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‘You were a person of interest, Aidan,’ Blazhevich stated.
‘What do you mean “were”; aren’t I interesting anymore?’
‘Did you meet the ghost?’ Nedilko asked.
‘Ghost?’ Iqbal repeated.
Vickers enjoyed the banter which over the years had formed among the group as the SIS and SBU had been forced to work together. He’d miss it all when he was eventually forced to move on to a new post at a new embassy.
As they reached the door to the street, the guard’s desk phone rang. He answered it and called over to Blazhevich.
‘Hello?’ the SBU officer asked. ‘When? I see. Thank you, Gennady Stepanovich.’
Snow noticed the expression on his colleague’s face was now grave. ‘Bad news?’
‘Yes. That was Dudka. He’s just been informed that another terrorist attack has taken place on the Moscow metro system. They are still counting the dead.’
‘Bastards,’ Snow hissed; it was the height of rush hour in the Russian capital.
Vickers and Snow both felt their phones vibrate. Vickers checked his screen, a secure email. ‘Aidan, we’re needed at the embassy. Vitaly, Ivan – thank you. Mo, you have to come with us.’
Outside, a distinct chill hung in the air as winter tried to replace autumn. The British Embassy on Desyatynna Street was a brisk, five-minute walk away up Volodymyrska Vulitsa and across Sofiyivska Square, and at this time of day an embassy car would take much longer to negotiate the Kyiv traffic. Vickers led the trio through the commuters returning home, with Snow bringing up the rear as ‘tail-end Charlie’. They weren’t expecting any problems, but experience had taught both SIS men to be vigilant. Arriving at the embassy, Mo went to the room assigned to him while Snow joined Vickers in his office, where they called Patchem.
‘Aidan, Alistair, it’s the same modus operandi as before: a suicide bomber on a commuter-packed tube train.’
‘Any warnings this time?’
‘No, Alistair, none. None at all. Whoever is doing this is going to have the full force of the FSB brought down on them from a great height, and rightly so. These are innocent people, for Christ’s sake.’
‘Has anyone claimed responsibility?’
Patchem shook his head. ‘Not yet.’
‘What are the Russians saying, Jack?’
‘Nothing new, Aidan. If it’s not the same group then it’s a very meticulous copycat, and when I say meticulous, I mean disturbed.’
‘The SBU are now going to start to panic,’ Vickers noted. ‘After all, Kyiv does have a metro system built by the same people, but hopefully not the same enemies.’
‘So,’ Patchem reasoned, ‘if there were to be any attack upon Kyiv it would be a copycat.’
‘Or a false flag,’ said Snow. ‘The Russians getting in an attack and blaming the International Islamic Brigade.’
‘Well, let’s hope none of these scenarios comes true. Alistair, has the debriefing been completed?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Aidan, I’d like you to fly back here tomorrow with Mr Iqbal. The DNR have already started to talk about his “negotiated release” on their VKontakte page. I’ve had Neill Plato take it down and put the page offline, but even though he’s a technical whiz, Neill doesn’t know how long it will stay off for. That’s the problem with this social media madness; anyone anywhere can retweet or repost. The last thing we want is a group of tabloid paps waiting for you at Gatwick.’
‘Can’t we fly into Brize Norton?’
‘The simple answer is no. Our Director General has been told in no uncertain terms by the Foreign Secretary that we’ve spent far too much time and resources on Mr Iqbal’s rescue.’
‘I bet he wouldn’t have complained if it was his arse I was saving!’
‘Aidan, I wouldn’t have ordered you to save his pompous arse.’
*
New York, USA
East opened his eyes. The room was dark save for a thin line of light spilling in from under the door. He tentatively sat up and removed the drip from his arm. The medical staff had ‘settled’ him for the night and, bar an emergency, wouldn’t be troubling him for several hours. This was his window, his chance. Closing his eyes in anticipation of the pain that was about to hit him, East swung his legs out of the bed and let his bare feet make contact with the linoleum. He shook as a wave of cold shot around his head before turning into a hot pain at his temples. He opened his eyes and gasped, but managed to grab the metal bedframe and push himself to his feet as the pain moved to the back of his head. He swayed for several seconds and, had the room been illuminated, would have noticed the edges of his vision grey out as he fought to remain conscious.
Once steady, East took a step towards the exit, then another and another, until he was certain he wouldn’t fall. He held his breath as he prized the door open a fraction of an inch. The light blinded him and made him nauseous. He stood stock-still until it passed and his vision adjusted. He opened the door further, looked left, and saw a corridor. Several other doors led off to what he imagined would be rooms like his; further along was a cleaning cart and then double doors at the end. The corridor led on to a junction – he didn’t know what was around the corner. Unable to turn his head with his neck alone, he swivelled his shoulders to the right and saw two empty chairs. Whoever had been guarding his door was gone.
Taking a deep breath, East edged out of his room and towards the cleaning cart. It contained supplies and spare towels. He picked up a towel and held it over his arm, as though he were looking for a shower room, and continued forward. He heard a door open somewhere behind him. He didn’t look back, but continued on, head throbbing as he tried to move faster. Just as he reached the double doors two large men in suits burst through them. Their eyes widened at the sight of the semi-naked man before them, the man they had been told to guard, the man who could not get out of bed. East saw the sidearms on both ‘suits’ and knew instantly they were there to guard him. Doing the only thing he could, he threw the towel. The first man automatically raised his arms to protect his face while the other took a half-step sideways. In the same instant, East moved forward and kicked the second man in the groin. Caught completely off-guard, suit two doubled up and dropped to the floor. Ignoring the lightning bolts of pain in his head, East reversed his momentum and stiff-elbowed the first man’s throat. With both men down, East grabbed the nearest suit’s sidearm and, struggling to remain conscious, pressed it into the man’s forehead. ‘Get up slowly and keep your hands above your head.’
Coughing, the suit pushed himself to his feet as his colleague continued to hold his throbbing genitals. East was about to speak again when a round impacted the door inches above his head, the repeat sounding like thunder in the enclosed space.
‘Put the gun on the floor, Mr East.’
Dizzy, East did as he was told and within seconds the suits had secured him.
Casey approached and holstered his Glock. ‘Very impressive, for a banker from Boston. Perhaps you were in ad-venture capital?’
‘Thanks.’ East’s vision had started to blur.
‘You OK, Beck?’ A grin creased Casey’s face.
‘Yes, Mr Casey, just hurt my pride, that’s all.’ The former Navy SEAL continued to massage his groin.
‘I’d get that seen to.’
‘He’s been asking the nurses to all day,’ Needham, the other suit and a former Delta, croaked.
‘Take Mr East back to his room. I’m gonna call the doc, Mr East, and have him give you a once-over. We’ll talk tomorrow.’
East tried to reply but blacked out.
*
East’s hospital bed had been raised, bringing him to a sitting position. Casey sat in a chair to one side, two manila folders resting on his lap. ‘Who are you, Mr East?’
‘Is that an existential question, Mr Casey?’
‘If you like.’
‘I’m an old soul in a young body.’
‘Cute. Who are you, Mr East?’
‘I’m an investment banker.’
Casey placed a folder on the bed. ‘Your legend is good, almost too perfect. James East from Boston who runs his own start-up investment consultancy based out of Yonkers. You’ve got some great recommendations from current clients, by the way. Where did you receive your combat training?’
East felt his pulse quicken. He was hooked up to monitoring equipment so could do nothing to hide it. ‘I’m a fan of the WWE.’
‘Yeah, that Undertaker.’ Casey didn’t hide his sarcasm. ‘James – I’ll still use that name for the moment – let’s not waste any more time. I know you’re not a banker, and possibly not even an American citizen. Now, I’m no fluent Russian speaker, but I understand enough to realise you probably are. Dr Litvin certainly believes so.’
‘I did a college course.’ East reached for a glass of water on his tray table and sipped.
‘I ran your prints through all our databases. I got one partial match. It was from an unsolved Interpol case. Would you like to take a look?’
‘Sure.’ He tried to stay calm.
‘Here.’ Casey handed him a folder.
East opened the dossier and saw a blurry surveillance photograph of himself at London’s Gatwick Airport. He turned the page to a report on the assassination of a British businessman named Bav Malik. It had several graphic images attached. East sped-read the document without showing any outward signs of emotion. After this came an image taken by a camera in an Austrian restaurant; this one was clearer and showed him wearing glasses and enjoying a drink with a beautiful woman. East felt his pulse race at the sight of her. He turned to another report. It was written in Ukrainian, a language he didn’t speak, and contained images of a second corpse – Jas Malik, Bav Malik’s son. East raised his eyes and saw an odd smile on Casey’s face.
‘I know what you are, but not who you are, James.’
‘What am I, Mr Casey?’
‘I think you are a contract killer. Possibly former Spetsnaz, gone freelance.’
‘Is that the official belief of the FBI?’
‘Did I say I was with the FBI?’
‘You didn’t say who you were with.’
‘Touché! I’m the only one who has this opinion, James. That’s why we’re having this conversation. You did a noble thing; you eliminated an Al-Qaeda sleeper cell – one we missed. You saved the lives of countless civilians.’
‘Do I get a medal?’
‘No medal, James. There are those who want to know more about you, the FBI included, and this file will come to light eventually. Unless I bury or lose it. I could potentially use someone like you, if you are what I think you are. I’m offering you a chance. I can protect you from all of this, the wolves here in the US, and Interpol, but in order to do that I need you to be honest with me. You are not James East. I need to know exactly who you are and what you were doing in New Jersey.’
East made a decision. ‘My name is Sergey Gorodetski, and I was shopping.’
There was a moment of silence as Casey held eye contact with Gorodetski before he replied. ‘The funny thing is, Sergey, I believe you. So, Russian or Russian speaker?’
‘Russian.’
Casey tapped the file with his index finger. ‘And so to this. Why did you assassinate these two British citizens?’
‘What guarantee do I have that you are not taping this? That you will not turn me over to the Feds for rendition to the UK?’
‘That’s a fair point.’ Casey took a Glock 19 from his jacket and placed it on the bedside table. He turned it so the grip was within the Russian’s reach. ‘Here, take it, it’s loaded. You have my trust, Sergey, and I hope I have yours.’
Gorodetski slowly reached for the gun and was surprised to see that Casey didn’t flinch. He aimed the sidearm at the American, felt the weight, and then carefully lowered it. ‘It’s loaded.’
‘I told you it was.’
‘I could have killed you.’
‘You still can, if you want. I’m a good judge of character, Sergey, and I know you won’t. Call me romantic – my ex-wife doesn’t – but I know who you are… on the inside. I can tell. You’re not a stone-cold killer. So enlighten me, ease my confusion, and tell me. Why did you assassinate that father and son, Jas and Bav Malik?’
‘I was of the belief they murdered my brother.’
Casey was surprised. ‘And did they?’
‘No.’ Gorodetski pushed the Glock back. ‘They were innocent. I murdered them. I am a killer. I deserve a bullet to the brain.’
‘I could shoot you, but I won’t. I think I can use you, if you agree.’
‘I agree.’
Casey smirked. ‘Tell me more; treat this as a confession, not to a policeman but to a priest. Why did you believe these two men killed your brother?’
Gorodetski took a breath and recounted what he had been told was the truth. ‘In 1989 my brother, Mikhail, was in the Red Army. His commanding officer said their unit was attacked by Mujahideen outside Kabul. Mikhail was wounded, captured, then tortured before being dismembered. Much later his CO told me he had found two of my brother’s killers. They were living respectable lives with British passports.’
‘Did you find the real murderer?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you kill him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who was he?’
‘Mikhail’s commanding officer.’
‘How did that make you feel?’
‘Empty.’
‘I see.’
‘I was fooled, but that is no excuse. I executed two innocent men. There is not a night that goes by without me seeing their faces.’
‘We all make mistakes, Sergey – just ask my wife.’ Gorodetski scanned his fingers for a ring. There was none. ‘Exactly. Some mistakes are big, some small, and some monumental. I can give you a second chance, which no one else can; a chance to make a difference. Not many get that.’
‘Why should I believe you? You have thousands of SEALs or Delta or Rangers or Activity guys to choose from.’
‘Good question. I’m Agency. What I do, Sergey, is black – blacker than black. You could call it “Cold Black” – global counterterrorism. There are only four other men who know I have you, and one of those you kicked in the nuts. I get to choose my men, use Agency resources, and not get questioned. However, and this is where you come in, regardless of what you read in the press or see on WikiLeaks, we do not have unlimited resources – human or otherwise. In short, when the Cold War ended our threat radar was moved to point at the Middle East. Langley didn’t see a need for Soviet speakers, let alone native Russian-speaking operatives. But then Russia invaded Georgia, and then they annexed Crimea, and then they shot down a passenger jet while invading Eastern Ukraine. Langley made a mistake and I had a problem. I was thinking about how I could fix it when you appeared.’
‘Thanks.’
