The Devil's Handshake

35

Moscow

On Thursday morning as Sergei Petrov and his driver pulled up to the gate of Litchfield residence in their black Mercedes Benz G Wagon, he chuckled as he caught sight of the standard FSB X6 BMW with its blue light on top sitting across the street.

It wasn’t lost on his driver either.

“I bet you one hundred Roubles he’s on the phone right now telling Dimitri Arkady that we are about to have a meeting with Blagorodnyy right now!” the tough looking Crimean said, referring to the Director of FSB and Thomas as the residences security team went about checking them over.

“Ruslan, Don’t be so horrible!” Sergei replied sarcastically with a smile before dismissing them from his thoughts due to being more interested in the professionalism of the men that were now inspecting the car.

Despite the both of them showing their state credential cards of the SVR, it was not lost on Sergei that they had taken their time and reconfirmed everything. Twice over!

“No lazy dreamers here!” he thought.

Over the last twenty-four hours, Sergei and his team had read a considerable amount of intelligence and analysis on Blagorodnyy’s organization. Made up with ex-military or policemen it was the sort of protection any high profile Oligarch would have. So it wasn’t this fact that had impressed him.

“This Englishman is certainly no ordinary Oligarch.” He continued.

“And, it isn’t because the British have awarded him a Military Cross either, despite the impressive account on how he had supposedly received it.” He concluded as he made notes.

No, what had really impressed Sergei was how he handled the attempt on his life by the ‘Moldovan Mafioso’ and again it wasn’t over how he handled the gun as the SAS were among the best in the world at training their men.

The way he had stood by the side of his wounded head of detail. Protecting him from the FSB and also, over the following years, taken care of the family of the young man who had died taking a bullet for him by taking an activate interest in his children’s lives by acting as their ‘Sendakim”. Proved to the Head of Zaslon that these weren’t the typical reactions of the spoiled, arrogant rich men that he had come across in life who overdosed themselves on the excesses of success.

“No!” he decided. “This is the reason why his team were completely loyal to him,”

For as far as Sergei was concerned it was this reason why they had never given away any valuable intelligence on his weaknesses and not just the theory promoted by the Analysts of the SVR “That he is extremely generous with his remuneration of them all!”

“Idiots! This man has fought with them! He is one of them!” he said out loud to himself in the early hours of the morning.

Having spent the last twenty years of his life fighting the Clans of Chechnya and Dagestan plus running his own teams the same way he certainly recognized Clan loyalty when it was presented to him.

It was that point he dismissed the synopsis before him and had gone to bed to get some sleep having decided he would call Alexei in the morning and ask him to arrange a meeting with the man so he could evaluate him face to face.

“Intelligence files only went so far, instinct was what saved you in the field.”

Security checks finished, the gate opened and in they went. Arriving at the house both men were met by the man they immediately recognized as his head of detail.

“Mikhail Olegovich,” Sergei said offering him his hand in respect one professional to another.

“Sergei Andreyevich,” said Mikhail responding in kind while taking his hand firmly before asking them to follow him into the house as his personal security team stayed outside with his men.

Mikhail handled the introductions as both men assessed one another.

“Sir Thomas, thank you for seeing us on short notice,” offered Sergei in fluent English that would have made a Newsreader on the BBC proud.

The fact that Sergei had chosen to use Thomas’s title an affectation something that a Russian and certainly not an officer of the SVR would never do with its links to the Imperial past had momentarily caught him off guard.

It was something, though not mentioned, that wasn’t lost on Sergei either.

“Happy to help Sergei Andreyevich,” Thomas answered, his composure restored.

When Alexei had rung and told him to expect him he was privately pleased. He had heard of the legendary Zaslon unit, but this was the first time he had actually met a member and certainly not the Director of them. This signaled that Alexei was taking his concerns seriously and not just giving him lip service.

“Sir Thomas, that is excellent! Although Alexei Nikolai has officially tasked me with the security of the Ambassador for his arrival next week,” Sergei started. “Because I am never one for the bullshit why don’t you tell me about what this Jawari has so we can assess what he needs and what we have got in the short time available!” he answered referring to the real nature of his mission.

Thomas quickly decided that he liked the man sitting across from him dressed like a British lawyer in his bespoke Saville Row suit with an understated tie.

“Please call me Thomas,” he offered towards Sergei just as Sgt. Tan walked into the study with black tea and coffee, earning a smile in return from the Director of the Zaslon as an acknowledgement as the old Ghurkha asked if he would like tea or coffee.

“I don’t suppose I could have some sweet English Breakfast Tea, please Sgt. Tan?” asked Sergei.

Again Thomas raised an eyebrow slightly by his use of Tan’s previous rank and at his request of a cup of tea the way all members of the British Army took it.

“This Petrov is definitely an interesting man!” he reflected.

“Why of course, Sir!” answered the Ghurkha with a beaming smile pleased that an English friend of his former commanding officer had used his former rank.

Twenty-four hours later the BBJ plane was on its way back to Adawlland with ten million U.S. dollars in cash for chieftain’s whims, along with Thomas, Mikhail and his long standing permanent security team of Benny Zaguri, Barak Levi, Yossi Spungin and Avi Ohana and a team of ten men known as Unit B from Zaslon.

All veterans, experienced in the dark arts of counter-intelligence and insurgency Unit B had spent the last six months in Syria training and assisting Assad’s intelligence service. Led by a thirty-three-year-old dark haired man with his hair cut crew cut style with brown eyes and olive skin, due to his mother’s Chechen heritage, called Igor Valeriyoych Protasov.

Although Sergei had been less than forthcoming in terms of his experience, he did admit to them he was a graduate of the Foreign Intelligence Academy and over the last six years had seen service in the Middle East.

As with all the members of Zaslon, he spoke four languages other than his native Russian, but it was because he was fluent in Hebrew and English that Sergei decided he would be the best qualified to work with Thomas and his men.

Assessing him, Thomas could see he had already seen enough action for two lifetimes from the look in his eyes. It was the look he once had before Nara and Victoria had entered his life.

Still probing the young officer the only time in the last couple of hours he had managed to catch him off guard was when he had spoken Arabic to him. Immediately Igor had responded with a Jordanian tint in it, but he could see he was surprised that he had spoken the language as fluently as him.

Thomas knew then that the young man had spent time undercover in Amman with the ten thousand strong, exiled Chechen community. It was something Thomas had said to Igor as well to test his reaction. Yet again though although Igor had smiled politely he didn’t comment.

He had of course read the background files on all them. So the officer knew they weren’t your usual civilians, plus Sergei Andreyvich had warned him he was no ordinary Oligarch, but nevertheless he was still impressed “Blagoeodnyy” had picked up his Jordanian accent.

Despite this, for the moment neither Thomas nor any members of his team had shared their information with respect to the observation team that had been watching them in Borama, as Thomas had wanted that kept in his back pocket for the moment. The logic was simple.

“If they were Russian, there was no point letting on about them, but if they were American and things started to get out of hand, then the information about the presence might represent a useful bargaining chip for TLH.” So instead, they had briefed Igor and his men on all the stress points in the capital, covering off on their maps and satellite photos the locations of the hotels, hospital, TV station, airport, petrol stations, government ministries, electricity hubs, communications towers, embassies, and residences of key individuals before finally the various Ministries.

The advance team of the Russian Foreign Service that was tasked with the setup of the embassy had been very helpful with this respect. So it was a job made easier by the excellent photographs they had taken on the ground.

During this time, not offering any value, Thomas took the opportunity to touch base with home first, then read the encrypted notes that Saul, who had stayed behind in Moscow on the GSG business, had sent him. The report covered everything that good due diligence on a potential acquisition target should provide, if that was the goal. One name stuck out “Litchfield Hirsch,” his father’s firm. They had acted as one of advisers on the other side of the joint venture of his mining deal in Alaska. He decided to park that revelation for a moment when one of the plane’s staff said dinner was ready to be served. It wasn’t a hard decision. Whenever his father’s name popped up it always brought a mixture of emotions within in. None of them ever good!

Litchfield Hirsch was originally founded in the mid-1800s in Hong Kong as a trading house by one of their shared ancestors. The business was originally an importer of opium but by the 1880s Henry Litchfield, his great, great grandfather, recognizing the opportunities offered by the emerging rise of the oil industry, instead started to ship cask oil from Russia to Japan. His business began to do so well that he was able to commission his own ships for bulk oil transportation.

By the twentieth century, flush with the excess capital, Sir Henry’s third son and Thomas’s great grandfather, Edward, started the Merchant Bank in partnership with his other great grandfather, his Jewish partner Arabham Hirch. Together they then set about turning it into one of the best natural resources merchant banks in the world.

When Thomas’s father Rufus married his mother, the eighteen-year-old Emilia Hirch, the only child of Abraham’s son Isaac, many saw it as the as the final merging of the bloodlines into one on the birth of Thomas.

History though chose otherwise. Despite the many affairs of his father over the years, his mother had steadfastly refused to divorce him. It was only when Thomas was up at Oxford when his father told her that he was leaving her finally for his young mistress who was pregnant did he finally push her over the edge. It was as though the loss of her husband and son at the same time was too much for her to bear.

Her funeral at the family estate was the last time he had ever spoken to his father despite his father’s many attempts to reconcile. Indeed he had never met his thirty-year-old socialite twin half-sisters who were always in the society pages and their many efforts over the years to engineer a meeting. In Thomas’s mind, the best way to punish his father was to be better than him in business, something he long surpassed.

Sitting around the table waiting for dinner, the three men started to fill in their situation assessment grid together. It was something neither he nor Mikhail had used since their days in their respective army careers, thus rekindling memories of times gone by for both of them.

The meal included a starter of smoked salmon with traditional garnish of endive salad of goats curd and sweet mustard dressing, followed by Australian lamb cutlets with new potatoes with a very good white burgundy by Corton Charlemagne, Grand-Cru, Rapet père et fils, and finally a vanilla crème brûlée served with excellent Sauternes by Chateau Laville. It was something that even a seasoned professional like Igor or any of his team couldn’t turn down despite being on an operation.

Thomas chuckled watching them all. Soldiers always enjoyed a good meal before going into battle. It was also because of meals like this he personally worked out at every given opportunity in the morning for an hour with each member of his protection team in turn. If he didn’t, he would be the size of a house.

Together the team reviewed the weather, terrain, and how the military aspects could be affected by their movement around the city and the country; followed by the civil considerations: political, economic, sociological and psychological factors that both the President and the perceived threat of the Interior Minister held.

In the enemy column, each placed into it the codename ‘Viper’ they agreed would be the call sign to represent Wasir.

“Mikhail, were you aware that he has been recruiting Ukrainians?” Igor asked, formal barriers broken down over the glass of excellent wine, stopping dead the briefing.

“Ukrainians?” answered Mikhail surprised.

“Yes our assets in Kiev inform us that a GSG Security Head a…” Igor paused to check his notes. “A Tony Wilson and his security consultant an Andrew Martin, have been hiring former officers of Gaddafi’s Islamic Legion for deployment into the region to supply advice to the Interior Ministry on how to protect mining companies,” he continued.

“That’s interesting!” Thomas thought he had heard of Martin, of course, he was a regular carpetbagger that one would find on AIM listed natural resources companies.

“Benny can you look into that when we land?” ordered a concerned Mikhail earning a nod from the Israeli in return. He had heard what some of those Ukrainians and the dead leader’s Tuareg Militia had gotten up to when the Gaddafi regime was collapsing. The thought sent shivers down Mikhail’s spine and instantly took him back to Bosnia from a long time ago.

Mikhail’s mind switched back to the present and he indicated towards Barek to continue, who did so by quickly adding his thoughts to the assessment.

“Dispositions! Let’s see, Viper maintains over hundred former pirates on the coast in Lughaya, all listed as Interior Ministry Port Control Officers!” Barak said with a smirk. “They have limited skills capabilities though with Toyota Land Cruisers and AK-47 and pistols for weapons. As men they might be helpful for intimidation, not for firefights in my opinion,” he added.

Igor nodded adding Barak’s comments to his notes.

“In Borama, Viper has ninety Clan members who are totally loyal, all listed as Interior Ministry Officers. They run his businesses from whores, tankers, money lending, and slavery.”

Again they all made notes before Barak continued on with his briefing on the weaponry they had.

“Their skill levels are better than the pirates as they fought in the various militias against the Ethiopians, Somalis, and Al-Shaahab, so they are battle hardened and utterly ruthless. Weapons wise though, they are limited to standard AK-47 and pistols.”

“At the Airport, Viper has an IL-76 transporter which is his air cargo business. It is run by a Turkmen who lives between Borama and Dubai,” advised Mikhail interrupting Barak for just a moment.

“Well, he just added to that fleet,” interjected Igor.

“Really! What has he bought?” asked Thomas, as he wrote his own notes.

“A Mil-17 helicopter!” answered Igor

“Omar didn’t tell me that!” Thomas replied, assuming that the government had purchased the helicopter Gunship as he put his pen down.

“It was paid for by GSG,” answered Igor.

“Don’t tell me Ukrainians?” asked Mikhail, a little pissed off as it was something he had only just asked Saul to organize for their interests down there. The Minister had beaten him to the punch.

Igor just offered a wry smile. They had some handheld Strela 2 shoulder missiles to deal with any Halo threats, but he knew it was unlikely, as Sergei had informed him that he would get the director to deal with neutralizing the threat of having a gunship running around with 57 mm rocket pods. Instead, Igor’s mind was focused on whether they had to deal with any tanks or armored vehicles. It was the next question he asked Mikhail.

“Viper uses a couple of Armored B6 Toyota Land Cruisers and is guarded by a team of ten, led by his oldest son Mohammed. All experienced, again ex-militia, but it’s my assessment that they’re not really trained in close protection skills. That said they are loyal and carry Heckler & Koch UMPs, so they are well equipped,” Mikhail replied.

“At Viper’s villa he has four mounted M60 machines guns at each corner with thirty men all armed with AKs. Vehicles wise, again three Toyota Land Cruisers not armored though one is a pick-up with a mounted M60,” Mikhail continued as he pointed to the house’s location on the overhead shots of Borama.

After taking a spoonful of his crème brûlée, the Israeli moved on to the offices, explaining in the process that the Interior Ministry was, in fact, a dressed up villa with the same structure in terms of men and deployment as the Viper’s own villa on the outskirts of the town.

“What is Viper command structure other than his son?” asked Igor.

“His number two is a guy named “Ahmed” we don’t know his full name, but he we know he is a former member of the National Security Services. He is bright and well trained, having received training from the CIA in Mogadishu. I think he is about forty but can’t be sure?” answered Mikhail.

“Okay, I will see what we have on him. The NSS are very sound peddlers of information!” replied Igor making a mental note to include it within his update later.

“What’s next?” Thomas asked.

“Jawari’s men,” answered Igor.

After about a further thirty minutes of briefing on the friendly forces, Igor gave his initial assessment.

“We need to look at the Americans’ capabilities in Djibouti as well.”

“Why do you think they would become involved if there were a coup?” asked Mikhail, thinking that now it had been smart of Thomas to order them to withhold the information about the surveillance team Barak had discovered, now convinced it was American.

“It never hurts to be prepared, Mikhail,” answered Igor, but still not explaining himself.

Thomas didn’t say a word; Igor’s answer was the exact reason why he had gone to such lengths to ensure he had his back channels in place.

With supper over, the plane fell silent as the lights dimmed. Igor sent an encrypted message on his military grade Getac Notebook to Sergei.

The information was immediately relayed on to Sergei, who was in bed with his wife at their family Dacha. The sound of his encrypted ready BlackBerry buzzing woke him. Picking it up, he read it. Then quickly went back to sleep, deciding it could wait until morning.

Igor was like a vampire! He never slept!