Stroika

Chapter 11

^{SOMEWHERE BETWEEN VELIZH AND CURILOVO, 100 KILOMETRES NORTH OF SMOLENSK}

‘So, what happened?’ Colonel Yuri Romanavich Marov asked the two men.

One of them pointed at a fallen tree, fifty metres ahead; it had been pushed into the roadside gully. By its size the colonel estimated it would have blocked the entire highway; the freighter would have had no chance negotiating a way round it. He walked over to a pile of freshly made sawdust and idly kicked his boot through it.

‘They hit us with machine-gun fire the moment we stopped. The driver died instantly. We managed to make it to the forest. We got one of them.’ His friend pointed at the twisted body in the middle of the open road not far from the fallen tree.

Yuri looked up at the MTV hovering overhead, momentarily blinded by its spotlight. He looked down at his watch, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness – one in the morning. Ten heavily armed soldiers formed a perimeter around the scene, facing outwards. Yuri walked over to the trailer-less Kamaz, slewed at a forty-five degree angle across the road. It was a wonder anyone had survived. The cab was riddled with bullets, its windows shattered and tyres shredded.

He nodded at the soldiers standing next to the two men to lower their weapons.

‘They hooked up the trailer to a new truck.’

A sergeant searching the clothes of the dead man came up empty-handed.

‘How many men?’ Yuri asked.

‘Eight… ten? It’s difficult to say.’

‘And what colour was the hijackers’ truck and the trailer?’

‘Red and orange. Their car was a dark sedan of some sort. I didn’t get a clear look.’

‘And what time did they hit you?’ asked the captain.

‘Ten forty-five, it must’ve been around then.’

One of the soldiers handed Yuri a map.

‘What do you think, Captain? They must be somewhere within this circle.’ The captain nodded agreement. He was probably twenty-seven or twenty-eight, thought Yuri, maybe only five years younger than himself. ‘Order the other MTV to search here.’ He pointed at the map. ‘We’ll take this highway. And, Captain, they are not to engage until they have orders from me.’

The captain turned to the radio operator and passed on the new order to his lieutenant some twenty kilometres to the east in the second helicopter.

Five minutes later they were airborne again. Keeping low, the MTV followed the highway north towards Usvyaty. The Klimov gas turbos made normal conversation impossible. Yuri noticed several soldiers nod off, rocked by the motion of the MTV as it clattered through the night sky. A corporal idly stripped and reassembled his Kalashnikov, trying to outdo the private opposite.

The voice of the reconnaissance officer from the second MTV cut into his headset, loud and clear against the low-level shushing of white noise.

‘We have sight of a cargo freighter, red cab, orange-topped trailer, dark car following… five men in the car.’ He read out the coordinates. The flight captain tilted eastward and pushed the MTV to maximum speed.

‘Rendezvous fifteen minutes, Colonel.’

Yuri ordered the second MTV to maintain a discrete distance and track with infrared.

‘Captain, I want Lieutenant Ryzhkov’s platoon to take up a position ten kilometres to the north on the M20 just above Pustoska.’ Yuri read out the map reference. ‘They are to stop them there. Remind him, Captain, they are heavily armed, probably ex-army. He is not to underestimate them… and let’s try not to damage the trailer – not if we can help it,’ he added wryly. He could only guess what the manifest was really worth… no doubt many times the number he had seen on the import papers.

The two MTVs deposited their cargo of soldiers at the reference point, touching down lightly before heaving away into a velvet black sky. Back up at fifteen hundred feet, bent over the infrared scanner edging the reconnaissance man aside, Yuri studied the scene below. This was going to be the captain’s action. He had decided not to intervene. Soldiers unwound a heavy belt of three-inch spikes across the road while the sergeant stood in the middle, barking orders. The rest of the platoon fanned out along the highway as two snipers took up firing positions fifty metres behind the barrier. Yuri imagined them checking their night-sights, making last-second checks: safety catch, ammunition, a clear line of fire. One of them stood up and moved five metres to the left and settled back down again using a boulder to steady his aim. Ten kilometres to the south his MTV picked up the small convoy of two vehicles moving steadily towards them.

‘There’s a vehicle behind them, Colonel, two kilometres,’ said the second officer, not taking his eyes off the ground radar.

‘Inform Captain Chekhol,’ was all he said. It was up to the commanding officer on the ground now.

He glanced back at the scanner and the ground directly below; nothing moved. They must be able to hear the sound of the diesel by now. His thoughts drifted back to the Peshawar Valley. He and another group of men had lain in ambush for a band of mujahideen, staring into the blackness, straining every sinew for any sound or sign of movement. There had been no overhead support then, no infrared scanners.

‘Target one kilometre!’ relayed the helicopter reconnaissance officer to the field radio operator on the ground. Yuri didn’t have to look at the infrared to see the truck and its escort move swiftly below. The third vehicle had closed in behind and was trying to pull past them.

‘Two hundred metres,’ chimed the reconnaissance officer mechanically. ‘Man and child in small sedan.’

They would die if they got caught in the maelstrom that was about to be unleashed.

Over the radio he heard the captain’s voice. ‘Snipers… at my command, third vehicle… tyres only.’

Through his headset Yuri caught the almost imperceptible growl of a fast-approaching vehicle. Suddenly the smaller vehicle pulled out from behind the sedan. Yuri watched it accelerate. It was level with the hijacker’s sedan now.

‘Snipers fire!’

Tyres shredded, the small sedan spun wildly out of control before crashing side-on into the trees. On cue, machine-gun fire ruptured the night air. The juggernaut surged over the chain barrier and began to swerve erratically. Yuri watched it cross the narrow roadside storm gully and ram a tall pine. The second car slewed to a halt fifty metres behind. Dense black smoke drifted skyward. The helicopter shifted position.

For a moment, everything freeze-framed, even the smoke pouring from the diesel engine seemed static, as if painted by a broad brush onto a perfect tableau. Yuri was tempted to bang the scanner when someone below hit the restart button. The car’s rear doors flew open, followed by the front. Four men tumbled to the ground. A hijacker rolled over and took aim at Yuri’s MTV. There was a clunking of metal on metal as heavy ammunition ricocheted off the fuselage. The MTV turned. The flight captain’s finger moved towards the weapons’ control system as four men jumped to their feet and sprinted towards the woods. One died instantly, blown back against the now burning car a second before he reached the roadside. The survivors hurled their AKs into the undergrowth and threw themselves on the ground, arms outstretched.

Yuri’s helicopter landed downwind of the acrid smoke. A soldier helped a man and young boy out of the wrecked Lada. Across the highway the two survivors were handcuffed and hauled to their feet.

‘Give me their wallets, soldier,’ said Yuri when he had come up to them.

Yuri pulled out a wad of roubles.

‘Give this to him.’ He pointed at the man climbing into the second MTV with his son.

‘Casualties, Captain?’

‘None, sir.’

He walked over to the trailer and waved for a soldier to open it. With a torch he began examining boxes. Soldiers stopped what they were doing and watched as he began shifting them around: computers, CDs. He stopped and smiled, delighted. He grabbed one box and then a second, passing them down to the nearest soldier from the duck board.

‘I hope your men like Chivas Regal, Captain… off-duty rations! Captain, that was an excellent night’s hunting.’

Chapter 12

^LENINGRAD

Vdovin passed Konstantin a box of Cuban cigars. He took one, bit off the end, struck a match and lit it. Konstantin gave the cigar a long pull and exhaled in the direction of the general seated across the desk. He glanced up at a photograph of the general secretary looking down on them benevolently and back at Vdovin.

‘Do you think he’ll last?’ Konstantin asked, wondering idly whether the general’s jacket would burst its seams.

Vdovin shrugged. ‘Glasnost, now perestroika. We need democracy just like we need air to breathe. Stirring stuff,’ he scoffed.

Vdovin was so old school. Konstantin thought back to when he had first met him – 1983, Kabul. The general was a colonel then, head of the intelligence section and he a low-ranking intelligence officer. He remembered spending the best part of one week tracking the colonel’s movements, looking for an opportunity to speak with him on his own. One had finally presented itself – a well-known local brothel reserved for officers. Vdovin was seated at the bar, a shot glass of vodka in his hand, eyeing up three heavily made-up young women. The colonel had barely given him a second glance. To Konstantin the choice was obvious. He had signalled to the youngest and prettiest of the three to join him at the bar. She was Tajik, no more than sixteen, with fine Persian features, brilliant brown eyes and straight black hair. He could still recall the scent of her over-sweet perfume. Vdovin had looked at him annoyed, his choice reduced by a third.

‘Colonel, I’ll trade you this beauty for ten minutes of your time – my expense.’

The colonel had looked at him quizzically, shrugged and grabbed the girl from him. Forty minutes later he had reappeared, flush-faced, tucking his shirt into his trousers, his jacket over his arm.

‘Ten minutes then,’ was all Vdovin had said, and he sat down at a table away from the bar. Ten minutes had turned into an hour. He had made drug dealing sound almost patriotic. The Afghanis would be free to grow and harvest their poppy crop in certain areas, and they in turn would leave the Soviet troops in peace. Russian government money would subsidise the farmers and he would manufacture and market the heroin. It was simple. Wasn’t the whole military infrastructure at their disposal and intelligence packages given top-secret priority clearance?

In just four years it had made the two of them rich. He had returned to Leningrad and focussed on building his Soviet distribution network and expanding into Europe, and Vdovin had been rewarded with command of the north-west district and two hundred thousand men. He just needed the war to continue, they all did, all those monkeys in the chain: the general, KGB, the army, politicians. The list was almost endless.

The door opened and a secretary brought them two cups of coffee, retired, and shut the door behind her.

‘We have a small security problem,’ said the general, picking up his cup. ‘Some lieutenant at Pulkova Airport nosing around noticed the last shipment and has been asking questions; seems he wants to get in on the act.’

‘How did you find out?’

‘KGB.’

At least Konstantin thought he could rely on KGB self-interest.

‘They think you should deal with it.’

‘Wouldn’t it be easier to shift him to front-line duties?’

Vdovin shook his head.

‘Okay.’ Konstantin decided there was no point in arguing.

‘And there’s another matter, highly sensitive, they think you can help them with.’

Konstantin wondered who the ‘they’ were that Vdovin constantly referred to.

‘How well do you know Mikhail Dimitrivich Revnik?’

‘We went to secondary school together. I bump into him occasionally. I haven’t seen him in months. Why?’

‘Well, the KGB want to take this offline. They think he has something they are after… sensitive photos, a roll of film, taken some years ago. You know the KGB, they won’t elaborate.’

Konstantin shrugged.

‘I’ll make some enquiries.’

‘You are to hand over anything you unearth intact – no copies.’

‘I get the picture.’ Not even he would pit himself against the KGB. It had a long reach and an equally long memory.

Konstantin got up to leave.

‘Before you go… there’s another big offensive underway.’

Not another doomed expedition, Konstantin thought. Success was only ever temporary. No one seemed to learn.

‘There may be some disruption to our delivery schedule,’ the general continued.

‘General, that’s for you to figure out. I have important customers waiting. I’m sure you can make it happen, offensive or no offensive.’ He wasn’t going to allow Vdovin off the hook.

‘I’m sure I can organise something,’ he replied, looking uncomfortable.

Konstantin was sure he would. This was business as usual.

‘General, you do your job, I’ll do mine.’

Chapter 13

^NOVGOROD

‘Mother, why don’t you move back into the city,’ Viktoriya asked, already suspecting the answer. It would be so much easier if her mother moved to Leningrad. She could get her a job at Leningrad Freight. Her mother had just turned fifty-five, was still attractive, but had had no particular man in her life, not since her father had disappeared. She imagined her mother happier that way. Her father had only made her mother’s life a misery – sober for days before hitting the bottle and more often than not turning violent. Perhaps she didn’t trust herself to make the right judgement again.

‘It would be nice to be near you, darling, but you are working and no doubt busy in the evenings, as you should be, and I have my friends, my sister, all here. I think I’ll stay put for now, but maybe later…’ She kissed her daughter on the cheek. ‘And how about you, is Agnessa still living with you?’

‘No, she moved out last month. She moved in with her new boyfriend.’

Apart from Konstantin, Agnessa had remained the only person who knew what had happened to her that night. It felt odd to be living alone.

Her mother handed her a cup of tea. She took it over to the window and looked down onto a small square surrounded by a tall yew hedge. A workman busied himself with a wide spade clearing snow from a footpath towards a large circular flower bed that lay fallow at its heart. She watched his breath billow as he moved the spade back and forth, pausing occasionally to marshal his handiwork neatly at the path’s edge.

‘I like it here,’ her mother said, gazing out of the window with her. ‘I have everything I need… and you come and visit me.’

Viktoriya kissed her mother and took her nearly empty cup back over to the sofa she had been sitting on five minutes before. The apartment was a reasonable size, with a separate bedroom and double bed, a small kitchenette and a good-sized bath in the bathroom. The heating and plumbing worked too, as did the lift to the third floor… at least more often than not.

‘And what about that boyfriend of yours – Kostya? He was always a handful, that one.’

‘Still is… I don’t know about boyfriend. We still see each other,’ Viktoriya said, smiling. And in fact they still did see each other… occasionally on a more intimate level. She would finish back at his place or hers after a night at one of his clubs or a party.

‘Well, be careful, Vika. You know what I think.’

‘Yes, Mother, you don’t have to repeat it. He’s not like you think. He’s always been a good friend.’

‘And Misha… such a nice young man?’

‘You know Misha, always up to something. No, he’s doing fine.’ Better than fine, she thought. ‘He’s not the street trader you remember.’

Her mother took a seat on the sofa. Her smile had disappeared. She tugged anxiously on the hemline of her dress.

‘What is it, Mother?’

‘There’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about. I didn’t want to raise it on the phone… I’ve heard from your father.’

‘Father?’ she said, shocked. She hadn’t seen or heard of him in over ten years. Part of her thought, even hoped, he might be dead.

Her mother nodded.

‘He has written me a letter.’ Her mother unfolded a sheaf of paper from her pocket.

‘What does he want?’ With her father, it could only be bad news.

‘Money… He says he’s stopped drinking, found a labouring job with a building cooperative but has got himself into debt. Could I help him out? He says he’ll pay me back.’

Viktoriya knew her mother had little in the way of savings. What spare cash she did have, Viktoriya had sent her, despite her mother’s protests. She always maintained she didn’t need it, but Viktoriya knew otherwise.

‘Where is he living?’

‘Leningrad, Smolninsky district. You haven’t seen him?’

‘No. I thought he’d left the city… How much?’

‘Five hundred roubles.’

Five hundred roubles was over six months’ pay for her mother.

‘He asked after you.’

Viktoriya felt she did not owe her father anything; he had only made their lives wretched, but she didn’t want him worrying her mother either, and this was something she could take care of, easily – pay him off and get shot of him.

‘Mother, I’ll take care of it.’

‘That wasn’t what I intended.’

‘I know. But, really, I can handle this.’