Who Dares Wins

by Who Dares Wins (v5. 0) (lit)

  ‘We had not expected to see you in Moscow for a long time,’ Surov said finally.

  ‘Thanks for the warm welcome.’

  His sarcasm was lost on the director. ‘They did not offer you a shower and some clean clothes at Baikonur?’

  Jacob was unshaven and dirty. ‘I guess they must have forgotten their manners. They told you what happened at the training camp?’

  Surov nodded. ‘How can you be sure it was the SAS?’

  ‘I recognise their handwriting.’ He hadn’t mentioned Sam in his report. There were some things the man sitting opposite him didn’t need to know. ‘What happened to your Spetsnaz boys who were supposed to be keeping watch in case something like this happened?’

  ‘Dead,’ the director said shortly. ‘Along with all the recruits. Your former colleagues did their work well.’

  Jacob remained stony-faced. ‘I told you a four-man unit wouldn’t be enough.’

  The director appeared not to hear. He sat silently for nearly a minute before he spoke again. ‘Your agent in London . . .’ He scanned his desk for another piece of paper. ‘Jamie Spillane?’ His rendition of the name, couched as it was in his thick Russian accent, made it almost unrecognisable.

  Jacob nodded.

  ‘He has been activated. We have supplied him with what he needs. You are sure he is . . .’ Surov’s eyes narrowed. ‘You are sure he is fitted for the task?’

  ‘As well as any of them,’ Jacob said shortly.

  ‘He will be discreet?’

  Jacob shrugged. ‘Who knows? As discreet as any of them can be. Once you hand him over to the Georgians, he can be as indiscreet as he likes.’

  ‘And you are confident he believes he is working for MI5?’

  ‘He has no reason not to.’

  ‘Good. This is a very important operation for the continuing security of the Russian people. There will be a medal for you.’

  ‘I’m not interested in medals. Just the money.’

  Surov nodded. ‘There will be that, of course. The assassination will be the last operation for your students. Now that the British know what is happening, I am ordering the immediate elimination of all unactivated agents in the field.’ He smiled. ‘All except Jamie Spillane, of course.’

  Jacob remained expressionless. ‘Sounds like Dolohov’s going to be busy.’

  Again Surov nodded. ‘Dolohov. Yes. We need to speak about Dolohov. You have received a communication from him.’ For a split second Surov’s eyes showed signs of amusement at Jacob’s flicker of surprise. ‘You did not know that we monitor your e-mails? Of course we do.’

  ‘Of course,’ Jacob replied flatly. ‘What does Dolohov want?’

  ‘To meet you.’

  Jacob raised an eyebrow in suspicion. ‘Bit of a coincidence?’

  ‘It is worrying. We can rest assured that Dolohov does not know the details of the Georgian operation. But it is unusual for him to make any contact with us at all.’

  ‘Any distress signals?’

  ‘On the contrary, he included his identification code with the message. It’s definitely from Dolohov.’

  ‘Don’t be so sure,’ Jacob replied. ‘If I wanted to get him to do what I said, I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve.’

  The director looked perplexed. ‘Tricks up your sleeve?’ he asked before shaking his head in momentary annoyance at his lack of understanding. ‘There is,’ he said, once he had regained his composure, ‘every possibility that Dolohov has been compromised.’

  ‘Then you need to take him out,’ Jacob said. ‘Now.’

  Surov’s eyes narrowed. He put his arms in front of him and pressed his fingertips together. ‘Dolohov is a valued agent,’ he said. ‘He has worked for this service – and the service that preceded it – for many, many years. Even before glasnost and perestroika.’ He smiled. ‘Especially before glasnost and perestroika. In the days of the old regime, he was a most committed patriot. That is not a quality you value highly, I know . . .’

  Jacob gave him a dark look. ‘Patriotism’s a two-way street, Surov.’

  ‘Dolohov performed many . . .’ He inclined his head. ‘Many operations.’

  ‘Perhaps he just likes killing people.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Surov acknowledged. ‘But he continues to be of great use to us even now. If he has truly been compromised, then yes, I would agree that action needs to be taken. But we owe him the courtesy of finding out. As you say, patriotism is a two-way street.’

  ‘Fine,’ Jacob said shortly. ‘Good luck.’

  The director looked at him meaningfully. ‘Dolohov is an unusually skilled operator,’ he continued. ‘If he has requested a meeting with you, then a meeting with you is the only thing that will satisfy him. Anything else will scare him off. The Georgian operation will reach its conclusion in five days’ time. And with the end of your operations in Kazakhstan, it would seem that you are available to us for other purposes. Assuming, that is, that you remain committed to helping us?’

  Jacob looked away for a moment. He felt the muscles in his face tense up. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  Surov didn’t take his eyes from him. ‘Go to England,’ he said. ‘Determine whether Dolohov has been compromised. If not, speak to him. If he has, in that case you know what to do.’

  ‘So much for your two-way patriotism,’ Jacob muttered.

  The FSB director answered immediately. ‘We are at least giving him a chance. That is more than the British government ever did for you, is it not?’

  Jacob stood up. Already his mind was turning over. Getting to England would not be child’s play. He didn’t want to risk a fake Russian passport with UK immigration. If the alert had gone out about him, his likeness would have been distributed to all the ports of entry. No. He’d have to do something different. Get entry to another country using false papers and make his own arrangements from there.’

  ‘Can you get me to France?’ he asked the director.

  ‘Of course,’ Surov said mildly.

  ‘Then tell Dolohov I’ll meet him. Three days from now. 10 p.m. The statue of Eros in Piccadilly.’ He stood up and made to leave.

  ‘Sit down, please.’ A hint of steel in Surov’s voice.

  Jacob hesitated, then retook his seat.

  ‘You have not been to the UK for some time.’

  ‘Six years.’

  ‘Many things change in six years. We informed you of your mother’s death. You were wise enough to stay away, not to let sentiment cloud your judgement.’

  Jacob remained silent.

  ‘You will continue to do the same, I hope.’

  Again, silence.

  ‘Your father is unwell,’ Surov said. Jacob could sense he was waiting for a reaction; he gave him none. Surov handed him a photograph: a bleak-looking building with lots of cars parked outside. Jacob thought he recognised it. ‘Very unwell. He is in residential care here. I am telling you this in case you feel the urge to go asking questions. The urge to hunt him out. You do not need me to tell you that this would be a very bad idea.’

  Jacob put the photograph back down on the table. ‘He’s dead to me,’ he told the Russian.

  Surov reclaimed the picture. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Very good. We will supply you with a passport and tickets to France within the hour. You need money? We will arrange it. You will be on the next flight out. Is there anything else you need from me?’

  Jacob shook his head. ‘Nothing else,’ he said, before turning and leaving the director of the FSB alone with his thoughts.

  *

  Jacob Redman had not been gone more than a minute when there was another knock on the door of the office of Nikolai Surov. ‘Prikhoditye,’ the director intoned. ‘Come in.’

  The man who entered was a good deal younger than Surov. He wore a neat but inexpensive suit, though the tidiness of his clothes was more than offset by the unruliness of his hair. He had sharp eyes and an unsmiling face. Surov indicated that he should sit down, but the younger man preferred to s
tand.

  ‘You were listening, Ivan?’

  Ivan nodded. ‘Of course.’

  Surov raised an eyebrow to encourage Ivan to continue speaking.

  ‘I do not trust Jacob Redman,’ Ivan said. ‘I have never made a secret of that.’

  Surov inclined his head. ‘Of course not,’ he accepted. ‘But then, you do not trust anybody. That’s why you are good at your job.’

  If Ivan took Surov’s comment as a compliment, there was no indication of it on his stony face. ‘I have a friend,’ he said. ‘He got himself a new woman. She left her husband for him. And now she is cheating on my friend. I asked him if he was surprised. He said, “Not really.”’

  Ivan had earned the right to speak his mind, in Surov’s view. He had a natural aptitude for intelligence work and was running networks all over the world that were of paramount importance to the FSB. One day, Surov knew, if politics didn’t get in the way, Ivan would be running the service.

  ‘That’s a charming parable, Ivan,’ he said with a half-smile. ‘I suppose it has some sort of relevance to our discussion.’

  Finally Ivan took a seat. ‘Jacob Redman betrayed his country. That makes him untrustworthy by definition.’

  Surov pressed his fingertips together. ‘That is one way of looking at things,’ he conceded. ‘But there are others. Jacob Redman is, I think, more complicated than you imagine.’ He stood up and started to pace the room. ‘Your friend’s lover,’ he asked. ‘The one who is cheating on him. I wonder what her former husband thinks of her?’

  No reply from Ivan.

  ‘He hates her, I would imagine. Perhaps he wishes her dead, I don’t know. Make no mistake, Ivan. Jacob Redman hates his country. He served them well, but he was badly treated. Humiliated. Oh, I do not blame them – the British, I mean. Some things are more important than the embarrassment of a soldier, no matter how good he is. But the British made a dangerous enemy in him. Outcast by his country and outcast, too, by his family. Jacob Redman is clever and he is ruthless. His only allegiance now is to the money we pay him.’ Surov stopped pacing and looked directly at Ivan. ‘People find it very hard to question their allegiance to money. And you cannot deny that Jacob Redman has proved his worth to us many times over.’

  ‘In my opinion,’ Ivan replied gruffly, ‘that only means he has good cover.’ He changed the subject. ‘You would really have Dolohov eliminated?’

  Surov did not allow any emotion to cross his face. ‘If he has been compromised, I see no other option. I would regret it deeply, but he has too much information that we do not want falling into the hands of the British.’

  ‘The Georgian operation?’

  ‘No. He knows something is planned, but not who, or when. Certainly he does not know it so soon.’

  ‘And Redman? It is one of his recruits that is preparing the assassination; but does Redman himself know why we are ordering it?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Surov replied. ‘The British have a phrase: never let the right hand know what the left is doing. It is important always to remember that in our work.’ He smiled again. ‘But you know all this, Ivan. You don’t need me to remind you of the basics.’

  On one wall of Surov’s office was a map of the world. He approached it and, for a long moment, found himself staring at the thin line that marked the Russian–Georgian border. When he spoke again, it was almost to himself. ‘The Kremlin will not permit the British to interfere with affairs so close to our border. They are fools to try. The operation will occur in five days’ time.’ He smiled. The twenty-sixth of May. Georgian Independence Day. A celebration for these people.

  He turned back to Ivan. There was a glint in his eye now. ‘This will be Redman’s last operation for us,’ he announced suddenly. ‘He has served us well, but there comes a point when people like him start to have an inflated sense of their own importance to us. I will let him deal with Dolohov and after that, Ivan, you may dispatch one of your people to deal with him however you see fit. That should put your mind at rest, should it not?’

  Ivan nodded.

  ‘Good,’ said Surov. ‘See to it that Redman has everything he needs. And keep me informed of any developments. I want to know exactly what’s going on with Dolohov. And the Georgian operation must not fail, Ivan. It’s too important to our security for that.’

  Silently, Surov took his seat once more and picked up the papers he had been reading before Jacob arrived. Ivan understood that the meeting was over. He stood up, and left without a word.

  TWENTY

  Time was passing painfully slowly. Sam had kept the curtains shut everywhere in the flat, so when day turned into night it was barely noticeable.

  Dolohov was crucial to Sam’s plans. But he was fading on account of his wounded hands, so Sam did his best to patch the Russian up. The codeine tablets had run out, but he found clean gauze and tape; he tied Dolohov to the chair once more before applying it, and he allowed the Russian a little alcohol at regular intervals to keep the shock and the pain at bay. He found bread in the kitchen, and cold meat. There was tinned food too – stews and soups, thick Eastern European stuff. Sam didn’t want to stay here any longer than he had to, but he needed to wait for a response and he was prepared to dig in for as long as that took.

  Dolohov slept sitting down. Sam allowed himself the occasional bout of shut-eye too – he hadn’t slept since the flight back from Bagram and was feeling it – but not before checking that the Russian was firmly tied to the chair. He kept both handguns on him at all times. Dolohov was exhausted and in pain, but he was a sneaky little bastard and Sam didn’t trust him not to have a go.

  Every hour, he checked Dolohov’s computer. And every hour he came away disappointed.

  Dawn arrived. Sam awoke from a half-drowse with a shock. His hands automatically reached for his weapons and he looked around him, momentarily confused. Then he saw Dolohov, bound and nodding, and he remembered where he was. The tension he had been living with over the past few days returned. He stood up and walked to the bedroom where he checked the computer. His heart gave a little lurch.

  A message had come through.

  For a moment something stopped him clicking on it. An unwillingness to receive yet more confirmation that Jacob was involved in things Sam didn’t understand. But the moment passed. He was grim-faced and suddenly alert as he brought the message up on to the screen.

  There was no greeting. No pleasantries. Just a time and a place.

  WEDNESDAY. 22.00 HRS. EROS. PICCADILLY.

  Sam absorbed the information. Then, unwilling to leave Dolohov alone for more than a few minutes at a time, he returned to the main room.

  The Russian stirred as he entered. He looked blearily up at Sam, distaste and contempt carved into the lines of his face. His eyes followed Sam across the room as he sat opposite Dolohov, grabbed the vodka bottle and gave the Russian a swig.

  ‘Any plans for Wednesday night?’ he asked once his captive had taken a mouthful of alcohol.

  Dolohov looked confused.

  ‘Statue of Eros, 10 p.m. You and Jacob Redman. Looks like you’ve got a date, my friend. Looks like you’ve got a date.’

  *

  Gabriel Bland paced. He didn’t want to seem on edge in front of Toby Brookes, his subordinate, but he couldn’t help it.

  Brookes looked tired. As though he hadn’t slept in days, which was probably true. Running a surveillance team was often as arduous for the pen-pushers as it was for the men on the ground. But that didn’t make Bland inclined to go easy on him. Quite the contrary. He needed to know that the heat was on. ‘How long have they been in there?’ he demanded.

  Brookes repeated the information he had given Bland on an almost hourly basis over the past day or so. ‘Redman arrived there about midnight on Saturday, May 21. Our man followed him there from the Abbey Court Hotel in Hanwell, where he’d holed up with Clare Corbett for two hours.’ He looked at his watch. ‘It’s 9 a.m. now, May 22. So I make it thirty-three hours.’

&n
bsp; ‘And you’re sure he’s still in there?’

  ‘We have an SBS team monitoring every exit to the building, just as you ordered, sir. Unless he can walk through walls, Redman hasn’t moved out of that place.’

  ‘Clare Corbett?’

  ‘Back home, sir. Hasn’t left. Three telephone calls, all from her mother.’

  ‘And this Dolohov individual in Maida Vale?’ Bland pressed. ‘Have they come up with anything at all about him? Any reason why Redman might suddenly find him such captivating company?’

  ‘Nothing, sir. He teaches Russian at a London University college in Bloomsbury; been living here for thirty years and keeps himself to himself. Lily white, sir. Penchant for Tolstoy, if his library record’s anything to go by. Not even a parking ticket to his name.’

  Bland scowled. ‘Nobody’s that clean,’ he said. Toby nodded politely in agreement.

  The older man turned and look out of his office window over the skyline of London. What was Redman playing at? This long period of silence, of disappearance, was disconcerting. Redman was up to something; Bland just didn’t know what.

  ‘The SBS unit. They’re on standby? Ready to go in?’

  ‘We just have to give them the word, sir. We can have Redman and Dolohov in custody in minutes.’

  Bland breathed out deeply. In the absence of the SAS – he’d learned his lesson in terms of sending them in after their own – their sister regiment was the next best thing. But it was a hard call to make. He had to keep his eye on the most important things. Strip away what was not relevant. He was gambling on Redman making contact with his brother. It was crucial that Bland got his hands on Jacob, to turn him upside down, shake him and see what fell out. Maybe he should just stick to his instinct that, eventually, Sam Redman would lead them to Jacob.

  He closed his eyes. In this job, he had learned, there were two kinds of doubts. The big ones, about the rights and wrongs of what he had to do. They were the ones to ignore. But the little doubts, the little nagging ones . . . Something was going on in that Maida Vale flat. Something was afoot. Gabriel Bland needed to know – he decided at that moment – what it was. And he needed to know now.