Cold East

Snow remained silent; Victor was dealing with some powerful emotions and likely to explode at any moment.

‘I hate foreigners. They sit, drink, shit, and pay to screw our women. That is all.’ Victor looked now at Snow and said mockingly, ‘Thank you for the vodka.’

‘You’re very welcome,’ Snow replied as he collected his beers and moved back to his table.

‘You made friends then?’

‘He’s from the Donbas. He likes me, I’m a nice guy.’

‘That’s because your Russian is too good; ironic, eh?’

‘What’s ironic is that he doesn’t like foreigners, and he thinks you’re foreign.’

‘Well, as an ethnic minority, I am offended! Does he not know about the significant historical links between Wales and Donetsk? Donetsk was founded by a Welshman who opened Ukraine’s first mine and steel works. Ukraine’s first state school was opened in Donetsk, and the first English-language school.’

‘You looked it up?’

‘Of course. Ukrainians like it.’

‘Well, big Victor wants to learn English.’

‘That’s nice.’

‘He wants to learn English so he can tell all us foreigners to eff off.’

‘Make him the Minister for International Relations.’ Jones puffed on a new cigarette.

Snow slurped his beer. ‘Seriously, Michael, he’s trouble, but he’s not sober so his guard’s down. I suspect he’s part of a local protection racket.’

‘Roof insurance.’ Jones used a well-known euphemism. ‘Aye, that’s one thing I thought Maidan got rid of – the crime and corruption. I got stopped by a militia officer the other day who wanted to see my passport. I told him I didn’t carry it around with me for security reasons. So he said I had to pay a fine of $50.’

‘What did you do?’ Snow was sure he’d heard the story before, but now it was updated for modern times.

‘I did nothing. I was walking with Ina. She told him to piss off or she’d report him.’

Snow smiled. ‘You don’t argue with Ina.’

‘Too right. When we got home she did report him.’

There was another crash at the bar and Victor wobbled. He staggered towards Snow and Jones. ‘Teach me.’ His two words of English were slow and slurred. He raised his voice. ‘Teach me!’

Snow got to his feet and held up his palms. ‘OK… OK, have a seat and we can discuss this. We’re not the enemy.’

‘Enemy?’ A grin appeared on Victor’s face. ‘Tell the foreigner to give me his money, and you give me your money. You then can both fuck off.’

‘I’m Welsh,’ Jones said. ‘A Welshman founded Donetsk!’

The giant frowned and, without warning, but with unexpected speed for a man of his size, dropped his shoulders several inches and shot his mammoth right fist out at Snow. Snow instinctively took a step back and, with both arms working at once, his left palm swatted Victor’s arm down while the back of his right fist slammed into the giant’s nose. It was a simple but effective move; no one throwing a punch expected to receive another back before theirs had struck. Victor blinked and retreated a half-step. Snow reversed the momentum of his right fist and struck the man in the jaw. Victor’s legs buckled and he landed on his knees. He had to go down; Snow didn’t want him to be able to fight back, given his size and inherent strength.

‘I am from Oleg. He says you don’t come here anymore. Oleg is in charge here!’

‘Oleg who?’ Victor was dazed.

‘Oleg.’ Snow high-kneed Victor under the chin; his head snapped back, his eyes closed, and he fell. ‘Michael, we’re leaving.’

‘Hokay.’ Jones stood and shrugged at Vlad.

‘Call the militia quickly. Tell them the SBU are on their way.’

Vlad looked at Snow in confusion. ‘SBU?’

‘Yes.’ Snow reached into his pocket, withdrew a $100 bill, and handed it to Vlad. ‘This is for your trouble; any friend of Michael Jones is a friend of mine.’

Michael stared down at Victor. ‘Don’t mess with the SAS.’

Snow grabbed Jones by the sleeve. ‘Time to go.’

Outside, darkness had fallen and they took the path round to the front of the hotel. ‘Who’s Oleg?’

‘There’s always an Oleg.’

Michael pointed down the street. ‘Sviatoshyn metro station is ten minutes that way.’

‘OK, we’ll go back to the centre and drink in a place full of foreigners.’ Snow tapped Jones on the back. ‘Don’t worry – I’m on expenses.’

‘Oh, that’s great. But can you hang on a minute? I need another slash.’

‘Fine.’ Jones walked down the side of the hotel, opened his flies, and urinated into an evergreen shrub. Snow had ceased to be embarrassed by his friend’s antics years before, so took the opportunity to call Blazhevich.

‘Aidan? What’s up?’

‘I’ve had a bit of a problem with a guy in a bar – a giant to be exact. Can you send someone to collect him? I don’t think the local militia would be up to the job.’

He heard the Ukrainian sigh. ‘Where is the giant?’

‘He’s in a hotel on Horenska Street, not far from Sviatoshyn metro.’

‘Was this giant called Victor?’

‘Yes. Why?’

‘Kyiv really is a small village. He’s known to the SBU, and you were lucky.’

‘Why?’

‘Victor Krilov is a former professional boxer, a good one.’

‘Nice.’

‘Aidan, stay out of trouble. I’ll see you and Mr Iqbal tomorrow, at the debrief.’

*

FBI Field Office, New York

Vince Casey looked up from the computer at FBI Deputy Director Gianni before placing his thick index finger on the laptop screen, the display changing colour under the pressure of his digit. ‘This guy’s a “pro”, no doubt in my mind.’

Gianni stared at the frozen image of the member of the public who had taken down four gunmen.

‘Look again at how he moves.’ Casey clicked and rewound the surveillance tape.

Both men watched as the figure travelled with an economy of movement, without any hesitation or lack of purpose.

‘So who is he?’ Gianni asked.

‘That’s why your Bureau and my Agency are interested.’

Gianni sat back and folded his arms. The speed of the man was impressive, as was the way he had terminated the X-rays. ‘Vince, what’s your professional opinion?’

‘I don’t think it’s any different to yours.’

‘Humour me. Spell it out.’

‘Definitely SF or SF-trained.’

Gianni valued the opinion of the CIA black-ops veteran. In the corridor outside the office they heard footsteps. Both men remained silent from force of habit until the footfall faded away. Gianni leaned forward, dragged his laptop nearer, and tapped the keyboard. He glanced across at his long-time friend from the Agency. ‘The fingerprints come up as belonging to a banker from Boston.’

‘Let me have a look at that?’

‘Sure.’ Gianni pushed the laptop back towards Casey. ‘Just scroll down. All we have is there.’

‘Thanks.’ Casey read the report, although he already knew the basics. James East. Born in Boston, put up for adoption by his mother, no record of a father. Placed in a state orphanage, never adopted. There was a grainy photograph taken from a high-school yearbook, which showed East as a bespectacled, blond-haired teen. How was East’s eyesight now, Casey wondered – he’d better check. He read on. After graduating from high school East travelled to the opposite side of the country to study at UCLA. Upon completion of his degree, he volunteered to teach English for charities in Romania and then Bulgaria before returning to the US several years later.

‘Again, Vince, what’s your professional opinion?’ Gianni asked, deadpan.

‘Again, the same as yours.’

‘Too convenient?’

‘Exactly,’ Casey stated wryly. ‘No family, no ties, out of the US, and then no real job until three years ago when he comes back?’

‘And, as you see, no record of any criminal activity, or military service.’

‘So he’s not one of ours,’ Casey confirmed. His initial thoughts had been that East was a ‘NOC’, an agent with ‘No Official Cover’, a black operative. But his CIA database had thus far come up blank as regards any facial recognition match. In his experience even the blackest of NOCs left some record. He’d continue to search.

‘So what do we have?’ Gianni leant back in his chair and rolled his shoulders.

‘Someone else’s asset?’

‘Perhaps, but we’ve got the local office in Boston digging deeper into his background; if there’s anything fishy, we’ll find it.’

The hard lessons learnt from the 9/11 terror attacks had now been fully implemented; the varying arms of the US intelligence and law enforcement services worked together, transparently and harmoniously. At least that was the official line, but Gianni and Casey did find the activity of their organisations more and more linked. The Bureau’s remit was ‘domestic security’ and the Agency’s the interests of the US abroad; however, each organisation was keen to keep tabs on suspects, wherever they might be.

Gianni continued. ‘We got a court order to open his safety deposit box. There was nothing in it apart from a few thousand dollars in cash. I’ve asked the NSA to look for any recent calls made on the iPhone he was carrying.’

Casey got to his feet and helped himself to a cup of coffee from the pot in the corner of the room. ‘Whoever Mr East is, he’s got some explaining to do.’

‘Oh, he’ll talk. Hero or not, he’s facing four counts of voluntary manslaughter at the very least.’

‘And how many innocent shoppers did the bad guys get?’

Gianni held up his palms. ‘I know… if it hadn’t been for Mr East we’d have had a full-scale massacre on our hands. The fact still remains, however, that he killed four men. Justice cannot be blind.’

Casey pretended to agree. ‘How did we miss them?’

‘Hey, if we knew that we’d have stopped them ourselves.’

‘Why couldn’t just one of them have lived? At least until we bled him a bit.’

It angered and annoyed Casey that the shooters had appeared from nowhere. The leads from the increased chatter following Bin Laden’s kill/capture even now had them all chasing their tails. And, added to this, new threats from Islamic State to take their fight to the West had, in short, created so much chatter that it had become a shield. ‘The bigger question is, how many more have we missed?’

‘You know as well as I do how much traffic the NSA is looking at, the volume Echelon is sifting. My question is, why attack a store in Morristown, New Jersey? Why not hit the branch opposite Ground Zero?’

Casey had been wondering the same thing and had no answer. Was it random, opportunistic, a mistake, or personal? ‘We may never know.’

‘Yep,’ Gianni agreed. The identities of the four men remained unknown. There had been no IDs found on the bodies and the fingerprints had thrown up fake legends, the origins of which were still being traced. ‘How is Mr East?’

‘Why?’

Gianni gave Casey his no-shit stare. ‘I need to talk to him. Remember, we are in the USA; the rule of law has to be followed, otherwise we’ll be no better than them.’

Casey raised his eyebrows. ‘Hey, I’m not farm-fresh, remember? We have laws, and sometimes they bend.’

‘OK.’ Gianni sighed imperceptibly; he knew he was fighting a losing battle. Casey had an agreement with the Commander in Chief that Gianni wasn’t meant to know about. ‘Someday, Vince, you’re not going to get what you want. This isn’t a pissing contest; we’ve both known each other too long for that. East has to be under my watch. I’ll pull my agents back a bit. After you’ve finished talking to him we’ll resume our perimeter and he’s mine. OK? Any intel you get, copy me in.’

‘Thanks, Gino,’ Casey said affably, ‘but I wasn’t asking you for permission.’

Gianni was about to reply when Casey’s Blackberry pinged. Casey retrieved it from his pocket and read the alert. ‘Shit. They’ve hit Moscow again.’

*

SBU Headquarters, Volodymyrska Vulitsa, Kyiv

The room chosen by the SBU for Iqbal’s debriefing was much more elaborately furnished than any at Vauxhall Cross. The walls were clad in ornate, gilded, hand-painted panels, and the chairs were highly padded and covered in an array of exotic leather. The large table in the middle could hold twenty guests, but today it had seated only five: Mohammed Iqbal and the intelligence officers responsible for his rescue – Aidan Snow, Alistair Vickers, Vitaly Blazhevich, and Ivan Nedilko.

At the start of the meeting Vickers officially presented Blazhevich, who was deputising for Director Dudka, with copies of Iqbal’s and Snow’s statements. It had taken most of the day to meticulously go through these, the SBU being loath to miss anything that could potentially be of use in their ongoing antiterrorist operation against the DNR and possible future international indictments. Photographs of known DNR members were shown in turn to both Iqbal and Snow, and videofits were created of as yet unidentified men. All in all, Iqbal’s illegal incarceration had provided the SBU with valuable Humint (human intelligence) they wouldn’t otherwise have been able to gather.

Blazhevich signalled Nedilko to switch off the digital tape recorder as he closed the folder in front of him. ‘Gentlemen, I think that’s it. We have finished here.’

The official part of the debriefing complete, Snow let out a long sigh. ‘I could murder a beer.’

‘Me too,’ Iqbal said.

Nedilko was confused. ‘But aren’t you a Muslim?’

‘Yes, but some of us do drink, you know.’

‘Unfortunately,’ Vickers stated, ‘we can’t be seen in a bar together. People will wonder who you are, Mo, and then, well, you know how it is.’

‘I see.’ Iqbal had been made to sign the Official Secrets Act, the SIS’s involvement in his rescue being classified and having to remain so.

‘So, your flat it is then, Alistair?’ Snow added quickly, filling the gap in the conversation. ‘Right, votes for Alistair’s place; let’s see a show of hands.’

Vickers pursed his lips as all hands but his own were raised in the air. ‘Very well, my flat it is.’

Blazhevich shrugged. ‘Unfortunately, I am going to have to bow out on this occasion. My wife is expecting me home.’

Snow raised his eyebrows but made no further comment – it wasn’t like Blazhevich to pass on a booze-up.

The five men left the conference room and took the steps down to the ground floor. Blazhevich hung back and pulled Snow to one side. ‘By the way, my colleagues took “the giant”, as you called him, into custody. It was the same guy Nedilko and I arrested a year ago.’

‘Thanks for that.’

‘He wanted to press charges against the guy from Kharkiv who’d attacked him.’

‘Kharkiv?’

‘He assured us that his attacker was a Russian-speaking Ukrainian.’

‘Looks like my Moscow accent needs a bit of work then?’

‘No, it’s his cauliflower ears. So we’ve charged him with racketeering, for the second time. You do know you were extremely lucky? He was a dangerous individual before, but now that he’s started to rage about the Donbas he’s become completely unhinged.’

‘Then I’m glad you’ve put him away.’

‘So am I, but you did hit him quite hard.’

‘Whoops.’

‘So this used to be the old KGB building then?’ Iqbal asked as he stared at the armed guard manning the reception desk.

‘Yes, and I wouldn’t like to think what happened in the underground levels,’ Vickers replied.

‘What, they’ve got catacombs?’ Iqbal’s eyes widened.

‘No, a basement with cells.’

‘Oh, I see.’

‘Yeah, they threw me in one once,’ Snow called out, catching up with the others.

‘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.’