Hard Cover Page 13

  As they split away I could see that they were carrying assault rifles.

  The big man gave a sharp whistle and waved his arm in a circle. It was a signal for the helicopter to take off. The crew members and the man with them climbed on board and moments later the engines began to turn over. It was a wise move. He was making sure they didn’t all get caught out if anything went wrong, by keeping the transport mobile and out of harm’s way. He was probably also hoping to fool anybody listening into thinking they had left.

  Time to go. I backed out and jogged back to the cabins. At a guess it would take the men fifteen, maybe twenty minutes to make the trip by boat. It was going to take me a little less than that but it would be tight.

  I was sweating by the time I got there. I stepped onto the jetty outside my cabin and checked the lake through the scope. For a second I saw nothing. Maybe I’d been wrong and they were here for some other reason.

  Then I saw a flicker of movement. They were hugging the shore and moving at a steady pace about half a mile away. No splashes, no fuss, just the roll of their shoulders as they powered the boat along in a way that spoke of military training in covert night-time raids.

  I ducked back to the cover of the cabin. Whoever these guys were, I didn’t want to wait to see what their intentions were; if I did that I’d be too late. Night movement plus assault rifles could only mean they had come here for one thing.

  And I had to stop them.

  I contemplated using the Saiga. A couple of well-placed shots would put holes below the waterline, and they’d begin to sink in no time. But that would make an open display of armed protection – and I wasn’t supposed to be here. There was also the question of intent. I didn’t know for sure what these guys wanted, although I was ready to bet good money on them not being here for a weekend’s fishing. But starting a gunfight when it wasn’t strictly necessary was upping the ante way too soon. Call me cautious, but if I could put them off their stroke without starting a minor war, that was fine by me.

  For any attack, disruption is the first stage of defence. It’s like fitting extra window locks; if your potential attacker isn’t real serious, and sees no advantage in wasting time or effort overcoming obstacles, they will give up. If they’re serious, they will attempt to overcome it there and then or step back and regroup. That’s when you know you have a fight on your hands.

  I went outside and hurried through the trees to the cabin I’d checked out earlier – the one with the jerry can of gas. It was heavy enough to be holding at least a couple of gallons, which should do nicely. I toted it back to a point a hundred yards beyond my cabin, where the trees stood some way back from the water, and thought about how to play this out.

  If the men were homing in on the Touareg’s signal, they already knew approximately where it was. All they had to do was follow the lead and walk right up to the cabin where it was parked. Easy job.

  Except that I wasn’t going to make it that simple.

  I took the lid off the jerry can and let most of the contents glug into the water. The smell of gas was ripe but there wasn’t much I could do about it. It wasn’t exactly eco-friendly, either, pouring it into the lake, but neither is an assault rifle on full-auto. That done, I checked on the boat’s progress. I couldn’t hear it yet, but I figured I had maybe ten minutes before it got here.

  I went back to the cabin and grabbed a gas lighter, a spatula from the limited kitchen tools by the stove, a disgustingly grey towel left by a previous visitor, and a couple of fire-starter cubes. I emptied out two plastic bottles of water from the car, then collected my haul and jogged back to where I’d left the jerry can of gas.

  Still no sign of the boat, so I got to work; they wouldn’t be long now. I put the cubes under a tree where they would stay dry, and half-filled the plastic bottles with the remaining gas. Tearing the towel into strips, I stuffed a strip into each bottle and shook them up until the fabric was soaked through. Then I walked back to the water’s edge. The smell coming off the surface was less obvious now, and I hoped the mix of wind and water hadn’t dissipated my surprise too much. Gas being lighter than water, it would float. If the men in the boat picked up on the smell, I was hoping they would assume it was a memory remnant of their flight in the helicopter. Helicopters – especially the military kind – give off a lot of exhaust gases which stick to the clothing and follow you like a bad reputation.

  I took my two plastic Molotovs and placed them off the path closer to my cabin, where I could find them in a hurry. Having backups is essential in this kind of action, and preparation is half the battle.

  By the time I got back to the waterside, I could hear the rhythmic slap of oars and the occasional rumble of wood on wood. They had probably muffled the oars with cloth to reduce the sound travelling across the lake, but under cover of darkness, nothing was going to be perfect for long.

  I was mostly hoping they were counting on nobody being awake to hear them coming.

  I heard a voice moments before I saw the boat slipping around a pile of brushwood jutting out into the lake. I could also hear their breathing now, sounding harsh and laboured after their efforts. In the green light of the scope I saw two men bent over the oars and a third crouched in the stern, holding a rifle. They were about twenty yards out and running parallel with the shore, and moving at a steady pace. Something in the boat’s position, however, indicated that they were slowing and beginning to turn in slightly. I took that to mean that they weren’t going to head straight for the cabins and the jetties, but were looking to come ashore and go the rest of the way on foot using the cover of the trees.

  Which suited me just fine.

  I waited until the boat was almost level with my position, then lit both fire cubes, and used the spatula to flick them one after the other as far as I could out over the water.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Gasoline. Chesnokoy had begun to pick up the familiar smell in the air as the boat neared the target area. It was sharply pungent over the dull, muddy aroma coming off the lake, an alien smell in this otherwise natural environment. He dismissed it as spillage from outboard motors used by fishermen during the day. What he couldn’t see, and might have been more concerned if he had, was a slick of film in the water ahead, spreading out slowly as the wind began to shift the surface layer away from the shore.

  ‘Easy!’ he muttered, as Kruglov pulled too hard on his oar, causing it to jump out of the rowlock with a dull clatter. The two men were getting tired; they would have to step ashore soon and go the rest of the way on foot, exercising a different set of muscles. Even now, at an estimated three hundred metres from where the signal was pulsing out from the tracker on the target vehicle, he was beginning to feel too exposed. Like his men, Chesnokoy had done more than his fair share of amphibious landings over the years, but had never quite lost the sense of vulnerability brought on by being on open water. You couldn’t change direction or dive into cover like you could on solid ground, nor could you avoid being bunched together with others, presenting a nice target for the enemy to hose down with bursts of deadly fire.

  He tapped Ignatyev on the shoulder and pointed to a spot a hundred metres ahead. They could land there and prepare themselves before making their way to the target. At least then they could spread out and approach it from more than one direction, just in case they were expected. With ex-KGB men, no matter what their age, you never took anything for granted.

  Ignatyev dug his oar in hard and the nose of the boat swung round as Kruglov kept rowing. These two didn’t need any coaching; they were two halves of the same unit, sensing what each was doing and reacting accordingly.

  Chesnokoy scanned the shoreline through the night scope on his rifle. It consisted of thick brushwood and trees all along here, with few landing places. But there was bound to be one shortly, if only because the fishermen would have made sure of it for landing and building illegal fires to enjoy their catches. All they would need was a space to push the boat in and jump ashore. There was
no sign of movement that he could see, although the vegetation here was densely-packed and near-impenetrable.

  He felt hot with anticipation, and wondered if he was simply out of condition, or was finally losing the battle-hardened confidence he’d gathered around him over many years of campaigns around the globe. It had to happen one day, he knew that; it hit every soldier eventually. But please God, not yet, not right now. He’d get this job done, and with the payment he’d receive, he could start looking for another line of business.

  Earlier, before the helicopter had landed, he’d told the men to test-fire their weapons. It was more a psychological means of getting their hands in after a long lay-off than of ensuring the guns worked properly. They had gone at it eagerly, Ignatyev and Gorin firing single- or three-shot bursts while Kruglov let loose an extended volley into the inky blackness that was the water below. Gorin had commented sourly on the need to come back later and pick up the dead fish, but it had been enough to introduce a much-needed touch of humour and help them prepare for what lay ahead.

  He checked their position relative to the shore. Another fifteen metres or so to go. He leaned over and dipped his hand in the lake, dashing water into his face. It felt and cool and refreshing, yet … oily? And the smell.

  In the same moment Chesnokoy realized he’d just coated his face with gasoline, he saw a spot of yellow light curve out from the treeline. It appeared to hover for a second, before dropping towards the water, closely followed by another.

  In a flash the surface of the lake was alight, a carpet of flames licking out towards the boat like a hungry monster, waiting to embrace it. Ignatyev was nearest, and gave a cry of alarm and instinctively raised his arms to protect his face against the heat. He dropped his oar which slithered out of the rowlock and disappeared over the side into the flames. Chesnokoy smelled burning hair and reached out to grab the man’s shoulder, yanking him backwards into the body of the boat out of further harm’s way. He didn’t have time to check his condition but turned to Kruglov and shouted, ‘Keep going!’ He pointed to a stretch of clear water just beyond the fire. ‘Dig and paddle!’

  Kruglov understood immediately. He got to his knees, and lifting the oar out of the rowlock, spun it round and grasped it halfway down, then dug the blade hard into the water as if paddling a canoe. Trying to dig and row, effectively steering the boat from one side with the oar in the rowlock was next to impossible, especially in these conditions. But Kruglov was skilled in boats and could paddle and dig like a champion, even with such an unwieldy implement.

  The last of the flames brushed over the boat’s prow, and Kruglov ducked, then dug in hard once more to propel them into a stretch of water close to the shore. Chesnokoy waited for the keel to hit the bottom before jumping out and dragging the boat until it was firmly grounded.

  Leaving Kruglov to look after the injured Ignatyev, he slipped into the trees and began scanning for a sign of their attacker, his finger on the trigger.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  I hit the path running before the men in the boat got through the flames. Their night vision would now be compromised which gave me a momentary advantage, but I didn’t underestimate their powers of recuperation. If they got organized quickly and managed to spread out among the trees, I’d be in trouble.

  Their quickest and easiest route to the cabins was along the path; any other way meant fighting through a tangle of brushwood and trees. As my cabin was going to be the first in line, I pulled my pickup back up the track and into cover. No point in giving three pissed-off, fully-armed men anything on which to vent their anger. Then I hunkered down to wait and got ready for a hot contact.

  They had to come past me to get to Tzorekov, and I was determined to put them off before they got there. The element of surprise was now gone, but that was the trade-off when disrupting an attacker’s plans: there might be a violent knock-back to contend with if they didn’t get the message first time round.

  As I checked through the scope a figure stepped out of the trees and crept along the path into the open. He was carrying an assault rifle with a big scope and stopping constantly to scan the ground ahead. I stayed low and out of sight. The other two men had to be somewhere close by, ready to back him up if he got compromised.

  There was only one way to find out. I ducked behind the cabin wall and lit the first fuse. This was going to have to be quick and dirty. The backup would be waiting for something like this to happen, and I’d only have a split second to get a reaction without getting shot. I stepped to the corner and lobbed the bottle high into the air. If they were both using night-sights, the flare of light would be enough to blind them for a few seconds before they could react.

  Using plastic bottles is more effective than glass, since the plastic is thin and will usually split, even on contact with soft ground or grass. Glass, on the other hand, will sometimes remain perversely intact, spilling a small amount of the fuel from the neck but without accomplishing the task needed.

  And what I needed right now was shock value.

  As I moved back I caught an image of the bottle making a perfect arc through the night sky. It hit the path near where the man was crouching and split open with spectacular effect. He gave a yelp as flames burst across the ground all around him, catching his legs as he tried to jump back out of the way. He had good reactions but not good enough. Tongues of fire wrapped around his ankles as he dropped to the ground and rolled around, trying to extinguish the flames and get into cover.

  Then I caught a faint rattle from the trees off to one side, and a section of the cabin wall exploded, a bunch of fragments flying past my face. Here was the backup. A good one, too; he’d been able to spot and zero in on me in spite of the flare of light. Worse, he was using a silencer and I’d seen no sign of muzzle-flash.

  So where was number three? Maybe they’d left him back at the boat to cover their escape.

  A voice called from the trees. The reply when it came from the man on the path was succinct and forced, but he didn’t sound as if he was ready to give up just yet.

  I picked up a small log from the stack behind me, and hurled it away in the direction of the other cabins and the lake. It hit the ground and tumbled end over end, by luck a close enough approximation to the sound of somebody running. At least I hoped so. I waited for the next move.

  It wasn’t long in coming and I almost got caught out. There was a scuff of footsteps close to the cabin and I just had time to pick up another log and swing it as a figure came charging round the corner. He was very fast; he had his arms raised with the assault rifle held up high and managed to block most of the blow from the log. He twisted sideways and struck out with the butt of the rifle, catching me a glancing blow on the shoulder. But he was already off balance and beginning to fall. I turned with him and hit him again with the log. This time I connected with the side of his head and he grunted once before hitting the ground and rolling past me, carried by his own momentum.

  End of story.

  I checked him over in case he was playing possum. He was out cold. It really wasn’t his night; he smelled of burnt cloth and one leg felt bare where the fabric had burned away. What was interesting was the assault rifle he’d dropped. It was short and stubby and by the feel of it I guessed it was something special, like an AS Val, with a permanent night-vision scope and flash suppressor. That accounted for the lack of noise when the bullets fired by his colleague had almost taken my face off.

  ‘Kruglov?’ A voice called out from the dark.

  So that was his name.

  ‘Kruglov!’

  Kruglov wasn’t going to answer.

  I was about to check through the rifle’s scope for movement when Kruglov’s pal decided he’d had enough of waiting. He switched his rate of fire to fully-automatic and hosed down my corner of the cabin. As I hugged the ground and waited for the chunks of wood and filler to stop raining down on me, I heard the sound of footsteps running through the bush. They were heading away from me and I knew inst
antly what he was doing: he was going for Tzorekov alone.

  I ran towards the jetty and veered off to follow the edge of the lake. I wasn’t worried about the gunman seeing me down here; it was low down and gave me enough cover. It was also the shortest distance to Tzorekov’s cabin, where I had to intercept him.

  I had to hand it to them, these guys were serious. They’d come in fast and were using military-grade equipment. It was special forces stuff but I still wasn’t convinced they were serving personnel; if they were, they’d have flown in right over the cabins and abseiled down and it would have all been over within minutes, job done.

  I came to a clutch of trees growing right down at the lake side, and slipped into the water up to my waist. The going was muddy and soft, pulling at my boots. A tangle of weeds felt like snakes around my ankles, bringing back childhood memories of wild swimming in lakes and rivers and the fear of feeling you were suddenly going to be pulled under, never to be found.

  I pushed on, trying not to make a noise and watching for signs of light from the other cabins. If the other residents had slept through the past ten minutes they must be drunk or drugged. If not, and they had seen the fire display, they were simply keeping their heads down and minding their own business.

  As soon as I had a decent amount of scenery between me and the shooter, I came up out of the water and moved into the trees.

  I figured I was now about fifty yards away from Tzorekov’s cabin. If the attacker was following the signal from the Touareg, all he had to do was move in the general direction and he’d trip over it. Which meant I had to place myself in the way and wait – or stop him getting anywhere close.