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Dudka and Utkin also did not see eye to eye. They were constantly colliding with each other over who had jurisdiction, his own Directorate for Combating Corruption and Organised Crime or Utkin’s Anti-terrorist Centre. Nowadays the distinction wasn’t clear; organised crime seemed to be increasingly carried out to fund terrorism. For his part, Dudka wanted things to be smooth. It was Utkin, the younger man by twenty years, with an eye on the top job, who wanted to take over. The problem was that Utkin, too, was one of the President’s men.
Dudka found himself working with the ‘Bandits from Donetsk’ – as the press, not he, had labelled them. The consensus had been that January’s presidential elections would oust the bandits. Consensus had been wrong. The election had given them the most powerful position of all, that of President of Ukraine.
Dudka reached his building, entered the lift, and rose to the third floor. His official lunch hour over, he settled his dog back down and left for his office. He would walk, not bothering to use his car, an advantage of living in the very heart of the city. He’d be there within sixteen minutes, taking a circuitous route to bypass the crowds on the central square. He put his tie and jacket back on, both bought from the state-owned central store, Tzum, and shut the front door.
Since secession from the Soviet Union, Ukraine had changed greatly and yet not at all, he mused as he journeyed back down Zankovetskaya. The shops lining the capital’s streets were full of expensive imported goods and the city bustled with a tenfold increase in traffic, but beneath the surface many of the same people were running the country. They might have renounced communism but they were still Soviet in mentality. The faces hadn’t changed either. It was the new generation that would really change the place and he feared that, at seventy-two, he wouldn’t live long enough to see his dear country become fully grown. His day had gone and all he could do now was ensure his homeland didn’t implode before he could hand it over. His own protégé, Blazhevich, was one of the people who would shape the future of the SBU. He was young, not yet thirty-five, and untarnished by the Soviet past. He had first proved himself to be a worthy officer two years before, when, working together, they had halted an international arms trading network. If Dudka had to name one good man in the nest of vipers that the SBU had become, it would be Vitaly Blazhevich.
Dudka crossed Kyiv’s main boulevard, Khreshatik, by means of the underpass and puffed as he walked up Prorizna Street. The hills kept him trim. He thought of himself as solid. Certainly not fat. Yet his late wife, the ballerina, had always been putting him on a diet! Two American businessmen passed him walking downhill. One was gesticulating to the other, who was nodding and looking serious. Dudka took this in his stride. Fifteen years ago all foreigners would have been stared at, but today, although still undiscovered by international tourism, more and more foreign businessmen were in Ukraine.
The criminal element, too, seemed to understand the value of ‘foreign business diversity’. In the early days his caseload had been heavy with instances of attempted or actual extortion on and against foreign business interests. Now these were few and far between as the criminals themselves tried to expand abroad. This, however, caused new headaches as he laboured to improve ties with foreign agencies and Interpol. But Dudka’s current caseload was surprisingly light. Not much had happened in the last two months; perhaps the bandits were watching and waiting for the political situation to settle before deciding on the most profitable type of ‘business’? Or perhaps, he mused once more, they, too, were just on holiday?
SIS Headquarters, Vauxhall Cross, London, UK
Snow climbed the stairs to stretch his thigh muscles. Sitting for too long in traffic, his left leg had become stiff. He reached Patchem’s floor, his thighs gently warmed, crossed the open-plan section, and pushed the door that led to the reception area for the ‘Soviet Desk’, as it was still affectionately called by the longer-serving officers. Patchem’s overly serious secretary nodded that he should enter. Patchem gestured for Snow to sit. Through the large thick glass window, the Thames below reflected the mid-morning sun.
‘Paddy Fox.’ Patchem didn’t waste his words.
Snow nodded. The dramatic rescue footage, which some overexcited journalists were saying was the most sensational since the Iranian Embassy siege, had made Fox something of a media sensation. The royal endorsement of Umar Al Kabir had only added to this. It had been leaked that Fox was an SAS veteran of both Iraq wars. The media, who liked nothing more than a real-life ‘action hero’, clamoured for more information and pictures like a pack of feral dogs. Even Britain’s most well-known former SAS member turned author had commented on Fox’s actions in his newspaper column.
‘I know you were in different squadrons, generations, but you must have met over the years?’
‘We have met.’
Snow didn’t mention the freezing nights spent in a hedgerow in South Armagh’s ‘Bandit Country’ while on attachment to ‘The Det’, the Royal Ulster Constabulary’s intelligence unit. The pair of them had been deployed to relay information on a suspected new IRA cell.
‘What do you think of him?’ Patchem’s bright-blue eyes burned into Snow’s. ‘Liked by most, respected by all, I assume?’ Patchem continued, with mild sarcasm.
‘Yes.’ What was he getting at?
‘But in possession of a short temper. He wouldn’t get past the psych test in today’s Regiment selection. Six weren’t interested in him either, even though he spoke Arabic. Here, have a look.’ Patchem removed a buff-coloured file from his briefcase on the table in front of him.
Snow took the file and opened it. It was a censored version of the military record of one James Celtic Fox. A boy soldier in the Gordon Highlanders, he had passed selection at the age of twenty-one and into B Squadron 22nd Regiment Special Air Service. Mobility Troop. Specialist: demolition. The file listed some of the campaigns he had undertaken, many not known outside the confines of Whitehall and Stirling Lines. Large areas had been blacked out when the file had been photocopied.
‘Fox made corporal in the Highlanders but was demoted back to private.’
Snow looked up from the page. ‘Oh?’
Patchem spoke, matter-of-fact. ‘He threw his sergeant major out of a window.’
Snow wasn’t surprised; he’d believe anything of Paddy.
‘Evidently he found the bugger in bed with his wife. Luckily for both men the room was on the first floor! So, to business.’ Patchem held his hand out for Snow to return the file. ‘As the media has been so keen to broadcast to the world, an unknown terrorist organisation attempted to abduct the daughter of a member of the Saudi royal family. Fox stopped them, shot three of the kidnappers, and rescued the girl. Unfortunately he also seriously wounded a bystander – you’ll have seen all this on TV’
Snow nodded.
‘Well, this person, the “innocent passer-by”, happened to be having an affair with Fox’s second wife.’
‘Quite a coincidence.’
‘That’s exactly what the CPS thought. However, it has been decided, though not made public yet, that he’s not to be charged with attempted murder. It turns out the Saudis have some friends in very high places. These people “persuaded” the Home Secretary to drop all charges against Fox.’
It would be put down to the ‘special relationship’ between Saudi and the UK, which in reality had far more to do with arms contracts. Patchem had heard that Saudi Arabia had threatened to nullify the latest contract if Fox were prosecuted. Al Kabir was the Saudi signatory.
‘What’s more, Fouad Al Kabir is to offer Fox a position in Riyadh, as head of security, to show his gratitude. What I want you to do is persuade Fox to take it.’ Patchem pressed a button on his keyboard and an image was projected on the blank, light-blue wall behind Snow’s head. ‘Recognise him?’
Snow swivelled in his chair and saw an image of a dead body. The picture zoomed in and Snow recognised the man. A second image, this one a still from Snow’s mobile video footage taken in Harley Street, appeared next to the face.
‘The same person.’
‘I agree. He has yet to be identified, but this is one of the abductors Fox neutralised. The attack on Durrani and the abduction are linked.’
Snow frowned. ‘Are you saying that Dr Durrani had links or dealings with terrorists?’
‘Absolutely not. He had a higher security clearance than you. He’d worked for us for years and was fully vetted. He trained in the UK but was a Pashtun, originally from Quetta. His family came to the UK when the Soviets invaded neighbouring Afghanistan. Due to his contact with us, we monitored all his patients. We know they included members of the Saudi royal family. With regard to whoever perpetrated these two acts, to be candid, we have no leads whatsoever. Furthermore, the media and the PM are asking “why”. The last thing we need is someone putting the desert wind up the Saudis.’ Patchem half-smiled at his play on words; it hid his sadness at the loss of a colleague. ‘If Fox takes this job it would also get him well and truly away from the media. Whitehall are very keen to kill the story. Everything you need to know is in here. Any questions?’
Snow shook his head as Patchem handed him a second file.
‘Good. Call me with your progress. You have three days.’
Snow stood and left the office. He would have to be careful. Fox would be drawing much attention from the media and Snow didn’t want his face in print beside his old comrade’s.
Shoreham-by-Sea, West Sussex
A disgruntled DC Flynn had the police driver drop Fox off at Cabot Square in London’s banking hub, Docklands. Fox easily found the only branch in London of his new Swiss banker and, after passing their security process, was allowed to withdraw cash against his generous payment from the Saudis. After buying wrapping paper, with which he covered his sword, Fox entered Canary Wharf tube station, taking the Jubilee Line to Westminster, where he changed to the Circle Line for Victoria.
Now safely ensconced in his Southern Central train to Shoreham, he sat back and watched as the scenery outside the carriage changed from the bustle of London to Surrey suburbia, then the green of the Sussex countryside. Finally reunited with his mobile, he had made several calls home – none of which had been answered. There was no response from Tracey’s mobile either. It wasn’t that he wanted to talk to her, but that he wanted to let her know he was on his way home. Having relished his walk from Shoreham station, he stopped short on seeing the ‘For Sale’ sign in his front garden. He felt the anger bristle inside him but had to admire his wife’s spirit. She was wasting no time. The house was in her name, she had bought it, so she was going to sell it. He walked up Jim’s path and knocked on his front door.
‘Paddy.’ His neighbour’s face registered shock but also relief. ‘You OK?’
‘Yes, thanks, Jim.’ Fox nodded at the sign. ‘What’s all this about then?’
‘She’s left, gone to her sister’s place, but I didn’t tell you that. Sorry.’ He looked at his feet.
‘Don’t be.’
Jim swallowed. ‘You know I spoke to the papers? Someone had to say what kind of bloke you were.’
This newspaper interview had angered Fox at first but no longer. As pensioners, any extra cash would make their lives easier. ‘Jim, you’ve got nothing to be sorry about, mate, and if it earned you a few quid or paid for that cruise Maureen wanted… well, just buy me a pint sometime. Is Maureen in?’
‘She’s out doing a bit of shopping. Didn’t want me to get under her feet at Tesco; you know what women are like.’
Jim hadn’t meant to be ironic. ‘I do indeed. How is she?’
‘Fine. She was a bit shaken at first but then she started telling all her friends about it. I think she’ll be telling that story for years!’ Jim smiled. ‘She got her best china out for that girl. And then when we found out who she was! Well, talk about all her dreams coming true – meeting royalty and that.’
Fox shook his head. ‘As long as you’re both all right?’
Jim nodded. ‘Paddy, there were a lot of paparazzi hanging around. One asked me to give him a call if you came back.’
Fox reached into his pocket. ‘How much did he offer you? I’ll match it.’
‘No, I didn’t mean that. There’s been a couple of them hanging about. I just wanted to warn you.’
‘Thanks.’ The last thing Fox wanted was his face in the papers.
‘That bloke, the one you…’
‘Shot?’
‘I’m sorry. I saw him before but I didn’t feel I could tell you. Not my place.’
Fox tapped the old man on the shoulder. ‘Not my place either, by the look of it.’
Sharm el-Sheikh, Egypt
‘Sharm el-Sheikh is known as the City of Peace, referring to the large number of international peace conferences that have been held here.’ The fat man’s voice carried on the breeze from the next boat. He continued reading from his guidebook. ‘Sharm el-Sheikh remained under Israeli control until the Sinai Peninsula was returned to Egypt in 1982 after the Israel-Egypt Peace Treaty of 1979. A prosperous Israeli settlement had been created there in the Seventies under the name “Ophira”, derived from biblical Ophir. Some of the buildings erected at the time are still in evidence.’
‘Is that where we’re going this afternoon, Dad?’
The boy, the Chechen guessed, was seven and still at the age where he hung on his father’s every word, even if he didn’t understand.
‘No, we’re going out on this boat to see the fishes.’
‘Can we eat them?’
‘Some of them, but some could eat us!’
The boy laughed. ‘Dad, that’s silly.’
The Chechen drank his iced tea and looked back at the shore. The cornice was crowded with cafés. Tourists took up tables, chatting loudly, eating ice creams, and getting sunburnt. On the sea, power cruisers and yachts mixed with day launches, glass-bottomed tourist barges, and fishing charters. It was the perfect place to have a meeting without being noticed. The neighbouring boat moved off, taking the British holidaymakers out of earshot.
‘I am listening,’ Khalid said quietly.
The Chechen smiled, although what he was about to say was not a joke. ‘We are in a position to be able to help each other. There are many true believers in your country who fear that the Kingdom is too lenient on the infidels; that the Kingdom is governed by those who seek to line their own pockets.’
‘This is the view of a growing number. It is not a secret.’
‘But what is a secret is that, among these true believers, there are those who are ready to take direct action.’
There was a pause as the Saudi sipped from his glass, his mouth suddenly becoming very dry. ‘There are such people.’
‘I would like to help them.’
The bluntness of the Chechen’s reply caused the normally composed Arab to frown. He had never met this man before; the meeting had been set up using a Soviet-era KGB sleeper channel. A channel that Khalid thought he would never have to answer again. ‘You are a believer, a true believer?’
The reply was in Arabic. ‘I am Chechen.’ It was a lie, but he had learnt his Arabic in Chechnya. ‘I know firsthand what it feels like to have one’s own beliefs subjugated by an occupying infidel force. I represent a powerful group who will no longer stand by and watch our Muslim brothers in the Kingdom mocked by their own rulers.’
‘And what could you offer, my brother?’ The Saudi did not switch his Oxford English for Arabic.
‘If certain targets were to be presented, I would be able to assist in both the funding and equipping of any attack.’
‘Training?’
‘Special Forces training, my brother.’
There was a pause as the wash of a jet ski caused the launch to rock. Khalid looked the man in the eye. ‘This is an interesting proposal.’
‘One that you should accept.’
‘How is it that you came to know of my beliefs?’ Khalid was still not completely trusting of this Chechen. He could have accessed his handler’s file to entrap him, part of the Christian crusaders’ war against the true believers.
‘Alexander Williamovich wanted me to say “my love for my country is as pure as the vodka that has replaced the love of my wife”.’
Khalid grunted, reassured. The odd sentence was confirmation that this man had indeed come from, or had the blessing of, his former Soviet handler. An amateurish and clichéd device which was effective for that very reason.
‘How is the vodka-soaked fool?’
‘Dead. He was murdered by the very Russians he served. Did you know that his grandfather was also Chechen?’
Khalid was saddened. It had been this man who had recruited him out of Oxford, masquerading as a fellow undergraduate. ‘My brother, I should like to accept your kind offer of assistance.’
The Chechen nodded and smiled briefly. ‘We can make immediate preparations, my brother. I have a list of targets that I assume you would want to attack.’
‘I have my own target list.’ Khalid frowned. He didn’t like taking orders and wanted to make it quite clear that he, even if funded by this man and his people, would be in charge.
The Chechen had expected this. The Arabs were a proud race, much like the Russians, he mused, but both were easy to lead, if hard to control. ‘I assure you, my brother, that I only suggest my targets because I have intelligence on them and it could be that some of our targets are the same.’
‘Perhaps then we should compare lists?’
‘I see you have already targeted the Al Kabir family.’
Khalid’s eyebrow twitched with surprise. ‘An unfortunate mistake caused the girl to be rescued.’
‘I am here to prevent unfortunate mistakes. Next time we may meet in Dubai, in a more fitting environment.’
‘Insha’Allah’
Shoreham Beach, UK
A shiny green Mini Cooper, plastered with company decals, pulled up outside Fox’s house and the driver got out.
‘Mr McDonald?’ The estate agent was young, suited, and eager.
‘Aye, that’s me.’ Fox, now wearing a baseball cap, shook with his right hand, a small carrier bag of shopping swaying gently in his left.
‘John, John Edgar.’
‘Thanks for coming at such short notice, John.’ Fox had made his accent thicker than normal.
