Cold East

‘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.’

‘Don’t go getting any grandiose ideas; it was coincidence not serendipity. Are you a patriot?’

‘To Russia?’

‘Who else?’

‘The people, yes. The country, perhaps. The Kremlin? No.’

‘That’s very good to hear, if you mean it. I need to assess you and, even if, after that, you were to pass, you’d be strictly on probation. Make a mistake or step out of line and this file gets updated and sent along with you on a one-way ticket to London. Or, failing that, perhaps I throw you in the nearest river; it all depends on whether I’ve had a bad day or not.’

Gorodetski allowed himself a half-smile. ‘You should work at the Army recruiting office.’

‘Who said I didn’t? Here is your first test – an act of good faith you could call it.’ Casey picked up the file containing the information on ‘James East’. ‘I need something for the FBI to, how can I put this, ease your transition into my custody and persuade me I’m not making a mistake with you.’

‘I understand.’

Casey tapped the file. ‘Who was responsible for your legend?’

Gorodetski frowned. ‘Responsible?’

‘Where did you get your false identity from?’

Gorodetski paused for a beat before he spoke. ‘Tim Bull. He’s a high-school science teacher in Miami and an old KGB asset.’

‘And he’s gone freelance?’

‘For the right price. He doesn’t like the current Russian President.’

‘Who does?’ Casey shrugged. ‘I’m going to need everything you have on him.’

‘Agreed.’

‘It wasn’t a request, Sergey.’

*

Sol-Iletsk, Russia

Penal colony No. 6 in the Urals town of Sol-Iletsk was known as ‘Black Dolphin’ and officially classified as a ‘final destination’ prison. It was one of five Russian facilities where criminals sentenced to death were held, but by far the most ominous. Inmates unlucky enough to be sent there had no chance of escape and, unofficially, no hope of parole. The Black Dolphin’s seven hundred inmates represented Russia’s most brutal criminals and included murderers, cannibals, rapists, paedophiles, and terrorists. One of the seven hundred was a Chechen, Aslan Kishiev. Sentenced to full life imprisonment for his part in terrorist attacks on Russian civilian targets, he was nicknamed ‘mini-Laden’. Kishiev had been the de-facto leader of the Islamic International Brigade ever since its founder, Shamil Basayev, had been killed in 2006. Kishiev had continued the jihad against Russia until he was finally betrayed by a close friend. Outraged at the manner in which he had been captured, at his trial Kishiev had openly vowed revenge by offering a bounty for the informer’s head. This, however, had only added to the charges levelled against him. To mock Kishiev further, the Prosecutor General ensured the weasel gave evidence no more than ten feet away from where he stood. Found guilty on all twenty-three breaches of the Russian penal code, which included murder, torture, hostage-taking, illegal arms trading, terrorism, and armed rebellion, he had then learnt of his fate. Kishiev would live out the rest of his days at the notorious Black Dolphin, where he would be monitored twenty-four hours a day, forced to sleep with bright overhead lights switched on, and, from 6 a.m. to 1 p.m. every day, forbidden to sit on his bed. He would be liable to be checked every fifteen minutes by a passing guard and would live in complete isolation from the outside world. The Prosecutor General closed proceedings by stating that Kishiev would not be a martyr, he would simply be ‘forgotten’.

It had been a bitterly cold February afternoon in 2011 when Kishiev had arrived at his new home. Blindfolded with a black hood, he and the other new arrivals were made to walk from the prison truck to their cells, past a line of guard dogs barking viciously in their ears. Unable to see even his own feet, he had no idea if the dogs were on leads or if they would attack without warning. Once in his cell, a fifteen-day ‘educational introduction’ to his new life at Black Dolphin, a life that had been described as ‘death in instalments’, commenced. Each of the inmates of Black Dolphin had killed an average of five people; Kishiev, many more. The exact number of deaths his group were responsible for had never been truly calculated. He had been treated as a terrorist, but Kishiev saw himself as a soldier for Allah, a believer whose pacifist soul had been torn away, destroyed when his lands and faith had been mercilessly attacked by Russia. But as a terrorist, he had been thrown in with the worst filth Russia had to offer. He was forced to share a four-and-a-half-metre-square cell with a man from Murmansk convicted of cannibalism, a crime he hadn’t known still existed. Locked away in a cell within a cell, behind three sets of steel doors, it was a bleak, isolated, and hopeless existence.

As the roll call started for cell #174, both convicts adopted the ‘position’. Bending double they approached their inner cell door backwards, arms out to their sides with palms upturned, heads tilted up with their eyes closed and mouths open. The position made it impossible to move with any speed or launch an attack. It also made them look ridiculous. The prisoners in turn stated their full names, before two guards took a prisoner each and handcuffed them. Once done, each inmate was grabbed by the neck and pushed out into the corridor. They were then made to stand in a stress position holding their handcuffed arms above their heads, leaning forward with their foreheads against the wall. Kishiev heard two more guards enter his cell to commence the daily search and check protocol, while, no more than a metre away, he could feel the hot breath of an Alsatian pulling at its lead. Eyes shut until ordered to open them, Kishiev’s day had started again.

The man in charge of Black Dolphin, Lieutenant Guard Grigori Zontov, stood with his men outside Kishiev’s cell. It was exactly 6 a.m. It was his routine; he insisted on being present for morning inspection and roll call. Today, however, was not normal: they had a visitor. To be more specific, Kishiev had a visitor, something that was unheard of. A man from the FSB awaited them in Zontov’s office. The visitor had orders, from the Russian President no less, that he be granted immediate access to the Chechen.

‘Cell 174 at ease.’ Zontov studied the human detritus before him with unhidden disgust.

‘Yes, sir,’ Kishiev and Rasatkin, the cannibal, replied in unison. It was an order to open their eyes, but not to relax the stress position.

‘Do you have any forbidden items?’

‘No, sir.’ Without being ordered to, the men opened their jaws and stuck out their tongues while their mouths were searched for any concealed items.

Zontov had no sympathy for the pathetic pair of animals in front of him; to call them humans made his tongue curl. When the search of the cell was completed, he ordered ‘Convict Rasatkin’ back inside while his men placed a black hood over Kishiev’s head. As he was taken under the arms and led away, Zontov felt no need to inform the Chechen of the reason why he was now being separated from the other inmates. After five minutes of twists and turns, in silence except for the heavy breathing of the guard dog at his heels, the hood was removed. Kishiev squinted and, to his surprise, found he was in an office. Zontov quickly closed the blinds and switched on the light; he didn’t want his prisoner to have any idea where the office was located in the prison or to see the daylight outside.

The man at the table dismissed Zontov in a cursory manner. ‘Thank you. That will be all.’

‘I must stay here; it is what the regulations state.’

‘You will leave the room now, Lieutenant Guard Zontov. This is what I state.’

Zontov bristled. It was his office, his prison, his command. But the man sitting in his chair, at his desk, had a letter which carried the presidential seal. ‘Very well.’

Kishiev showed no outward sign of emotion but inside praised Allah as he started to realise his insurance policy might have been banked.

The man facing him wore an expensive suit and had a Moscow accent. ‘I had hoped you were already dead, Kishiev.’

The Chechen’s eyes burnt with hatred as he recognised the man seated behind the desk. It was the same FSB officer who had liquidated his brother Chechens and carried out a personal crusade against him. ‘Strelkov.’

‘There has been an explosion on the Moscow metro system. Many Russians have been killed and a further number wounded. Your group has claimed responsibility.’

Kishiev noticed a calendar on the wall with a red indicator showing the date. ‘That is because they are responsible.’

‘You knew this was going to happen, didn’t you?’

‘This is only the first. There will be a further attack tomorrow and then again in three days.’

‘You will give me the details of the planned attacks in order for them to be halted.’

‘No.’

‘I do not think that you quite understand my position, Kishiev. I report directly to the Director of the FSB.’

‘And I take my direction from Allah, peace be upon Him.’ Strelkov’s rank and title meant nothing to him. What was important was what he could offer.

Strelkov’s nostrils flared above his neat moustache. ‘You will give me the information I want or face the consequences.’

‘Shoot me.’ Death would be a welcome release from the monotony of his current existence.

‘I knew you would be unreasonable,’ Strelkov stated smoothly. ‘We are holding your wife and child. Unless I get the information I require their lives will become very uncomfortable.’

Rage flashed across Kishiev’s eyes, then fear tugged at his chest. His family had been hidden, had been living well away from Chechnya in Abkhazia. ‘I don’t believe you.’

Strelkov held up a photograph of a woman and young girl standing with two masked FSB commandos. ‘We found them in Sukhumi, enjoying the sea air.’

Kishiev’s jaw hardened. ‘I shall never leave this place or see them again, so I must accept that they are dead to me.’

‘If you would like to see them dead that can be arranged. Shall I bring you another photograph showing just that?’ He raised his voice. ‘Do you want that? Do you want to be responsible for the death of your wife, of your own daughter?’

Kishiev noticed a vein in Strelkov’s neck throb. ‘What do I get if I speak?’

‘A guarantee that your family will not be harmed.’

Kishiev shook his head slowly. ‘No. What you will do is release me from here and reunite me with my family.’

‘That is not possible. Now tell me about the next attack.’

‘Those are my terms.’

‘You are in no position to demand terms!’

‘Then the attacks will take place, and the Great Sheik Al-Mujahid will hear of them and declare me a true warrior for Islam. He will proclaim that, even though I am in your most secure prison, I am still waging jihad, that I cannot be stopped! Allahu Akbar!’

Strelkov’s sneer returned. ‘By “Great Sheik” I take it you mean “Bin Laden”?’

‘He who is all powerful, the Lion Sheik. The infidels tremble at his name.’

‘Your Lion Sheik became a lamb to the slaughter. Bin Laden was captured by the Americans on the 2nd of May 2011. They executed him and tossed his body into the sea.’

Kishiev felt his jaw slacken and his mouth drop open. He had spent more than a decade training in Afghanistan, meeting and conversing with Bin Laden freely on several occasions. As a highly placed commander of an Al-Qaeda affiliated group, he was one of the few who had been privy to discussions on planning. ‘You are lying. The Americans will never find the Sheik. He is a great warrior and moves as the wind.’

‘He was living in Abbottabad, Pakistan. He was not living like a warrior, but like an old woman.’

There was a silence. Kishiev tried to read Strelkov’s face. He could see that the intelligence officer was too conceited to hide the satisfaction he was getting from informing Kishiev of the news. He was too smug to be telling lies. Kishiev let himself smile and then laugh. He laughed hard until it turned into an uncontrollable cough. Strelkov did not understand. Kishiev recovered and spoke. ‘If that is the case you have truly lost. The Hand of Allah shall be released and your capital cities shall burn to the ground!’

Strelkov shook his head dismissively. ‘Enough of your religious rhetoric. Bin Laden is dead and so is your cause.’

‘You speak of rhetoric; I speak of a real weapon.’ Kishiev saw little point in keeping it a secret any longer. ‘The Hand of Allah is a nuclear device. The Lion Sheik ordered it be deployed after his death.’ His laugh returned, only this time harder than ever.

The man from the FSB was stunned. Had Al-Qaeda finally got its hands on nuclear material? Was the Chechen lying? ‘What do you know of this device?’

‘I know that it is a suitcase bomb, and I know its designation. I am extremely surprised that it has not already been detonated, but then perhaps the timing is the surprise?’

‘Where is it?’ Strelkov replied too quickly.

‘What will you give me?’

Strelkov scrutinised the terrorist’s face. This was a ploy, he was sure, a ploy to gain his freedom. It had to be a fabrication. But what if he were telling the truth? What if one of the world’s deadliest weapons had fallen into the hands of Islamic terrorists? Strelkov had led raids against the terrorists in Afghanistan, in Chechnya, and in Dagestan. Rooting out and apprehending Muslim extremists had been the focus of his career, and he had won. But had they now achieved the impossible? Strelkov started to feel his heart beat faster and had to breathe deeper to control his rising fear. All the while the Chechen laughed at him like a circus clown, yet he had to take the statement seriously. ‘What is the designation of the weapon?’

Kishiev became serious. He had a memory for numbers and specifications and had wanted to be an engineer before becoming a Mujahideen, before discovering a love for weaponry and the technology of weaponry. He knew how to dismantle, clean and repair any number of firearms and had created very effective IEDs. ‘The designation of the device that I know of is RA-115A.’

Strelkov felt his blood chill and for a moment could not speak. What felt like a lifetime ago, when his employer had been known as the KGB, he had been assigned to a guard unit protecting the perimeter of a military base. Within the base had been a weapons-testing facility. He had never actually seen the device, or known where or if it had been developed, but talk among his unit, who met with other guard units at sporting events, was that a new type of atomic weapon called the RA had been created that was both deadly and portable.

‘Where is it?’ Strelkov demanded.

Kishiev remained silent.

Enraged, Strelkov leapt from the table and backhanded the Chechen across the face.

Kishiev slipped sideways and fell onto the floor. In his weakened state, after three plus years in prison, the once fearsome warrior could not fight back. He tasted blood in his mouth as he spoke. ‘I know of the plans, the route it may take. I will tell you in return for my freedom.’

Strelkov rushed out of the door. He already had his phone to his ear as two of Zontov’s men entered to secure the prisoner. Strelkov speed-dialled the FSB number, but it would not connect. He pulled the phone from his ear and stared at it before yelling at Zontov. ‘Why is there no signal?’

‘There is no signal for security reasons, Comrade.’ It humoured Lieutenant Guard Zontov to see the self-important FSB agent lose control.

‘What? Where can I get a signal?’

Zontov inclined his head. ‘Two kilometres in that direction, I believe.’

Strelkov balled his fists, his knuckles turning white. ‘Where is the nearest landline?’

‘Back there, in my office.’

‘Is it secure?’

‘It is a telephone in my secure office.’

‘That is not what I meant!’ Strelkov snapped, turned on his heels, and went back inside. He picked up the desk phone and was about to make a call when he noticed that Kishiev was still in the room, standing between the two guards. ‘Take that outside and wait.’

The room empty, Strelkov lifted the handset to make a call to Moscow but then hesitated. Moscow was almost sixteen hundred kilometres away and two hours behind Sol-Iletsk. He checked his wristwatch; it was almost a quarter to seven, which meant it would be a quarter to five in the morning in his Director’s Moscow mansion. Strelkov sighed, shook his head, and called his chief, Director Nevsky, on his mobile phone. It rang out to voicemail. Strelkov ended the call and immediately redialled. This time it was answered on the fourth ring by a slumber-thickened voice. Strelkov took a breath and explained what he had been told by the Chechen.

Several more time zones away at the headquarters of the NSA in Fort Meade, an analyst grabbed hold of his desk to stop himself falling from his chair. The Echelon system had picked up a phone call to a flagged and secure number, but, unusually, the caller was using an unsecured landline. This was surprising, but what was explosive were the keywords it had picked up on: Al-Qaeda… nuclear device… detonate… Western city… Hand of Allah…

Chapter 3

Mashhad, Iran

At the town of Herat, the group of six Holy Warriors were met without incident by their Iranian smuggler. A man well known to the guards on both sides of the border, he received his orders from an Egyptian, who since October 2001 had lived in Iran, immune to US attacks, and continued to serve as head of Al-Qaeda’s security committee. The truck was used officially for cross-border trade, and unofficially to funnel foreign fighters through Iran. The relationship between Al-Qaeda and Iran was a complicated one, but one that for the moment favoured Mohammed Tariq and his team. At the Iranian border they were waved through after a perfunctory check while other potential Afghani migrants were hauled from trucks and beaten. Those who attempted to make a run for it were shot. Unlike the ‘soft’ borders of the EU, the Iranian guards were authorised to use lethal force to protect their beloved country from any undesirable visitors.