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
