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Having never seen him so angry, the head of the Ministry of Energy shook as he spoke. ‘Eduard Alexeievich, what will be our response?’
Eduard Kozlov put his left hand on his hip and held the crushed memo up in his right. His eyes were burning with fury, his fist trembling as he spat. ‘Our response? They dare to prevent the nation of Belarus from receiving its gas? Our response will be to demand that they continue to supply us!’
Kushnerov hardly dared speak further but forced himself to do so. ‘I understand, Eduard Alexeievich, but what of the $500 million we owe them?’
‘They are thieves, Yarislav Ivanovich, thieves! Nothing more. When we were one country it was our shared gas, but now they expect us to pay $100 per 1,000 cubic meters! Our “strategic partner” wants to bankrupt us!’
Kozlov sat heavily at his desk. Kushnerov remained standing while the presidential adviser rubbed his eyes hard with his fists before gesturing that his visitor should take a seat. There was an uneasy silence. Both men had been part of the brokered agreement late the previous year that had fixed the price of gas for the next. Russia had already attempted to increase the price for several of her largest customers, including neighbouring Ukraine, stating that all such prices were based on ‘outdated Soviet agreements’. The result: Russia had turned off the supply to Ukraine for several days in late December. Deliveries to Russia’s largest European customers fell in turn as Ukraine allegedly ‘skimmed’ the gas it needed from an export pipeline transiting its territory.
Belarus, too, faced the taps being turned off. Under immense coercive pressure, and minutes before ringing in the New Year, they had hastily agreed a price: $100 per 1,000 cubic meters of gas – a massive increase from the previous price of $47. To soften the blow, however, Russia agreed that Belarus would pay just $55 per 1,000 cubic meters for the first half of the year, then make up the difference of nearly $500 million by the end of July.
It had been a delaying tactic – both sides knew this, but Russia had a further objective. Concerns were voiced in the EU parliament about the union’s reliance on Russian fuel; RusGaz supplied a quarter of Europe’s gas. Member states were starting to get nervous, looking into the possibility of finding alternative suppliers. In the Kremlin, worried words were exchanged. This was exactly the opposite image that RusGaz wanted to promote. In order to secure the transit of gas, thus allaying the fears of the Brussels ‘Eurocrats’, Russia threw Belarus a bone: sell half of your national pipeline company, Beltransgaz, to our gas company, RusGaz; your bill will then be paid and we will guarantee no more price increases. More importantly, the Russians didn’t need to add that the EU’s fears would be dismissed.
The ultra-nationalist President of Belarus was loath to sell off his country’s assets until told by his own people that they couldn’t afford to run them. Feigning indignity in public, but realising his lucky escape in private, he agreed. RusGaz purchased a percentage of Beltransgaz for $2.5 billion and, to show good faith, made initial instalments totalling $625 million. Yet by the due date for the Belarusian ‘gas bill’, the country had defaulted. RusGaz’s money had been transferred to the Belarusian Ministry of Finance and the $500 million went unpaid.
Kushnerov broke the silence. ‘We must ask the finance minister to pay up.’
Kozlov opened and closed his red-rimmed eyes. ‘That is what I shall advise the President.’
Kushnerov, by nature a timid and nervous man, clasped his hands tighter. He didn’t like this double-dealing and trickery. For him, a price was a price and a deal a deal – the old Soviet way – but now everything was skewed by capitalism, the need for greed. ‘So what is our response?’ The conversation, as he feared his lunch just might, had come full circle.
Embassy of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, London, UK
The international reporters and journalists sat and waited for the press conference to start. The ambassador’s press secretary had just finished going over the rules they must abide by: not to interrupt His Highness while he was speaking and not to address him unless he invited questions. The Saudis did press differently to almost everyone else. In their opinion the press were there to listen, accept, and report. The crews from the BBC and Sky News exchanged looks and rolled eyes.
His Highness Umar Al Kabir, Saudi ambassador to the United Kingdom, entered the conference room and sat. Behind him on the wall was a large banner emblazoned with the Saudi national emblem, the crossed swords above the palm tree. He looked at the amassed reporters from the international press and started his statement to them.
‘At approximately 11 a.m. today, my niece, Princess Jinan, was abducted from her place of education by a group of unknown men.’ There were deep intakes of breath around the room and camera flashes. Prince Umar continued. ‘She was gagged, bound, and placed in the back of a car. Her father, my brother Prince Fouad, was contacted this morning by the kidnappers, who made ridiculous demands.’ He paused and looked around the room, the flashbulbs of innumerable cameras painting his face. He nodded then continued. ‘I am happy to say that, as of 1 p.m. today, Princess Jinan is safe.’
There was a muttering around the room and several reporters threw up their hands, while others attempted to ask questions. Umar reined in his annoyance and instead addressed them directly. ‘Yes, you. Please ask your question.’
The reporter from Sky News started to speak. ‘Your Highness, can you please tell me if she was rescued or returned?’
Umar nodded. ‘She was rescued by a very honourable British citizen who happened to see her with the kidnappers.’ His lips curled up to form a smile; he was about to play his trump card. ‘You have video footage of the rescue already; you have been showing it on your networks for the past three hours.’
The room exploded as hands were thrown up; others left the room, retrieving mobile phones in order to call their networks.
Umar held up both hands. ‘Gentlemen, and ladies, on behalf of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia I wish to personally reward and thank my niece’s saviour. I will be meeting with him here within the next two days. All of you are invited.’
Prince Umar stood, nodded, and left the room. The press secretary was mobbed by reporters and camera crews wanting more clarification.
In Whitehall, Robert Holmcroft slammed his fists on the desktop and swore out loud for the first time in years. His friend, Umar, had just bamboozled him. He had publicly thanked a murder suspect for saving the life of Princess Jinan, a man who was currently being held pending charges! The deaths had been playing on international TV screens all afternoon. As Home Secretary he had the power to issue a ‘DA-Notice’, an official ‘request’ to news editors not to publish items on specified subjects, for reasons of national security. This story should have come under DA-Notice 05: United Kingdom Security & Intelligence Special Services. But he had been too late. The cat was well and truly out of the bag with this story thanks to a pair of juvenile delinquents with 3G mobile video telephones using YouTube.
The light on his desk phone flashed and he glared at it before pressing the answer button. ‘Yes!’
There was a pause; his secretary was taken aback by his angry tone. ‘The Prime Minister is on the line.’
Holmcroft let out a sigh. ‘Put him through.’ This was going to be a very difficult conversation.
Minsk, Belarus
The man with no official title was the first passenger to step off the Belavia flight from Moscow. He was greeted by a large black government sedan and driven away without completing any form of customs formalities. Maksim Gurov was the deadly hand of the Premier Minister of the Russian Federation.
A former member of the Russian KGB, the FSB as it had become in 1995, he had been in the First Chief Directorate, responsible for foreign operations and intelligence gathering; within this, he had commanded the ‘Vympel’, the most secretive and deadly of all the KGB Special Forces groups.
He didn’t appear officially on any staff list. He was known only within the Russian Premier Minister’s very small and select circle of advisers, the powerful and the deadly. This meeting was to be with Ivan Sverov, head of the Belarusian KGB. No official records would be kept; to all intents and purposes, the meeting wouldn’t have taken place because Gurov didn’t officially exist. He hadn’t done so since 1995.
Gurov sat in silence in the back of the sedan as they sped towards the presidential dacha in the Minsk woods. He had a simple proposal to deliver and expected a simple answer. He would be back in the air within three hours, the last passenger to be let onto the plane.
The Mercedes paused briefly as the heavy iron gates were drawn back, before continuing on into the grounds of the dacha. A light rain had started to fall, obscuring what was left of the weak daylight that attempted to penetrate the heavy tree cover.
Inside the dacha, Sverov stood by the fireplace, enjoying the warmth from the burning logs. Behind him on the wall, the eyes of the President seemed to peer from the large oil painting. It was August and the dacha felt unseasonably cool; a severe winter was expected for the people of Belarus. He heard his security team open the front door and straightened to receive his guest, the man from Moscow.
Gurov wasn’t a memorable man in terms of looks or stature. At just under six feet he was of average height, weight, and build. He had the look of a middle-level banker, except for his eyes, which were an unnerving dull grey that did little to hide the seriousness of the mind behind them.
Sverov extended his hand. ‘It is a privilege to finally make your acquaintance.’ The handshake was firm and he fought the urge to shiver. ‘Please take a seat.’
Gurov nodded and sat. ‘Director Sverov, thank you for agreeing to meet with me.’
‘My pleasure.’ There had been no choice; his President had been informed that this man was coming but Sverov saw no reason to be impolite. He sat opposite his visitor, a low table separating them. A pot of coffee sat in the middle.
‘It has been brought to the attention of my Premier Minister that your country has certain unpaid debts relating to the supply of gas.’
Sverov blinked but said nothing. This was not his area of expertise. The KGB had nothing to do with the Ministry of Energy.
Gurov continued. ‘It was necessary for RusGaz to terminate your supply. I am not here, however, to speak of unpaid bills or to collect payment. Please do not see me as an enforcer. I am here to deliver a suggestion, a proposal to you, which could write off the $500 million that your country owes mine. I have sent your President only the outline of the proposal. It is you, as Director of the KGB, who would implement it.’
‘I see.’ He didn’t. Who did this Russian think he was?
Gurov handed him a large envelope. ‘In here you will find detailed plans, methods of contact, and timelines.’
Incredulous, Sverov placed the contents on the table. ‘Forgive me, I do not quite understand. I report directly to the President of Belarus and it is from him that I take my orders.’
Gurov looked into the Belarusian’s eyes. ‘Once this meeting is over, call your President. Until then, accept what I say.’
Sverov folded his arms. He had nothing to lose. ‘Carry on.’
‘You have a man we need to use. Voloshin. Konstantin Andreyevich.’
Sverov’s eyes opened wide. Voloshin was one of the Belarusian KGB’s most closely guarded secrets. A Spetsnaz member trained to carry out international covert operations and acts of sabotage in his country’s name. A ‘deniable operative’ as the West liked to call them.
‘Do not be surprised that I know of this man, Director. Our paths have on occasion crossed. It is a tribute to you that I wish for this agent to be used.’
Sverov looked down at the papers. ‘You say that everything is laid out here?’
‘That is what I said. I do not have much time to brief you, Director, therefore I believe it would be advantageous if I were to speak while you listen.’
Sverov nodded, said nothing, and poured himself a cup of coffee.
Embassy of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, London, UK
Paddy Fox pulled at his shirt collar in an attempt to loosen it slightly. He hated being dressed like ‘a monkey’ and had always managed to have his top button undone when working for Dymex. Now, however, in the Royal Embassy of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, it had to be buttoned. Ironically, he was dressed as though he were attending a job interview. In the waiting room next to him sat DC Flynn, acting as a minder from Scotland Yard. Fox was under arrest for murder and attempted murder, even though there was a campaign in the media to have all charges dropped. The Sun had even nicknamed him the ‘Desert Fox’ for saving the Saudi princess. They had interviewed his neighbour Jim, who, without mentioning the Regiment, had implied that Fox had been a ‘special’ soldier.
On the advice of the Home Secretary, the press hadn’t been invited to the embassy a second time. There had been a group of ‘paps’ outside, but Fox’s minder and the embassy’s security detail had managed to shield his face. The media was desperate for a recent picture as the videophone footage had been pixelated too much for their liking. It was all fuss over nothing as far as he was concerned. He had done what he was trained to do: rescue hostages and neutralise X-rays. He hadn’t known at the time that the hostage was royalty and, frankly, it wasn’t important. He might have fought for ‘Queen and Country’ but he wasn’t particularly in awe of the first. Fox pulled at his shirt again – he was sure the police had bought him a size too small. As he hadn’t left the cells on bail, a shirt and suit had been ‘acquired’ for him.
The large double doors at the far end of the waiting room opened and a member of the embassy staff beckoned for him to follow. They turned a corner and walked down a long corridor which had various portraits hung on the walls: Saudi royals, camels, and racehorses. They reached another set of large double doors. The man knocked, opened them, and retreated back the way he had come.
Prince Umar stood and left his desk. He was dressed in an impeccably tailored dark-grey business suit, white shirt, and old school tie; his hair and perfectly kempt beard were jet black. He smiled broadly and stretched out his hand to take his visitor’s.
‘Mr Fox, I am extremely honoured to finally meet you.’ The handshake was firm.
‘Thank you for the invite, Your Highness.’
‘And this is?’ Umar looked at the minder.
‘DC Flynn, sir.’
Umar seemed puzzled but shook his hand nonetheless. ‘Please both take a seat.’
The three men crossed the room to an ornate fireplace where Umar sat in a large burgundy leather chair. Fox and Flynn sat on the matching settee opposite him. Umar clapped his hands and a servant brought in a tray of dates and a pot of black coffee. The two guests were given a cup each.
‘Mr Fox, on behalf of my brother Prince Fouad and the House of Saud, I want to thank you for rescuing my beloved niece, Princess Jinan. You are a man of honour and courage. You were unarmed yet you managed to stop four armed men and save Jinan. We will forever be indebted to you.’ He bowed his head, a mark of great respect for a Saudi royal.
Fox tried not to look too uncomfortable. Like most Regiment men he found it hard to take praise. ‘I just did what anyone would have done, Your Highness.’
‘Anyone with Special Forces training, Mr Fox.’ Umar smiled widely and showed off a set of perfect white teeth. ‘You were in the SAS, if I recall?’
Fox momentarily looked down. ‘I’m sorry, Your Highness, but I cannot confirm or deny your assumption.’
Umar moved his hand as if batting away a fly. ‘You do not have to.’
There was an awkward silence as the prince drank his coffee and his guests did likewise. An embassy staff member entered the room carrying something resting on his arms but covered by a ceremonial cloth. The prince stood abruptly. Fox and Flynn rose also. The man bowed, held out his arms, and Umar took off the sheet to reveal a large ceremonial sword. He held it up with both hands, took a step forward, and offered it to Fox. ‘On behalf of the House of Saud.’
‘Thank you, Your Highness.’ Fox took the sword into his own hands. It was heavier than it looked. The scabbard was ruby and emerald encrusted; the actual metal was a highly polished greyish white. Platinum.
Prince Umar continued to smile and picked up a booklet that had been lying on the table. ‘This is from my brother and me.’
The servant took the sword while Fox studied the booklet. It constituted details of a bank account in Zurich in the name of James Fox. He read on; the balance was two hundred thousand pounds. ‘Your Highness, I can’t accept this.’
Flynn looked over his shoulder. ‘It is the law, Your Highness. A criminal cannot legally profit from his crime.’
Fox felt his face burn. Flynn was a fool. That wasn’t what he’d meant.
Umar’s eyelids flickered and he slowly turned his head to look at Flynn. ‘What crime is that, officer?’
Flynn felt his own face flush. ‘Three counts of murder and one of attempted murder, Your Highness.’
Umar stared for several seconds at Flynn, who dared not move his eyes. ‘Mr Fox has not committed a crime in my country. Let me remind you, Mr Flynn, that you are in the Royal Embassy of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia and, as such, on sovereign Saudi soil. If Mr Fox would like to, he could remain here and claim asylum, but I am afraid that you are no longer welcome.’
Inside Flynn bristled, but knew he was powerless. ‘But Your Highness… I…’
Umar held up his hand. ‘Officer Flynn, Mr Fox has committed no crime and he will not be prosecuted.’
Flynn had started to feel resentment. ‘I think that is up to the Crown Prosecution Service to decide.’
‘No. Mr Fox will not be prosecuted. Mr Fox, would you like to remain here?’
For a moment Fox couldn’t decide if the prince was joking or being serious. ‘Thank you for your kind offer but…’
Umar lowered his hand; his face had creased into an expression of reassurance. ‘Do not worry, Mr Fox. The CPS will not bring charges. And now I must take my leave of you.’ He held out his hand once more. ‘Mr Fox, we shall remain forever indebted to you.’
Umar ignored Flynn, turned, and moved towards his desk. The double doors opened behind them and both Englishmen were ushered out of the embassy, but not before Fox had been reunited with his sword. On the street outside, the ‘paps’ had multiplied and now a gang of twenty jostled to get photographs as Flynn, not too delicately, pushed Fox into the waiting unmarked Special Branch BMW 5 series.
‘Go,’ Flynn told the police driver. He turned to Fox, now making no attempt to hide his anger. ‘I suppose you found that funny?’
‘Hilarious.’
Before Flynn could reply his phone rang. He answered it and his jaw dropped. ‘He’s done what?’ In shock, Flynn stared blankly at the back of the driver’s seat for several seconds before closing the handset. ‘You’re free to go.’ Flynn looked like he was choking. ‘The CPS has dropped all charges.’
Fox started to laugh. ‘Drop me off at the nearest bank.’
Flynn spluttered, his face redder than ever. ‘You’re carrying an offensive weapon!’
‘So arrest me.’ Fox held out his hands, ready to be cuffed.
Flynn had no reply; he balled his fists as shock once again gave way to anger.
Chapter 3 (#ulink_4f72ef64-9182-5fa0-a90a-91ab26d65400)
Maidan Nezalejsnosti, Kyiv, Ukraine
Dudka stood with his dog on the edge of Maidan Nezalejsnosti and watched as Kyivites went about their daily routines of shopping, drinking, and falling in love. A hot August lunchtime on Kyiv’s Independence Square, and all those who could manage it were away on holiday or at their dachas. Those who stayed behind, however, enjoyed the sunshine.
Maidan Nezalejsnosti was the heart of the city and had been home to innumerable national celebrations. Every New Year’s Eve it was crammed with over a hundred thousand people waiting for the clock to strike midnight. Dudka had been at the festivities in London once, and been most unimpressed. Independence Day was another great celebration, as was Victory Day, the only hangover from the Soviet Union he enjoyed. In recent years, however, the square had been home to many political gatherings.
As the home of the Orange Revolution in 2004, well over two hundred thousand Ukrainians had camped and protested until they caused a rerun of the presidential election. One year later it became the home of those wishing to cause a rerun of the parliamentary elections. The ironic aspect to Dudka was that in the first event the then Prime Minister had illegally won the election while in the second he claimed he had illegally lost. And now? Well, now he was the President of Ukraine.
Such were the politics of Ukraine. In the past Dudka had tried to keep out of it all and had ‘supported’ the right person, regardless of his personal preferences. He had initially been appointed by Ukraine’s first President in 1992, and again kept his views to himself when promoted by his successor to the position of Deputy Head of the SBU, head of the Main Directorate for Combating Corruption and Organised Crime (Director). However his boss – he hated to think of him as that – Yuri Zlotnik, was a highly political beast.
Zlotnik’s position as head of the Security Service of Ukraine (SBU) was a parliamentary appointment, upon recommendation by the President. Directly under Zlotnik were deputies who were appointed, in turn, on his recommendation, again by the President of Ukraine. In normal circumstances this process would have resulted in a fair, impartial, and dedicated security service; however, in a government where the President and Prime Minister had been at war, problems arose.
Zlotnik was a compromise candidate, the President’s initial recommendation having been boycotted by the parliament, led by the then Prime Minister. It had been a bitter time as the two sides played a game of chess. Finally, as a ‘compromise’, Dudka took delight in remembering, Zlotnik had been confirmed as head of the SBU. Zlotnik then attempted to clean house by putting pressure on the President to appoint men close to him who were, no surprise to anyone, supporters of his sponsor, the Kremlin-favoured Prime Minister. Now, two years later, the former Prime Minister, originally a mechanic from the eastern city of Donetsk, had finally become the President of Ukraine. Zlotnik and his pro-Russian cronies were now cemented in power, the President’s men.
Zlotnik had decided to keep Dudka in place. Dudka was the oldest and most respected Director in the SBU, with years of distinguished service prior to that with the Soviet KGB. With age, however, Dudka had become less subtle and it was no secret that he wasn’t a fan of the new President and his men from Donetsk. If asked, Dudka no longer held back with his honest and sometimes blunt views.
Dudka reached down to stroke his dog, a grin on his face. He remembered how Zlotnik had turned red when, at an office party, Dudka had shared these views with him. Zlotnik had slammed his vodka glass down on the table and stormed off. As such, Dudka was, in essence, the enemy within. He was constantly butting heads with his boss but he had got results, more so than Zlotnik’s cronies. He was, as Zlotnik had told him to his face, ‘an oxymoron – a convenient inconvenience’.
Dudka turned and headed home, back up Karl Marx Street, or Horodetskoho Street as it had now been renamed, to his flat two minutes away on Zankovetskaya Street. Both streets, the first named after a political activist, the second after an apolitical actress, were busy with locals and tourists alike, shopping at the overpriced boutiques. No doubt his colleague and head of the SBU’s Anti-terrorist Centre, Pavel Utkin, would be looking at the summer crowds and worrying. He saw danger in everything.
