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
