Cold East

The driving rain cut down visibility, which was good for concealment. He lay on the damp concrete under the truck, his left side leaning against the cold steel of the skip. His dark-blue waterproofs kept most of the rain out save for a continuous trickle working its way down into his cuff where it mixed with the sweat on his clammy skin. Lights came on in the timber warehouse as the first workers began to arrive. The business park, however, remained silent. Seven o’clock came and the sky lightened, but the rain did not, continuing to pound on the steel of the skip and the hood of the truck. His view was limited to what he could see directly ahead between the truck and the skip and to his right under the vehicle. If anyone approached on foot he would be blind until they were directly on top of him. His position was far from perfect. He put all thoughts of comfort to one side and continued to await his prey.

He felt rather than saw the first timber shipment arrive. Trucks could appear any time after the transporters had cleared customs at Newhaven port and been offloaded. For this reason the warehouse was always staffed. It was almost 8 a.m. now, and he stretched in an attempt to relieve cramped muscles. His mind started to repeat over and over the words he had been told… the target was the one who had carried out the orders; the target had burnt, torn, and tortured. Inside the overalls he sweated heavier as a white rage engulfed his body. The target would pay for his brother’s murder. A vehicle approached, the distinctive growl of the AMG Mercedes engine competing against the rain. His mind was suddenly clear, focused, his breathing controlled. He craned his neck and saw the driver’s door open. Positive ID. He moved with the speed and grace of a panther, springing up and away from its den. Uzi in his right hand, he narrowed the gap to his prey and hit him with a stiff arm. The target fell back against the hood of the Mercedes and, a split second later, he pulled the trigger. Intense flashes of light illuminated the stormy morning. The target convulsed, lightning bolts impacting his chest and upper body, forcing him into the car. The gunman stopped and looked into the eyes of the target with hatred. ‘Za mayevo Brata,’ he heard himself yell in Russian. ‘This is for my brother…’ He repeated the proclamation as he emptied the remainder of the magazine into a lifeless corpse… the last time he had used an Uzi was… He felt a pain in his temples and a light flashed, the pain increasing as the light got nearer and brighter. He wanted it to stop; he wanted to move, to run away, but his legs wouldn’t work. He tried to raise his hands to protect his eyes, but they wouldn’t work either. All the while, the light got brighter and the pain intensified. His world changed from the blackest of black to a deep red. James East began to hear a voice speaking in a language he did not officially speak. The red gradually lightened and then the voice spoke to him.

‘Can you hear me?’ The Russian was flawless. ‘You are safe; you are no longer in any danger.’

The doctor noted a flickering beneath the patient’s closed eyelids. He spoke again. ‘If you can hear me, can you try to open your eyes?’ A note was thrust into the doctor’s hand. He read it quickly. ‘I need you to give me the name of your next of kin. We must contact your family to say that you are here and safe with us.’

Family? From somewhere inside East’s mind, a light switched on. His mouth opened and several syllables of Russian rolled out.

‘I am sorry, I did not hear that. Can you say it again?’

More Russian. ‘Y menia bull brat…’ ‘I had a brother…’ East began to say in Russian, then stopped. The pain sharpened and the light became white. Suddenly conscious behind closed eyes, East realised his mistake. He started to groan and make unrecognisable sounds.

‘I am sorry, but I do not understand. Can you say that again?’ The doctor moved closer.

East opened his eyes and spoke in English; his throat was dry and his voice raspy, but his Boston accent, the same one he had used for the past three years, was unmistakable. ‘Where am I?’

The two men standing over the bed momentarily seemed surprised before regaining their composure. The doctor spoke first, sticking to Russian. ‘You are in hospital. You were involved in a shooting.’

East blinked, feigning incomprehension. ‘I’m… s… sorry. What did y… you say?’

The doctor began to speak, but the second man touched him on the shoulder and shook his head. He asked in English, ‘What’s your name?’

‘My… my name is James… James East.’

‘Well, Mr East, my name is Mr Casey. As Dr Litvin was attempting to say, you were caught up in a terrorist attack.’

East tried to sit up, but a searing pain behind his eyes blurred his vision.

Dr Litvin placed his hand on his patient’s arm and now also switched to English. ‘Try not to move too quickly; your body has suffered some trauma.’

East closed his eyes; when he opened them again his vision had returned. He assessed the room. It was a standard hospital white. He noted the badge on the doctor’s coat but directed the question to Casey. ‘Where am I?’

‘You’re in a hospital in Manhattan, Mr East. You were brought here after the shootings. Do you remember that?’

It was hazy, but he did. ‘How long have I been here?’

‘Just over forty-eight hours. You have a concussion.’ The doctor touched his arm reassuringly. ‘You are lucky, Mr East, that it was not more serious.’

‘He must have a thick skull, eh, Doc?’ Casey was jovial.

‘Quite.’

‘Mr East, there are a few questions I would like answered.’

The doctor frowned. ‘If I could have a moment, Mr Casey?’

The doctor stepped outside and folded his arms. He waited for his visitor to join him. ‘While I am more than happy to assist with your investigations, I do not think the patient is medically fit enough to be interrogated.’

Casey raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. ‘Doc, no one’s going to be interrogated. I just need to ask him a few questions.’

‘Not today, Mr Casey. He is not going anywhere. You may question Mr East when I deem him to be fit.’

Casey’s expression hardened. ‘I need to question him in the interests of national security.’

‘You came to me because you thought the patient might be a Russian and, indeed, I heard a few words. However, when he regained consciousness, he spoke English, just like you and me.’ Litvin was an immigrant but didn’t let that cloud the issue. ‘I understand that Mr East is not a normal patient; however, he must be treated as one. Remember, it would be me in the firing line if he were to sue the hospital for any complications or malpractice.’

‘Thank you for your candour, Doc.’ Casey decided to push no further.

*

Scanning the room, East realised there was no TV in the corner, just an empty bracket. He tried to sit up again but felt as though a gigantic hand was squeezing his head.

The door opened and Litvin appeared. He smiled as he neared. ‘Mr Casey is a government agent and wanted to interrogate you. I told him you were not well enough. You need to rest.’ Litvin sat in the chair next to East’s bed. ‘Can you remember what happened?’

‘I think so. How many did they kill?’

‘Nine dead, and seventeen others with gunshot injuries. It was a miracle more innocent shoppers didn’t die. Some people are calling you a hero. I, for one, agree with them.’

‘Thanks, I guess.’ Nine! Inwardly East cursed. Why hadn’t he been faster? Why couldn’t he have been by the entrance to stop them?

Litvin seemed to read his mind. ‘I expect you are asking yourself why you couldn’t have saved more people, or shot the terrorists sooner?’ East nodded and Litvin continued. ‘You are suffering from survivor’s guilt, and everyone does. You wonder why you were chosen to live when others died, when others might have been more deserving of life. No one has answers to this, not down here at least. We are not party to the great plan. Tell me, are you a religious man?’

‘No.’

‘I see. I am from Moscow… and you, Mr East?’

‘Boston.’

‘Originally?’ Litvin raised his eyebrows. East didn’t reply, so the doctor continued. ‘Where did you learn your Russian?’

‘I did a course at college. It was either that or Spanish.’

‘You spoke Russian several times while you were sedated.’ In actual fact, it was when the sedation had begun to wear off, but Litvin wasn’t going to admit the anaesthesiologist might have got the dose wrong.

East changed the subject. ‘When can I leave, Doctor?’

‘In about a week or so. There was some swelling to your cerebellum, which is at the base and back of your brain, and is responsible for coordination and balance. The good news is that the scans did not show any obvious damage. Until you regained consciousness, however, we could not be certain. Now you are conscious, you need to undergo further tests.’

East frowned. ‘Why was Mr Casey here?’

‘Mr East, there was a shooting; these things have to be investigated. I think it is best that you rest now. My colleague from the neurological team will be along to check up on you later.’ Litvin rose and left the room. His patient needed rest and, regardless of who the men in suits were, they must let him be.

East closed his eyes. What Litvin had said was true; he wasn’t worthy to live because of the innocent lives he had taken in the past. Any of the nine murdered shoppers had more to offer society than him. He closed his eyes for a moment. Were the painkillers altering his mood, making him morose, or did he really feel this way? He sat in silence. He had no idea. What he did know, however, was that he had messed up, and now he had to work on his escape.

Chapter 2

Kabul, Afghanistan

‘Brothers, our Islamic Emirate is strong. The West cannot defeat us, for when we all shall die it will be with the grace of Allah, peace be upon Him! Those of us destined for martyrdom will die as Holy Warriors, leading the jihad against the infidel crusaders! On this sacred mission we shall be martyred on the infidel’s own soil. For us there shall be no fear. It is the infidels who shall fear us and the anger of Allah!’ The audience voiced their agreement. ‘My brothers, you will continue to fight without fear, knowing that we have the blessing of our faith! Brothers, it is time for our journey to begin!’ Mohammed Tariq stood and embraced in turn each of the men staying in Kabul, those who would continue to fight in their homeland while he and his five soldiers of Islam headed for the border.

The group of Holy Warriors left the dimly lit room and walked towards the bus. Although almost one in the morning, the coach station south-west of the Afghani capital was busy. Twenty-four hours a day, buses and trucks poured out of Kabul, taking migrants on the first leg of what they believed was their journey to new lives abroad. The bus Tariq’s cell would take was known by locals as the ‘border bus’. It ran nightly, travelling the four hundred miles west to Herat, a town near the Iranian border. At Herat, Tariq’s men would be met by an Iranian contact, who would conceal them within his truck for the crossing into Iran at the Islam Qala border checkpoint. Once in Iran they would pass through Taybad and then on to Mashad, the resting place of the Imam Reza. It made no difference to Tariq that Mashad was one of the holiest cities in the Shia Muslim world, for in the name of Allah he had put aside all notions of Shia or Sunni. It was division that had held back Muslims and allowed the infidels to exploit them.

Tariq stepped onto the bus, followed closely by his trusted men. A sea of mostly young, expectant, Afghan faces stared back. They yearned to leave the country; they craved the embrace of the infidel, longed to be prostituted by the West. Unlike Tariq and his team, each migrant before him had on average paid $10,000 to a smuggler to get them into Europe, and some much more. Many would perish en route, prey to the elements, border guards, malnutrition, and bandits. Tariq fought the urge to spit, to lash out; these travellers were turning their backs on their duty to their country, their obligation to the jihad and, most sickening of all, their obedience to the Muslim faith. In his mind they were apostate, traitors to Islam and worthy of the death sentence. Tariq fought to keep his face a mask of calm. He and his men were hiding among the sheep, but they were wolves. They were wolves with the most mighty weapon of all; the Lion Sheik, peace be upon Him, had called it the Hand of Allah. Yet what was in the small case had been ordered by Moscow and created in Ukraine. The Hand of Allah had been requisitioned from the infidels who had attempted to destroy the Muslim Caliphate. Tariq enjoyed the irony as his group squeezed into the last remaining seats; the infidel’s own weapon would be used to herald their ultimate destruction.

Tariq bent down to stow the case beneath his feet.

‘Are you going to the West?’

Tariq looked up. A boy, too young to grow a beard, yet old enough to sleep with the infidel, was staring at him. ‘My family has sent me to find work,’ he said. ‘I know it is hard but there is much opportunity in the West.’

‘Indeed, there is much we can do in the West, my brother.’

‘My father has paid for me to go to London. It is the best place. He has heard that France, Germany and Italy are racist countries, but England is good and the government is just. I will find work there.’

The Al-Qaeda operative’s lips imitated a smile. ‘London is a very popular destination. Perhaps one day I shall see you there, Insha’Allah.’

‘Insha’Allah.’

With a scraping, caused by lack of maintenance and a build-up of dirt and sand, the outer doors shut. Moments later the engine coughed into life and the bus heaved out of the station and into the night. Once assured that they were away safely, Tariq closed his eyes. There was little to see and nothing to do. This night they would cross the blackness of the desert on highway one, stopping first at Kandahar before eventually reaching Herat in the heat of the following day. It was a tedious route, but one not many Afghan soldiers would think to monitor for an Al-Qaeda cell. Sheep were ignored by lazy shepherds, and he had been trained how to bleat.

*

British Embassy, Kyiv, Ukraine

Snow closed the laptop, his after-action report on the rescue of Mohammed Iqbal finished, and checked his watch. He needed some downtime away from anything to do with HM Government; two weeks of intensive undercover work in and around Donetsk had left him drained. He lifted his iPhone from the desk and scrolled through the contacts until he saw a name which brought a smile to his face. He dialled the number.

An hour later Snow stepped out of a taxi in front of the salubriously named Standard Hotel on the corner of Horenska and Sviatoshinskaya Streets. On the outskirts of central Kyiv, the anonymous small hotel sat squat among the taller apartment blocks. It was a grey and cream two-storey structure and resembled a pair of gargantuan shoeboxes, placed one atop the other. The main hotel entrance was squarely in the centre of the ground floor, shaded by a burgundy awning, but Snow ignored this and entered via a door on the right-hand corner, itself under a burgundy sign which said ‘Café Bar Standard’. He pushed through a heavy wood door and searched the dark, smoky interior for his old friend. He spotted a figure with craggy features, light-brown hair and wire-framed glasses sitting at a large corner bench, smoking and admiring a table of female customers.

Snow and Michael Jones had been ex-pat teachers together at a time when Snow had thought his gunfighting days were over. ‘Look who it is, the drinking man’s Gordon Ramsay!’

‘Aidan, hokay?’ The Welshman’s accent invited strange looks from the nearest customers.

Snow stuck to the script and adopted a fake Welsh accent. ‘Hello, Mister Jones, how are you?’

‘Eh, not bad.’ Jones beamed. ‘Just look at the crumpet in here!’

Snow laughed out loud; Jones would never change. ‘It’s good to see you, Michael.’

‘You too. How long are you back for?’

‘Just a few days.’ Jones knew Snow had been a member of the SAS, but not that he now worked for the Secret Intelligence Service. Snow stuck to his legend of being a senior teacher at an expensive Knightsbridge private school. ‘The school’s asked me to give a presentation to a few Ukrainian high-rollers.’

‘Persuade them to send their kids to your place, is it?’

‘Correct. I’m free this evening and then I’ve got meetings and business lunches until I fly out on Wednesday.’

Jones raised his eyebrows. ‘Phew, I’m glad I just teach a few English lessons here and there. No stress and lots of time to drink, smoke, and observe the local wildlife.’

Snow shook his head at the fifty-something Welshman. ‘How’s Ina?’

‘Not bad. She lost her job, though.’ Jones’s wife of sixteen years was a banker – and her husband’s banker.

‘Sorry to hear that.’

‘Eh, but she got a new one with a Canadian investment group. She may have to fly out there next month. I don’t mind, it gives me a chance to rest.’ Jones’s diction was lilting and slow, as always after he’d had a few pints. ‘But great to see you, eh!’

‘You too, Mr Jones.’ Snow became serious. ‘So, how have you been this last year?’

‘Fine. We obviously skipped Crimea this summer and thought for a while of coming back to the UK. But then I saw the house prices. I can’t bloody afford to get on the housing ladder at my age! So we didn’t. Our area was pretty isolated from the violence and unrest, thank Christ. But eh, it’s a shocking business, isn’t it? Who are the Kremlin to say Ukraine can’t join the European Union? Ukrainians are good people who were led by a corrupt president. Russians are good people but… people are people, let them live.’ He waved his hand and then drained the remainder of his beer.

Snow agreed with Jones’s statement, even if the wording was a little off, but he didn’t want to get political or morose. For once all he wanted to do was sink a few drinks, reminisce, and relax. And from the look of it, Jones was several drinks ahead of him. Snow caught the attention of the barmaid, who trotted over with menus.

‘Is this your friend, Michael?’

‘This is Aidan. He used to teach with me.’

‘Nice to meet you,’ Snow said in Russian. ‘Two beers, please.’

‘Is Obolon OK?’

‘Fine.’

She smiled pleasantly and returned to the bar with a wiggle that Snow tried but failed to ignore.

‘Service with a smile,’ Jones remarked happily.

‘So, what brings you to this place then?’ Snow asked.

‘One of my students, Vlad, runs it. He’s a good bloke and the beer is so cheap for Kyiv prices!’ Jones was always counting his money. His love of bargains coupled with his love of alcohol had made him an expert on the cheaper watering holes of Ukraine’s capital city.

‘I’m not surprised it’s cheap – it’s in the middle of nowhere.’

‘It’s not far from the metro and if you’re near the metro you’re near everything.’

‘That’s true.’ The beer arrived and Snow held up his glass. ‘Cheers.’

‘You too.’

‘What time does Ina want you home?’

‘Whenever. She doesn’t mind me drinking with you. Thinks you’re a calming influence.’

Snow smacked beer from his lips. ‘I thought she knew me better than that.’

The door opened and a hulking figure ducked his head to enter.

‘He’s a big boy,’ Jones noted, ‘and I thought you were tall.’

‘I am tall. He’s a giant. Do you know him?’

‘No.’ Jones returned his attention to his beer.

The giant, dressed in a tracksuit under a leather box jacket, strode to the bar and, with a booming voice, ordered vodka. He knocked back his drink in one and then demanded a beer.

Snow’s training kicked in as he scanned the bar. The other ten or so customers weren’t making eye contact with the new arrival, especially the table of women Michael had been watching. Two of them discreetly turned their chairs away. The man was dangerous, and by the way people reacted to him, known as being such.

‘Another?’ Jones asked.

‘Silly question.’ Snow winked.

‘Pani!’ Michael called out the Ukrainian word for ‘miss’, also used to mean waitress. ‘Two beers, please.’

The giant turned and leant against the bar, swivelling his large head to stare at them.

Snow involuntarily felt himself tense, ready for action. ‘So, where is this Vlad then?’

‘He’s probably in reception; it’s a family business. His dad owns the hotel; Vlad’s just taken over here and his two sisters work in both. The one at the bar is called Svetlana.’

‘I thought you said you didn’t know him?’

Jones sniggered. ‘Not the giant, the barmaid.’

‘Here.’ Svetlana brought the beers. She no longer seemed happy and hurried back to the bar.

Jones took a long swig and then stood. ‘I’m sorry, I need a slash. Bladder can’t keep up with me anymore.’

Snow continued to assess the threat and the giant continued to stare, until another man appeared in the bar. He wore black jeans and a black T-shirt with ‘Café Bar Standard’ printed on it in burgundy. On seeing the giant, he paused before walking to the bar. Snow watched as the new arrival started to polish glasses as the giant spoke to him.

‘Hokay, Vlad!’ Jones shouted as he emerged from the bathroom a minute later.

Vlad held up a tea towel but said nothing as the giant now glared at Jones.

Jones sat and noticed the expression on Snow’s face. ‘What’s up?’

‘I think the big fella is bad news, Michael.’

‘What, him? He’s just a bloke having a drink. You’ve been away too long.’ Jones produced a new packet of Ukrainian cigarettes from his jacket pocket and fiddled with the polythene wrapper.

‘Maybe.’

A glass smashed at the bar. The giant was pointing at Vlad with his index finger.

‘Shit.’ Snow sighed, getting to his feet. He’d seen enough shakedowns in his time to understand what was happening. ‘Michael, stay in your seat.’

‘What?’ Jones looked up from his cigarettes. ‘Oh, I see.’

Snow placed his empty glass on the counter. Svetlana was sweeping the floor with a dustpan and brush while Vlad stood, frozen like a rabbit in headlights. Snow spoke in Russian. ‘Two more beers, please, and…’ He studied the face of the giant. ‘…Whatever you’re having.’

The big man’s heavy forehead furrowed. ‘Vodka.’

Vlad looked between the two men as he pulled the beer and then poured a shot of vodka.

‘Two vodkas.’ The giant grabbed Vlad’s wrist and scowled at Snow. ‘One for you, too, unless you do not want to drink with Victor?’

‘I’d be honoured, Victor,’ Snow said.

With a shaky hand, Vlad placed the glasses on the bar before retreating. Victor took his glass and Snow copied. There was a moment’s hesitation and then both men threw the contents against the backs of their throats. Victor checked Snow’s reaction to the harsh spirit. There was none.

‘Who is your foreign friend?’

Snow shrugged. ‘He’s an English-language teacher.’

‘I have always wanted to learn English.’ Victor’s face became whimsical. ‘So I can tell foreigners to get the fuck out of my country.’

‘That’s a good reason,’ Snow said.

‘I am sick of seeing all these Westerners around Kyiv! They swagger like they own the place, throwing their money about while, in the East, our men without the correct clothing or equipment or weapons die fighting for Ukraine. And what do the foreigners do to help Ukraine? They call the Russian President and tell him he must stop!’ Victor rubbed his face with his palms before placing them on the bar. ‘Another!’

Snow knew Victor was right, but what could he say? He just nodded at Vlad who again quickly poured two shots.

Victor raised his glass. ‘Ukraine.’

‘Ukraine,’ Snow repeated

Victor swivelled his head. ‘I am from Kamyanka; it’s a village to the south of Donetsk. The DNR have destroyed it. And why couldn’t the Ukrainian army defend it? Because they did not have the equipment! Do you understand?’