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Cold East
Alex Shaw
The clock is ticking. Will Aidan Snow be able to save the world…again?In Ukraine, MI6 operative Aidan Snow rescues a British national held by Russian insurgents.In the United States, a terrorist attack is thwarted by a man who does not exist.In Russia, a notorious Chechen terrorist escapes from the nation's most secure prisonIn Afghanistan, a Red Army soldier long given up for dead delivers a chilling message: Al-Qaeda has an RA-115A.As the connection between these separate events begins to become clearer, MI6 and the CIA must attempt to prevent the world's first act of nuclear terrorism.Aidan Snow faces his biggest challenge yet, and if he fails, thousands will be incinerated.The clock is ticking. And you never know who you can trust.Praise for Alex Shaw:‘Meet Aidan Snow, an ice-cold operative in a red-hot adventure’ Stephen Leather‘Sizzles across the page like a flame on a short fuse!’ Matt Hilton‘A perfect blend of spy fiction and political thriller’ Matt LynnReaders love the Aidan Snow books:‘A superb, pulse-racing read’ Online reviewer‘Exciting and fast-paced’ Online reviewer‘Immensely enjoyable and tightly written’ Online reviewer
About the Author (#ufb1d494e-cfc7-5a31-90d2-fbdc840a8c16)
ALEX SHAW spent the second half of the 1990s in Kyiv, Ukraine, teaching Drama and running his own business consultancy before being headhunted for a division of Siemens. The next few years saw him doing business for the company across the former USSR, the Middle East, and Africa.
Cold Blood, Cold Black and Cold East are commercially published by HarperCollins (HQ Digital) in English and Luzifer Verlag in German.
Alex, his wife and their two sons divide their time between homes in Kyiv, Ukraine, Worthing, England and Doha, Qatar. Follow Alex on twitter: @alexshawhetman (https://twitter.com/alexshawhetman?lang=en) or find him on Facebook.
Also by Alex Shaw (#ufb1d494e-cfc7-5a31-90d2-fbdc840a8c16)
Cold Blood
Cold Black
Cold East
ALEX SHAW
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018
Copyright © Alex Shaw 2018
Alex Shaw asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © September 2018 ISBN: 9780008306342
Version: 2018-07-26
Table of Contents
Cover (#uf6a1d144-0ac0-578b-b000-06c722d4a290)
About the Author (#uf1efe2d1-bb5d-50d9-9eff-cad7fe7e457d)
Also by Alex Shaw (#uedada189-c904-50ec-8d6e-b8239c168b6d)
Title Page (#udf34fc8f-5701-582a-ba4b-eb956af9ce4b)
Copyright (#u2657af34-6dda-5447-8c93-b4ead9f2b960)
Dedication (#ue2fb6e56-87d0-5fac-b4b6-7d2d9cbb901a)
Prologue (#u5fb4ae81-2c2d-5c85-85fb-a4c04454afb3)
Chapter 1 (#u0e48ee15-948f-558d-9539-acc2f976ecc5)
Chapter 2 (#u96d031a8-cb3c-5d28-a912-708587141e48)
Chapter 3 (#u55824bef-66ab-5c4d-a672-c878ce79d909)
Chapter 4 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Dear Reader (#litres_trial_promo)
Dear Reader (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading … (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
To my wife Galia, my sons Alexander and Jonathan,
and our family in England and Ukraine
Prologue (#ufb1d494e-cfc7-5a31-90d2-fbdc840a8c16)
Donetsk Region, Ukraine
‘I can’t see them yet.’
‘They’ll be here soon, he said so.’ Vitaly Blazhevich peered into the distance towards the besieged city of Donetsk. Smoke rose from tower blocks on the outskirts, the result of early-morning shelling by Russian-supplied Grad rockets. The ceasefire agreement between the Ukrainian government and the Russian-backed insurgent organisations of the Donetsk People’s Republic (DNR) and the Lugansk People’s Republic (LNR) had been in operation for several months, yet attacks continued. The men around Blazhevich were a mixture of regular Ukrainian infantry and young, hastily trained members of a volunteer battalion. Despite the cold, the Ukrainians kept their spirits high as they rotated manning the vehicle checkpoint, cooking, and resting. Blazhevich had nothing but respect for the volunteers who, until recently, had been carrying on normal lives as university students, mechanics, bus drivers, doctors, and businessmen. Every now and then the group would spontaneously start singing Ukrainian folk songs or old Soviet tunes in Russian. They were Ukrainian and what mattered to them most was one country, not one language. The checkpoint was to the north of the small town of Marinka and straddled the road towards Donetsk. The adjacent flat fields of fertile black earth had been left barren in the conflict zone. A click away, the road forked and the treeline started.
‘Here.’ Nedilko handed Blazhevich a mug.
‘We should be doing more to help him,’ Blazhevich replied to his SBU colleague before sipping the bitter-tasting army coffee.
‘He likes pretending to be Russian.’
‘That’s true.’
Blazhevich saw movement ahead. He put his drink on the ground, raised his field glasses, and focused on the road. A white Toyota Land Cruiser appeared from the treeline. As it neared, the blue flag and markings of the Organisation for Security and Co-operation in Europe (OSCE) became visible on its paintwork. The Ukrainian soldiers manned their weapons, ever wary of a surprise attack. The checkpoint had changed hands several times so far; the men were taking no chances.
Nedilko’s phone rang. ‘Hello? OK.’ He pointed at the SUV. ‘It’s him, or at least he’s is in the vehicle.’
‘It’s four-up,’ Blazhevich replied.
Nedilko removed his Glock from its holster. ‘What’s the saying? “Plan for the best, prepare for the worst”?’
‘Something like that.’
As the Land Cruiser came to a halt, just short of the checkpoint, a series of rumbles rolled across the fields. The DNR were shelling again. A thin man, wearing a blue OSCE vest over a grey, three-quarter-length jacket, stepped slowly from the front passenger door. He held his arms aloft as a pair of Ukrainian soldiers advanced, weapons up. The rear door now opened and out climbed an Asian man followed by someone both SBU agents couldn’t mistake: Aidan Snow.
‘“Who Dares Wins”,’ Blazhevich said with a smile.
Snow led the trio towards the checkpoint. The man in the OSCE vest held out his hand to Blazhevich. ‘Gordon Ward, OSCE monitor. You must be from the Security Service of Ukraine?’
‘That’s correct, the SBU,’ Blazhevich confirmed, shaking hands. ‘Things getting busy back there?’
‘Hairy is the word for it. The DNR are systematically violating the ceasefire!’
‘We heard,’ Nedilko stated.
‘Well, here they are, safe and sound.’ Ward turned to Snow. ‘Don’t make a habit of this, will you?’
‘I’ll try not to.’
Ward flashed a swift smile, turned on his heels, and got into the Land Cruiser. The Toyota crabbed across the road before quickly heading back towards Donetsk and the rest of the OSCE monitors.
‘Vitaly Blazhevich, Ivan Nedilko, may I present Mohammed Iqbal,’ Snow said.
‘It’s Mo, to my friends,’ Iqbal added.
Snow was in Ukraine to facilitate the repatriation of Iqbal, a British citizen held captive for several months in Donetsk. Iqbal was one of many foreign students studying medicine at Donetsk University, but unlike the others he had been kidnapped by the DNR, who took exception to the colour of his skin. The news of Iqbal’s plight had come from a bizarre post on the DNR’s ‘VKontakte’ page. They used the Slavic copy of Facebook to inform the Russian-speaking world of their latest proclamations and ‘successes’ against the Ukrainian forces. Via VKontakte, Iqbal had been labelled ‘a black mercenary’ and ‘a spy’ by the self-appointed Prime Minster of the DNR. Iqbal was subjected to intimidation, beatings, and starvation by his captors. It was only after much negotiation that his release had been brokered and an agreement reached to hand him over to the OSCE. At least that was the official story, and the one that made the DNR look like humanitarians, but Snow knew otherwise. He still had the bruises and an empty magazine to prove it.
‘Incoming!’ A shout went up as a shell whistled overhead.
Snow grabbed Iqbal and threw him into the ditch at the side of the road as another shell flew past them to land with a thunderous cacophony further down the road.
‘Bloody twats!’ Iqbal’s Brummie accent grew thicker with his annoyance, as he spat out a mouthful of cold mud.
‘Stay down!’ Snow ordered. He looked up and saw the source of the shells. What he took to be a Russian armoured vehicle, possibly a BMP-2, had appeared from the fork in the road. Too far away to return fire, the Ukrainians took cover as best they could. Still visible, Snow watched the OSCE Land Cruiser skid around the tracked vehicle and take the fork in the other direction. Then, just as quickly as it had started, the shooting stopped. The BMP-2 turned and followed the Toyota towards Donetsk.
‘Nice of them to give you a sendoff,’ Snow said as he pulled Iqbal to his feet.
‘I’d have preferred a box of chocolates.’
Snow smirked. ‘Come on. We need to catch a ride back to Kyiv.’
Chapter 1 (#ufb1d494e-cfc7-5a31-90d2-fbdc840a8c16)
Morristown, New Jersey, USA
As James East neared Morristown Green, a raw October wind battered his cheeks with icy rain like needles. For a dead man he felt very alive. In winter the snow that covered the park and storefronts lent a Dickensian feel to the otherwise drab, post-revolution architecture; today, however, rain was all anyone was getting. Saturday shoppers traipsed like herds of deer, umbrellas up, searching for bargains. East pulled up his coat collar. It wasn’t the cold he disliked but the wind, which ravenously bit at his exposed flesh. He entered the green along a path that crossed the central square where a group of Latino youths dressed in baggy sweats were sheltering under the trees, smoking and taking snaps of each other. An elderly couple sharing a golfing umbrella joined East as he waited for the lights to change. They were holding hands and had probably been doing so since the Fifties. East felt a pang of jealousy. It had been three years since East had held his girl’s hand; she’d loved him and he had left without a word. They hadn’t spent much time together yet he remembered every second, every flicker of her eyelashes and how she curled her lower lip as she smiled. He closed his eyes briefly and could smell her perfume and feel her head upon his chest. East shivered – it was time to let her go. His eyes snapped open as a car horn sounded. The lights at the crossing had changed to ‘walk’. Back to reality, his reality. The man she knew was dead, he had to be, but James East was very much alive. He crossed the road and entered the discount designer department store. Inside he nodded at the security guard; the man returned his nod solemnly. East undid his jacket, brushed his hand through his wet hair and looked around. To the left stood rows of handbags and on the right the cosmetics counter, where a middle-aged woman was receiving a makeover from an eager teenage assistant with make-up as thick as a circus clown. East moved past more women inspecting bags and reached the menswear section. Aisles of shirts stacked by designer, colour and size were neatly arranged. He selected a size bigger than he needed; he chose not to advertise the fact that he worked out. He took three shirts, no flashy colours, with ties to match, over to the ‘tailoring’ area, which was run by a white-haired man with an Eastern European accent. Much to the assistant’s delight, he picked up a two-piece charcoal suit and entered the fitting room.
*
At the main entrance, Finch, the store security guard, fought to keep his eyes open. To say the former US Marine was bored by his job was an understatement. After ten years in the service of the good old ‘US of A’ he had been invalided out with a derisory disability pension. The irony was that the Navy had deemed him medically unfit to stand guard for long periods of time and therefore no longer suited to active service. Yet here he stood, a security guard in a department store, on his feet for eight hours a day. Where was the logic? Finch stepped outside for a blast of icy wind to wake him up. As he did so the detectors rang. Four men entered the store, while two women with heavy bags exited. Finch sighed and asked the women to step back inside; security tags left on again, he assumed. They moved to the jewellery counter where he started to remove their purchases to be checked one by one.
*
There was a scream and shouts followed by a series of loud staccato cracks. James East locked eyes with the menswear assistant. Both men dropped to the floor; they had heard the sound before – automatic gunfire.
‘Stay down.’ East’s voice was controlled and firm. The elderly assistant bobbed his head in assent and crawled deeper into the dressing rooms. East worked his way, at a crouch, out of the alcove. What greeted him on the shop-floor was shocking. Two men holding Uzi submachine guns stood in the central aisle, firing off rounds indiscriminately at any shopper who dared move. The security guard, white shirt turned crimson, lay sprawled across a collapsed glass counter. Two women had been dropped next to him. As the store fell silent one gunman changed magazines while the second continued to swing his weapon in an exaggerated arc. East noted their actions: uncontrolled, jerky, and amateur. There was a sudden blur of movement as a portly woman ran from behind an overturned display. The gunmen tracked her with their weapons on fully automatic. Rounds spat from the barrels, showering her and the surrounding area. East hugged the floor as rounds impacted against the back wall, hitting fittings and spinning off at obtuse angles.
The woman, eyes wild, was thrown sideways, mid-stride, as white-hot lead tore into her flesh. She came crashing down with a sickening thud on the thinly carpeted shop-floor. Her eyes saw East and her mouth moved; she reached out her hand. ‘Pamageet minya.’ ‘Help me,’ she pleaded in Russian.
‘Nie dveegaisia!’ ‘Stay still,’ East hissed back in the same language. But it was too late. Her hand trembled, fell limp, and her eyes glazed over. East’s jaw tightened – he was going to stop them.
*
There were footsteps on his left by the escalator. Two more gunmen were ascending to the upper floors, one a little ahead of the other. East craned his neck; the first pair now had their backs turned and their weapons pointing away. East moved with speed and stealth towards the disappearing gunman. Reaching the bottom of the escalator he launched himself up, two steps at a time, no longer caring about the noise he made, only the distance he covered. The nearest gunman turned, Uzi held upwards in one hand, the short barrel pointing at the concrete above. His eyes registered East but not before East’s open palm crashed up into the underside of the gunman’s nose, flattening cartilage and breaking bone. As if struck by a sledgehammer the man dropped the Uzi and fell sideways. East grabbed the weapon and squeezed the trigger. A three-round burst ripped through the gunman before burrowing into the side of the escalator.
There was more gunfire from above. East flattened himself against the metal steps and was carried upwards. As his head crested the shop-floor he saw that the fourth gunman, oblivious to his colleague’s demise, had started to spray the room. East raised the Uzi and fired a controlled burst into the back of his target’s head. The man fell instantly, body dead before it had stopped falling. Around him shoppers and staff cowered and wept. Two X-rays down, two more to go. East hit the stop button on the stairs and peered over the side at the ground floor. Save for sobbing, the area was quiet once more as both gunmen again changed magazines. One was silent and had a crazed expression on his face, while the other seemed to be quietly chanting. East had to act; he had to take them out now. He moved down the metal steps, took a deep breath, and then broke cover at the bottom.
The nearest X-ray looked up, eyes wide as East fired. The gunman stumbled backwards as rounds impacted his chest before he crashed into a counter. The second gunman returned fire and charged forward. East pivoted, fell to one knee to lessen his profile, and acquired the target.
‘Allahu Akbar!’ the gunman yelled.
