created by the detonation and panic among the Muscovites. He pictured the metro station in his mind as he remembered it, with its scrupulously clean floors, advert-free walls, grand architecture, and fur-clad crowds. As a teenager he had frequently explored Moscow by jumping on the metro after school, much to the annoyance of the British Embassy driver. He had sat and listened to the Muscovites, often taking the train to the end of the line into areas that were strictly off the tourist path. In the late Eighties, just before the Soviet Union crumbled, Moscow had been an exciting place. There had been something in the air, a note of dissent those in power had chosen to ignore, to their ultimate cost.
Today, the people in power were jumpy; an attack in one European capital city put all the others on high alert. Moscow, having once again attempted to resurrect the Soviet Empire by illegally annexing Crimea and invading Eastern Ukraine, had made itself target number one. It had no one else to blame, but it was the Russian people who were suffering and not the warmongering cocks in the Kremlin.
The door to the room Snow was camped out in opened and Alistair Vickers entered. He sat heavily in an armchair. ‘You’ve seen the news, I take it?’
‘What next?’
Vickers shrugged. ‘I have no earthly idea, but Jack’s just called for a video conference.’
On cue, Snow’s secure iPhone vibrated to show an incoming email from Jack Patchem, his boss at SIS. It contained just one word: Moscow. ‘We’d better go to your office then.’
Vickers reluctantly dragged himself out of the comfy chair.
*
Several minutes later Patchem spoke without preamble as the video-link started. ‘Terrible news from Russia. The last thing we need is the loony brigade annoying the Kremlin.’
‘Do we know who’s responsible?’ Snow asked as Vickers pushed a plate of custard cream biscuits towards him.
‘Only what the media is saying, but our man on the scene is confirming thirty dead now, some foreigners. The FCO doesn’t know yet if this includes any Brits.’
‘Was there any advance warning of the attack, any increased chatter seen by GCHQ?’ Vickers asked.
‘None, and that’s what’s so worrisome. The only chatter we have is after the event, the usual rhetoric praising the suicide bomber and thanking Allah. Allah the almighty, who invented Semtex!’ There was a pause and Patchem apologised. ‘I know, gentlemen, I know. Call me an Islamophobe, but you understand what I mean. These crazies want to blow us all up in the name of Islam.’
‘Their view of Islam.’
‘Yes, Aidan – you’re right, of course.’ In London, Patchem took a sip of water. ‘Actually, one phrase has come up a few times: “The Hand of Allah”. We don’t have anything on it yet; it could be a new group aligned to Al-Qaeda or IS, or, who knows, perhaps the name of an operation or just a turn of speech.’
‘If it’s the name of a new group, that would back up what the Russians say.’
‘That it’s not the Islamic International Brigade? Aidan, you know as well as I do that the FSB and GRU would never admit some key members of the group might have evaded capture.’
‘I’m surprised the Kremlin isn’t trying to pin it on “Ukrainian Banderite fascists”,’ Vickers said.
‘I had a beer with Bandera’s grandson once. He wasn’t a fascist, he was Canadian,’ Snow replied.
Patchem agreed. The Kremlin had labelled the new Ukrainian government fascists and called the protesters who had ousted the old Moscow-backed President ‘Banderites’ after Stepan Bandera, the Ukrainian wartime nationalist leader who had chosen the Nazis over the Soviet Union. ‘We can’t rule out anyone at this stage.’ Onscreen, Patchem closed his eyes and pinched his nose. ‘Look…’
‘Everything OK, Jack?’
‘What, Alistair? Yes, just not sleeping as much as I should.’ Patchem drank some more water and then cleared his throat. ‘So, Aidan, welcome back and congratulations on “collecting” Mr Iqbal. How is he?’
‘He’s still catching up on his sleep. They kept him chained up in a garage for most of the time, and if he wasn’t chained up he was digging trenches.’
‘Trenches?’ Patchem frowned.
‘Apparently the leader of the DNR is a World War One buff; he loves the idea of trench warfare,’ Vickers added. ‘Which is very odd, when you consider he’s holed up in the middle of an industrial city!’
‘The whole thing is very odd. Alistair, how long until we can get Iqbal back to the UK?’
‘Midweek I’d say. He’s going to be talking to the SBU today; they want a debrief on everything he saw during his time in captivity. They’ll be chatting to Aidan too. It’s all going to be taken down as evidence against the DNR. Of course, I’ll be there to record the session.’
‘Good. Aidan, finish writing up your report, and then, once the SBU are happy, bring Mr Iqbal home. In the meantime, keep a low profile, but have your “grab-bag” and passport handy.’
‘I always do.’
*
New York, USA
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
