance on doing nothing?’ asked Alexander Kushka, a military consultant and entrepreneur. ‘If they have come to the situation already where a meeting, however improbable it might seem, is actually possible, then we are already some way along the road, are we not?’ He scowled. ‘Wait for the enemy to get too close, and very soon you may become their guest – or worse.’
Solov grinned. ‘What’s that, Alex – Sun Tzu and The Art of War?’
‘No, Lev. It’s bitter experience.’ Kushka gave a smile, his face suddenly genial. ‘Of course, I could quote you some better ones if you wish.’
‘Let’s not,’ Simoyan murmured quickly. ‘We have a decision to make.’
‘Why so hasty?’ Maltsev asked. ‘This could all be a fuss over nothing. If they are friends, then they have at least a right to meet up, even if we find one of them … distasteful.’
‘Because we could talk about this for ever, Andrei, and not find a solution until our pants were down around our ankles.’ He breathed deeply, then said, ‘We stop him or we let him go. Yes or no.’
So far nobody else had spoken. That could be good or bad. They might be either for or against any action to stop Tzorekov, or undecided, waiting to see how the majority would go. As in all groups, there were followers and leaders. He decided to push them.
‘You all know the problems we might face,’ he said. There is only one way to secure our situation for certain, and that is by taking action before it’s too late. Now, who is in … and who is out? I need your votes.’
He waited as they made up their minds. Even at this point, when they had clearly all decided on a course of potential action, which, God knows, was dangerous enough, he could sense how fearful they were of Putin’s reach. Not that he was entirely dismissive of the emotion himself. If any one of these men talked out of turn after this discussion, whether to a friend, colleagu
e, rent boy or mistress, they could all end up facing a firing squad.
‘I agree,’ said Kushka, flicking a hand in the air, a salute to action.
Solov nodded. ‘I also.’
Koroleg tapped the table with his knuckle. ‘Yes.’
One by one the heads on the screens nodded and hands were raised in agreement. What they didn’t know was that in spite of the theatricals with the security sweep against bugs, all of them had been recorded nodding their agreement to the proposed plan, a copy of which would find a resting place in Simoyan’s safe within minutes of this video meeting being ended.
Simoyan smiled. ‘Wonderful. And if it were needed, which it isn’t, I have the deciding vote and I say yes, we stop the traitorous bastard in his tracks and bury him somewhere they’ll never find him!’
Seconds later the screens began to click off as each man disconnected.
‘How, exactly?’ Solov queried, when the large screen went black, ‘do we stop Tzorekov? We haven’t talked about that.’
Simoyan shrugged. He’d expected this question at some point; he just hadn’t seen it necessary to discuss the finer details with all the others. ‘The only way we can. Permanently.’
‘And the means of accomplishing this?’
‘Do you really want to know? I’m pretty certain the others don’t.’
‘Call me curious.’
Simoyan shrugged. ‘Very well. I’ve given this a lot of thought. We cannot – we dare not – rely on anyone who will wish to remain in the area afterwards. Whoever does this will have to disappear – and for a long time.’
‘You mean to use criminals?’ Koroleg rumbled. ‘They’d be cheap, I give you that – and disposable. But totally unreliable in the meantime. They’d sell us out in an instant if they saw a profit.’
‘Very true, which is why we won’t be using them. For this assignment we need people with a proven track record of such work, ready and willing to leave the country afterwards. We cannot afford any mistakes.’ He studied them carefully. ‘We all stand to lose everything, otherwise.’
‘So who, then?’
‘I have a team in mind.’
‘A team?’ Solov looked at him. ‘Not current serving personnel, I trust.’ He had a politician’s fear of the military having within its ranks members who would turn on their own leaders for money – or worse, ideology.
‘No. They were, once, of the highest order. But they are now very disconnected and will remain so afterwards, I assure you. You and each of the others, by the way, will be receiving a bill detailing your equal share of their fee.’ He smiled like a shark, enjoying the moment and sensing hesitation at this point. It was amazing, he reflected, how rich men hated spending money on non-business ventures, even at the promised inevitability of making even more money further down the line.
Koroleg said, ‘How long will it take to get them together?’
‘No time at all. In fact, I have them on standby.’
It was a lie, actually, since the team was already up and on the move. But neither of these men needed to know that. Simoyan had merely anticipated the group’s agreement and set the machine in motion. Wasting time was as anathema to him as wasting money.
‘What about outside interference?’ This from Solov. ‘Has there been any chatter from the British or Americans?’
‘Well, that’s really part of your expertise, isn’t it, being defence? What do you think?’
Solov tipped his head in agreement. ‘It’s almost certain that they must know something of Tzorekov’s plans, in my judgement. They may play genial host to dissenters like Tzorekov, but they monitor their movements very closely, just as we would in similar circumstances. They will do anything they can to bring instability to this country.’
A politician’s answer, thought Simoyan. In other words, he had no idea. ‘Exactly. For that reason we’re doing some monitoring of our own. Any whispers from the embassies, any unusual movements or changes in personnel, especially in the north, and we will know.’ He snapped his fingers for emphasis.
Koroleg said, ‘You can cover all of that? Seriously?’ He looked and sounded sceptical.
‘We have and we will. Seriously.’ Simoyan stared hard at him until he looked away. It was a blatant show of strength in the face of doubt, and it worked.
‘Good. How do you plan to react if you hear anything?’ said Solov.
‘Very simply.’ Simoyan made a show of taking a cell phone from his inside pocket and dialling a number. The other two watched while it rang out. When it was answered, Simoyan said simply, ‘You have the green light. Go.’ Then he switched off the phone, dropped it to the floor and ground it beneath his heel, a brutally significant display of his commitment to security.
‘That’s how,’ he said casually. ‘One phone call and a team will be on its way. Like the one I’ve just despatched. The game, gentlemen, is on.’ He clapped his hands and said, ‘Any more questions?’ When neither of the men ventured to speak he gestured at a side table where drinks were waiting in a small refrigerator, the bottles visible through the glass door and beaded with icy condensation. ‘In that case, our business is concluded and I propose a toast to successful ventures.’
As he stepped away from the table he glanced at his watch. The team he’d selected should be in the air very shortly. A few hours from now and they would be doing what they were good at; what they’d been hired to do. Hunters.
Hunting the biggest game of all: men.
EIGHTEEN
Airman Technician Maxim Datsyuk was bored. Isolated in one of the auxiliary flight monitoring rooms of the Main Air Traffic Management Centre on Leningradsky Prospekt, Moscow, he’d been staring at his screen for several hours now, trying to determine a flow pattern of night traffic around the city’s skies. On attachment from the Ministry of Defence Flight Safety Service centre at Shaykovka air base, Datsyuk was here to broaden his experience and, as his MOD supervisor had suggested, to teach the civilian sky-watchers a thing or two about emergency traffic control procedures the military way.
Yet here he was in a windowless room where he was certain he’d been sent simply because they didn’t know what else to do with him. He was beginning to feel like a spare dick at a wedding, ignored by the other staff and receiving little or no welcome or help from his hosts. He yawned and sipped at a bottle of water. He’d have preferred something stronger, but taking alcohol while on duty – even as a visitor/observer – was against regulations.
He shook his head and changed screens, zooming in to bring up the radar feed of the area north of the city. There was little traffic to speak of this late, other than the usual authorized late-night cargo and emergency flights, and the ever-present police helicopters monitoring ground traffic and supporting law enforcement operations. If he could find something interesting to show Gretsky, the fat and sullen civilian supervisor he’d been assigned to, it might get him taken a little more seriously, instead of being sidelined to this rabbit hole.
He played with the screen, picking up transponder signals and data tags at random and checking them against a list of codes he’d been given by one of the few friendly desk-jockeys in the building. Nothing remotely interesting; mostly long-established utility traffic on pre-planned flights and not likely to be changed as long as the Moscow Zonal planners had holes in their—
Whoa. What was that?
He sat up straight. An ADSB beacon. He clicked on it to bring up the detail. It was a code he hadn’t seen before. Trapdoor Z5993. Interesting. The aircraft was a helicopter – an Ansat-U military utility job – current altitude 300 metres on a 25-degree track heading N-N-E beyond the city suburbs. Probably ferrying a bunch of officers back to base from a late-night cocktail party. But no other data. And no transponder signal.
OK, so the military didn’t have to follow all the rules, but even so. He dragged the keyboard closer, checking the log for queried codes and feeding in the beacon number. Not a thing, save the taunting ‘No Search Results’. Was this so
mething a little special, maybe? A spook flight carrying FSB personnel or a minister on a hush-hush trip? If so it might account for the unusual number.
He chewed on a fingernail and thought about what to do. As a visitor/observer he had authorization to track flights while building patterns for later use in creating computer models, but not to contact them. Yet the comms function was sitting here unused. What would be the harm?
He decided to call them up, in case they were listening on the local frequency. To hell with it – he could label this as a potential safety issue. That’s what he was here studying, after all. And what was the worst they could they do if they didn’t like it? Send him to a field radar hut in the Urals? Hell, he’d seen worse.
‘Ansat-U heading N-N-E this is Main ATM Centre, Moscow, please confirm destination and route, over.’
No answer.
He repeated the call. And a third time. Nothing.
He logged the time, position and direction of the flight and sent a note up the line to the duty supervisor, checking the list to see who was on tonight. Shit. It was Gretsky, who almost never responded to any messages and generally treated him like dirt. He was probably sleeping in the store cupboard next to his room right now and wouldn’t give a rat’s ass about what was happening in the sky until it fell on his head.
To his surprise Gretsky came right back.
‘What the hell is this report, Datsyuk? Are you trying to screw with me?’
‘No, sir. Not at all.’ He was surprised at the tone of venom in Gretsky’s voice. ‘I noticed the flight because it has a beacon number which doesn’t show up anywhere.’
‘How do you know that? Are you an expert all of a sudden?’
‘No, I’m not saying that, sir. I checked the log and this one doesn’t figure.’
Hard Cover Page 9
