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
