Hard Cover Page 14

  I opted for stopping him. If he saw the cabin and got past me, all he had to do was find a window, then open fire and riddle the interior with gunfire. Tzorekov and his buddy Gurov would be turned into burger mince. But if I engaged him before he got that far, it might be enough to put him off trying.

  I checked the assault rifle by feel. It was covered in dust where it had rolled around in the dirt a few times, but these weapons were made for a rough life. If it let me down I was going to write a serious letter of complaint to the manufacturers.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  ‘What is it?’ Tzorekov was awake. He threw his blanket aside and sat up as Gurov stepped across the cabin to the window.

  ‘It’s nothing. I’m just checking something.’ Gurov was staring out over the lake. He could just make out the line of the jetty against the water, but not much else. He’d heard something too, but he couldn’t make out what. It had been enough to drag him from a light sleep, but not quickly enough to put an image to the memory. And there had been a flash of light glowing briefly before being extinguished. Not torchlight but something bigger and less defined – a naked flame?

  ‘Stay here,’ he said, and stepped outside, the gun in his hand. It was probably nothing; a hunter perhaps, out late when he should have been fast asleep or dead drunk. But he had to make sure.

  Silence.

  Then came a snapping sound, rapidly repeated. It wasn’t far, maybe two or three hundred metres, and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stir with a distant memory. He’d heard a noise like that before, while training with the FSB. He turned and went back inside. ‘Quick, we have to move – now!’

  ‘Why – what’s going on?’ Tzorekov demanded, but he gathered up his clothes and headed for the door, his instincts and faith in Gurov taking over. Answers could come later.

  ‘The bastards are here, that’s what.’ Gurov grabbed his things, checked they had left nothing behind, then headed outside after his boss.

  They bundled their gear inside the Touareg and Gurov handed the gun to the old man. ‘If you see anybody in our way, shoot them. Don’t wait, just shoot.’

  Tzorekov took the gun and wound down the window. ‘What if it’s a hunter?’

  ‘Too bad. It will teach him not to go around killing innocent animals. Ready?’ Gurov turned the ignition and eased the Touareg forward along the track towards the road, ready to stamp on the gas and hit the lights. He was praying that the engine noise wouldn’t alert anybody to their departure but right now it was the only option he had. If it was a hunter out there, blundering around in the dark, it had to be one armed with a silenced automatic weapon; he’d heard that snapping sound often enough not to be mistaken.

  He flicked on the main beams for a second to see the layout of the track, then switched them off again. It was enough to cover some distance before switching them on again for another look.

  They reached the end of the track and came out in the clearing in front of the office. The space was empty and the office lights were out. He stopped and turned off the engine, then got out and jumped onto the hood.

  Absolute silence.

  Wait. An engine noise. Distant but audible, a high-pitched whine. A helicopter. The same one he’d heard earlier?

  He got back in and hit the gas. This wasn’t good. He felt sick with guilt; he’d been a fool to have waited for daybreak – they should have got out while they could. Now they’d been tracked down and the search was closing in.

  As he set off along the road, he was wondering how the hell the followers had managed to find them.

  TWENTY-NINE

  I knew the cabin was deserted before I got there. I’d heard the sound of an engine but it had been too soft to locate the source. Now I knew. Gurov would have been alerted by the noise and the light from the lake, and had taken off fast.

  I ran past the open door, across the space where the Touareg had stood earlier and continued into the trees. I still planned on stopping the opposition, even though their quarry was gone. Whoever they were, this was just the first attempt; they would keep on trying until they got lucky.

  I heard a shout. It was far enough away but I knew what it meant: they had given up. They must have guessed the two men had lit out and were now regrouping to take up the hunt later.

  I jogged back to the cabins and made for the path to the lake. The man whose gun I was carrying was gone from outside my cabin, and I figured his pal had picked him up. There was only one place they could have been making for.

  The distant whine of the helicopter told me that.

  I continued as quickly as I dared on their trail, cutting off briefly down to where the boat had come ashore. The smell of gas and burned brushwood still hung in the air, but there was no sign of the men. The boat was still there, sitting low in the water about twenty feet away, with one oar hanging over the side like a broken arm.

  I carried on along the path. If nothing else I could give them a send-off and hopefully make it seem like a waste of their time coming back.

  The Ansat’s engines burst into a full-throated roar when I was still a hundred yards away. They were taking off. I put on speed, but as I reached the edge of the clearing I saw lights rising through the foliage ahead and the branches bending back under the powerful down-draft of the rotors.

  The roar became a clatter as the machine reached a couple of hundred feet and the pilot took it sideways over the treetops with the helicopter equivalent of a racing start. I dropped to one knee and aimed at the main cabin. I didn’t want to kill anyone or bring down the machine, even if I thought I could with such a light weapon. That would attract too much attention and be like sticking my finger in a hornets’ nest. The local military camps Lindsay had mentioned would notice it and in no time the area would be flooded with police, army and emergency personnel.

  But the necessary follow-on to disruption of an attack is to counter-strike and, if further action is required, harassment. It didn’t have to be fatal, but it did have to appear deadly in its intent.

  Whoever they were, I wanted to let them know that they had a fight on their hands.

  One. Two. Three. I couldn’t hear the shots but I felt the recoil of each one against my shoulder. At that range I couldn’t miss and the men inside the flying tin can would certainly hear the ping of impact.

  And in a helicopter, even a light military workhorse like this one, already operating under difficult conditions and very close to trees, taking live fire makes you feel very vulnerable.

  I turned and jogged back to the cabin.

  THIRTY

  ‘What the fuck was that?’ The pilot yelled, as he appeared to be hauling the Ansat into the air by sheer muscle-power alone. His navigator turned to stare at Chesnokoy and the two wounded men, seeking answers.

  ‘We’re taking incoming fire, you idiot,’ Chesnokoy shouted back angrily. ‘I assumed you’d been shot at before.’

  ‘I have and I know what it is – I mean what the hell have you got us into? This was supposed to be a drop-and-carry assignment, not a damned war zone.’

  Chesnokoy ignored him. The less this idiot knew the better. But even he must have known this was no simple logistical exercise. The first thing they had to do was get away from here in one piece, then decide what to do next. That meant talking to Simoyan, the man who’d hired them. With Kruglov nursing a sore head and what looked like a badly smashed arm following his contact with the mystery man at the cabins, and Ignatyev virtually blinded by the brush of fire sweeping over him in the boat, he was going to have some explaining to do. But he was damned if he was going to run away with his tail tucked between his legs. He still had Gorin, who was worth two very good men, and given a chance to regroup, he’d be back in the fight and wipe out whoever had done this.

  ‘You look worried.’ Gorin leaned across and spoke in his ear. ‘And scared.’

  Chesnokoy bit his tongue. If there was one man alive who could say such a thing to him and get away with it, it was Georgi. They had s
hared too many bad moments, some terrifying, some horrifying in the extreme; but that was in the white heat of an operation when they all knew the risks facing them before going out. But this … this was different.

  ‘I’m not worried,’ he shouted back. ‘I’m pissed!’

  Gorin said nothing and went back to tending the two injured men, while Chesnokoy tried to ignore the feeling welling up in his chest. In truth, he was afraid of no man on the planet. At least, no ordinary man. But suddenly he was afraid and it wasn’t a nice feeling. Was it fear of failing? Of losing his men? Or was it the fear of losing the money they’d been promised for this operation and the opportunity it presented for him to get out of this business and make a new start?

  He had no idea. All he knew was, he had a score to settle with the person who had done this, otherwise he’d never experience another peaceful moment in his life. If there was one thing he hated, it was losing a fight and having to retreat.

  He took a deep breath, suddenly aware of how drained he felt after the mad dash through the trees. Struggling to drag Ignatyev along the path while using his radio to call up the Ansat, he’d been filled with rage and a sense of frustration at the turn of events and desperate to go back to the cabins and wreak havoc on whoever had been waiting for them. But he was now two men down and a weapon missing, and in the unaccustomed position of being on the back foot.

  ‘Get those engines turning now!’ he’d yelled as soon as the navigator’s voice responded.

  ‘Ready and waiting. What the hell happened back there?’ The man had sounded calm enough, but was clearly not keen on hanging around any longer than necessary.

  ‘Don’t ask questions – we’re leaving the moment we’re on board!’

  Moments later they had broken through the last of the trees into the clearing, and seen Georgi Gorin waiting at the foot of the clamshell doors, armed and ready. Chesnokoy had heaved Ignatyev unceremoniously up the steps, while behind him Kruglov, still dazed from his contact with the mystery figure in the trees, stumbled against him and cried out as his damaged arm was sandwiched between them.

  The moment they were all aboard with the doors closed, the aircraft had lifted off and begun to turn. Chesnokoy braced himself and helped Gorin grab the two wounded men as the pilot took the machine up and away above treetop level, aiming for maximum speed and lift. Once they were level he helped them buckle in to their seats and got himself belted in while Gorin began to check Kruglov’s arm.

  He tossed the radio on the floor of the cabin; he had no use for it now unless he decided to hurl it at the fool of a pilot. It wouldn’t be logical or professional, but right now he didn’t feel much of either and wanted to smash something. What a fucking mess.

  There was nothing for it. He took out his phone and dialled the number he’d been given. For use only in extreme emergencies, he’d been told, and keep it brief. Well, this was an emergency, he decided. A big one. And he’d keep it brief, all right.

  Five rings. Seven, Ten. Twelve. He was about to hang up when it was answered with a single word. Even over the roar of the engines battering his head, he recognized the gravelly voice immediately. ‘Yes?’

  He stuck a finger in his ear and said calmly, ‘It’s Chesnokoy. I need more men. Armed and ready to fight.’

  THIRTY-ONE

  Victor Simoyan put down his phone in disbelief, and sat back to stare at the darkness outside and consider what he should do. What was that strange saying he’d heard a visiting British trades unionist mutter one day? It never rains but it pours. He’d never thought much about it, dismissing it as some kind of trite British working-class utterance. But now it seemed to have taken on a clear meaning.

  From the start this project had seemed such a simple thing to accomplish; send a group of trained and highly-skilled men with nothing to lose and a substantial reward to gain, to find two targets, one old, one younger, and make certain they never surfaced anywhere ever again, alive or dead. Just like the men who would deal with them, they had to vanish.

  What the hell could go wrong?

  First the call from Gretsky about a nosy air traffic controller picking up the Ansat’s beacon signal, which was worrying enough. The thought that some mid-level functionary might pick up on the log that the pilot had filed and send it on up the line to gain some personal commendation for attention to duty had been sufficient to kill any further ideas of sleep, in spite of the whisky. He’d come into the office instead, preferring the functional surroundings of his workplace to the chilly atmosphere that would prevail if he were to disturb his wife’s slumbers. Now this call from Chesnokoy – ironically, in the same Ansat, which he was beginning to think might be jinxed.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Evgeniy Koroleg was sitting slumped in a chair across the other side of Simoyan’s desk, nursing a glass of whisky. He’d arrived five minutes ago as if summoned by some telepathic message, also unable to sleep and in search of reassurance that what they were doing couldn’t possibly go wrong.

  As usual he looked a mess; a three-day beard under a heavy moustache, and crumpled clothes Simoyan wouldn’t have been seen dead in, even at his own funeral. Like Simoyan, he had been waiting ever since the team had been given the order to go, anxious to hear news that the ‘problem’ of Tzorekov had been dealt with and they and the rest of the Wise Men could relax and carry on their business as normal. Or maybe get some sleep instead of sitting up all night long.

  ‘A slight setback,’ Simoyan said more easily than he felt. ‘Chesnokoy’s run into a little problem.’

  ‘What sort of problem?’

  ‘The kind that bites. I think we may have underestimated Gurov and his ability to protect Tzorekov.’ He reached for the throwaway cell phone and flicked through the limited directory. These were mostly related to certain people the authorities would view with some alarm if his links to them were ever made public.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ said Koroleg. He was looking worried and finished off his drink in one throw, then stared into his empty glass. ‘Hell, what have we started?’ he added.

  ‘What we’ll do is keep going and finish it. What we’ve started is a fight to ensure our survival.’ Simoyan dialled a number, then leaned forward so that Koroleg had to look him in the eye. ‘Don’t make the mistake of going soft on me now, Evgeniy. This is just the first move. Teething troubles. Once we’ve dealt with the traitors, we can rest assured that the situation will continue to our benefit; to Russia’s benefit. Don’t forget, you’re in this all the way; there’s no backing out now for any of us.’

  ‘I know that, of course. I’m not suggesting otherwise.’

  ‘Good.’ There was a click as the call was picked up at the other end. He sat back and said without preamble, ‘I need more men to join Chesnokoy. Four should do it. Liaise with him on this; you have his number. Make sure he heads towards the airfield outside Saint Petersburg and stays there until dark. He can pick the men up there. Same conditions as the others and an extra twenty per cent if they get it right. If they don’t, tell them not to bother coming back.’

  He listened for a moment as the person on the other end spoke, then said, ‘I think the Ansat is going to be required for at least another two days and nights. Yes, I know what I said, but the situation has changed. I’m sure you can square it with everyone involved. Tell them it’s being serviced or repaired, tell them anything you like, make them an offer they can’t refuse. Just make sure it stays in use and off the board, you hear me? And that means flying only at night. Oh, and you’d better sort out some medical help; Chesnokoy ran into some trouble and has two injured men. Find somewhere secure and quiet to keep them.’ He cut the connection and put the phone back in the drawer. Picking up his whisky, he rattled the ice cubes in the glass with a gentle shake of his wrist.

  ‘Who was that?’ Koroleg asked, now looking alarmed. ‘The Ansat’s a military helicopter, isn’t it? How the hell did you get one of those?’

  ‘A man,’ Simoyan replied bluntly. ‘A man
who provides services. That’s all you need to know. Right now he is a provider of logistics and men. Men like Chesnokoy.’ He gave Koroleg a cool glance that conveyed a deliberate message. ‘The kind of men I use when somebody fails to live up to my expectations.’

  Men like the two he was considering sending after the air traffic controller named Datsyuk, who had noticed rather more than he should. It might not be necessary, but the risk of his report becoming more public might outweigh any chance he had of sitting back and doing nothing. After all, if the source happened to have an accident – easy to do in night-time Moscow – that was at least one part of the problem dealt with permanently.

  But he wouldn’t tell Koroleg about that. There were some things that were best kept secret.

  He poured more whisky for them both and decided to wait until dawn. Things often appeared much simpler with the start of a new day.

  THIRTY-TWO

  It was raining again by the time I got back to the cabin. Heavy and relentless, it was going to make visibility even harder once I was out on the road. I checked the Touareg’s tracking signal. It was still there but not strong. Sooner rather than later, with the head start they’d got, they would drop off the edge and I’d lose them. I had to go after them but first I had to contact Langley. This assignment was getting hotter and I needed to know what I was up against. I still wasn’t convinced the attackers had been regular forces, but thinking and knowing weren’t the same. I got inside the cabin and checked the weapon dropped by the man I’d hit.

  As I’d thought, it was an assault weapon; a Russian AS Val silenced sniper’s rifle. It only had a few rounds left in the magazine, but it might prove useful. The model had been around for some time, but beyond that I knew little about it or where this one might have come from. However, I did have its serial number and identifier on the side of the receiver, which housed the trigger assembly and main working parts. And that gave me an idea about checking who the assault team might be working for.