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Chapter 2

Kabul, Afghanistan

‘Brothers, our Islamic Emirate is strong. The West cannot defeat us, for when we all shall die it will be with the grace of Allah, peace be upon Him! Those of us destined for martyrdom will die as Holy Warriors, leading the jihad against the infidel crusaders! On this sacred mission we shall be martyred on the infidel’s own soil. For us there shall be no fear. It is the infidels who shall fear us and the anger of Allah!’ The audience voiced their agreement. ‘My brothers, you will continue to fight without fear, knowing that we have the blessing of our faith! Brothers, it is time for our journey to begin!’ Mohammed Tariq stood and embraced in turn each of the men staying in Kabul, those who would continue to fight in their homeland while he and his five soldiers of Islam headed for the border.

The group of Holy Warriors left the dimly lit room and walked towards the bus. Although almost one in the morning, the coach station south-west of the Afghani capital was busy. Twenty-four hours a day, buses and trucks poured out of Kabul, taking migrants on the first leg of what they believed was their journey to new lives abroad. The bus Tariq’s cell would take was known by locals as the ‘border bus’. It ran nightly, travelling the four hundred miles west to Herat, a town near the Iranian border. At Herat, Tariq’s men would be met by an Iranian contact, who would conceal them within his truck for the crossing into Iran at the Islam Qala border checkpoint. Once in Iran they would pass through Taybad and then on to Mashad, the resting place of the Imam Reza. It made no difference to Tariq that Mashad was one of the holiest cities in the Shia Muslim world, for in the name of Allah he had put aside all notions of Shia or Sunni. It was division that had held back Muslims and allowed the infidels to exploit them.

Tariq stepped onto the bus, followed closely by his trusted men. A sea of mostly young, expectant, Afghan faces stared back. They yearned to leave the country; they craved the embrace of the infidel, longed to be prostituted by the West. Unlike Tariq and his team, each migrant before him had on average paid $10,000 to a smuggler to get them into Europe, and some much more. Many would perish en route, prey to the elements, border guards, malnutrition, and bandits. Tariq fought the urge to spit, to lash out; these travellers were turning their backs on their duty to their country, their obligation to the jihad and, most sickening of all, their obedience to the Muslim faith. In his mind they were apostate, traitors to Islam and worthy of the death sentence. Tariq fought to keep his face a mask of calm. He and his men were hiding among the sheep, but they were wolves. They were wolves with the most mighty weapon of all; the Lion Sheik, peace be upon Him, had called it the Hand of Allah. Yet what was in the small case had been ordered by Moscow and created in Ukraine. The Hand of Allah had been requisitioned from the infidels who had attempted to destroy the Muslim Caliphate. Tariq enjoyed the irony as his group squeezed into the last remaining seats; the infidel’s own weapon would be used to herald their ultimate destruction.

Tariq bent down to stow the case beneath his feet.

‘Are you going to the West?’

Tariq looked up. A boy, too young to grow a beard, yet old enough to sleep with the infidel, was staring at him. ‘My family has sent me to find work,’ he said. ‘I know it is hard but there is much opportunity in the West.’

‘Indeed, there is much we can do in the West, my brother.’

‘My father has paid for me to go to London. It is the best place. He has heard that France, Germany and Italy are racist countries, but England is good and the government is just. I will find work there.’

The Al-Qaeda operative’s lips imitated a smile. ‘London is a very popular destination. Perhaps one day I shall see you there, Insha’Allah.’

‘Insha’Allah.’

With a scraping, caused by lack of maintenance and a build-up of dirt and sand, the outer doors shut. Moments later the engine coughed into life and the bus heaved out of the station and into the night. Once assured that they were away safely, Tariq closed his eyes. There was little to see and nothing to do. This night they would cross the blackness of the desert on highway one, stopping first at Kandahar before eventually reaching Herat in the heat of the following day. It was a tedious route, but one not many Afghan soldiers would think to monitor for an Al-Qaeda cell. Sheep were ignored by lazy shepherds, and he had been trained how to bleat.

*

British Embassy, Kyiv, Ukraine

Snow closed the laptop, his after-action report on the rescue of Mohammed Iqbal finished, and checked his watch. He needed some downtime away from anything to do with HM Government; two weeks of intensive undercover work in and around Donetsk had left him drained. He lifted his iPhone from the desk and scrolled through the contacts until he saw a name which brought a smile to his face. He dialled the number.

An hour later Snow stepped out of a taxi in front of the salubriously named Standard Hotel on the corner of Horenska and Sviatoshinskaya Streets. On the outskirts of central Kyiv, the anonymous small hotel sat squat among the taller apartment blocks. It was a grey and cream two-storey structure and resembled a pair of gargantuan shoeboxes, placed one atop the other. The main hotel entrance was squarely in the centre of the ground floor, shaded by a burgundy awning, but Snow ignored this and entered via a door on the right-hand corner, itself under a burgundy sign which said ‘Café Bar Standard’. He pushed through a heavy wood door and searched the dark, smoky interior for his old friend. He spotted a figure with craggy features, light-brown hair and wire-framed glasses sitting at a large corner bench, smoking and admiring a table of female customers.

Snow and Michael Jones had been ex-pat teachers together at a time when Snow had thought his gunfighting days were over. ‘Look who it is, the drinking man’s Gordon Ramsay!’

‘Aidan, hokay?’ The Welshman’s accent invited strange looks from the nearest customers.

Snow stuck to the script and adopted a fake Welsh accent. ‘Hello, Mister Jones, how are you?’

‘Eh, not bad.’ Jones beamed. ‘Just look at the crumpet in here!’

Snow laughed out loud; Jones would never change. ‘It’s good to see you, Michael.’

‘You too. How long are you back for?’

‘Just a few days.’ Jones knew Snow had been a member of the SAS, but not that he now worked for the Secret Intelligence Service. Snow stuck to his legend of being a senior teacher at an expensive Knightsbridge private school. ‘The school’s asked me to give a presentation to a few Ukrainian high-rollers.’

‘Persuade them to send their kids to your place, is it?’

‘Correct. I’m free this evening and then I’ve got meetings and business lunches until I fly out on Wednesday.’

Jones raised his eyebrows. ‘Phew, I’m glad I just teach a few English lessons here and there. No stress and lots of time to drink, smoke, and observe the local wildlife.’

Snow shook his head at the fifty-something Welshman. ‘How’s Ina?’

‘Not bad. She lost her job, though.’ Jones’s wife of sixteen years was a banker – and her husband’s banker.

‘Sorry to hear that.’

‘Eh, but she got a new one with a Canadian investment group. She may have to fly out there next month. I don’t mind, it gives me a chance to rest.’ Jones’s diction was lilting and slow, as always after he’d had a few pints. ‘But great to see you, eh!’

‘You too, Mr Jones.’ Snow became serious. ‘So, how have you been this last year?’

‘Fine. We obviously skipped Crimea this summer and thought for a while of coming back to the UK. But then I saw the house prices. I can’t bloody afford to get on the housing ladder at my age! So we didn’t. Our area was pretty isolated from the violence and unrest, thank Christ. But eh, it’s a shocking business, isn’t it? Who are the Kremlin to say Ukraine can’t join the European Union? Ukrainians are good people who were led by a corrupt president. Russians are good people but… people are people, let them live.’ He waved his hand and then drained the remainder of his beer.

Snow agreed with Jones’s statement, even if the wording was a little off, but he didn’t want to get political or morose. For once all he wanted to do was sink a few drinks, reminisce, and relax. And from the look of it, Jones was several drinks ahead of him. Snow caught the attention of the barmaid, who trotted over with menus.

‘Is this your friend, Michael?’

‘This is Aidan. He used to teach with me.’

‘Nice to meet you,’ Snow said in Russian. ‘Two beers, please.’

‘Is Obolon OK?’

‘Fine.’

She smiled pleasantly and returned to the bar with a wiggle that Snow tried but failed to ignore.

‘Service with a smile,’ Jones remarked happily.

‘So, what brings you to this place then?’ Snow asked.

‘One of my students, Vlad, runs it. He’s a good bloke and the beer is so cheap for Kyiv prices!’ Jones was always counting his money. His love of bargains coupled with his love of alcohol had made him an expert on the cheaper watering holes of Ukraine’s capital city.

‘I’m not surprised it’s cheap – it’s in the middle of nowhere.’

‘It’s not far from the metro and if you’re near the metro you’re near everything.’

‘That’s true.’ The beer arrived and Snow held up his glass. ‘Cheers.’

‘You too.’

‘What time does Ina want you home?’

‘Whenever. She doesn’t mind me drinking with you. Thinks you’re a calming influence.’

Snow smacked beer from his lips. ‘I thought she knew me better than that.’

The door opened and a hulking figure ducked his head to enter.

‘He’s a big boy,’ Jones noted, ‘and I thought you were tall.’

‘I am tall. He’s a giant. Do you know him?’

‘No.’ Jones returned his attention to his beer.

The giant, dressed in a tracksuit under a leather box jacket, strode to the bar and, with a booming voice, ordered vodka. He knocked back his drink in one and then demanded a beer.

Snow’s training kicked in as he scanned the bar. The other ten or so customers weren’t making eye contact with the new arrival, especially the table of women Michael had been watching. Two of them discreetly turned their chairs away. The man was dangerous, and by the way people reacted to him, known as being such.

‘Another?’ Jones asked.

‘Silly question.’ Snow winked.

‘Pani!’ Michael called out the Ukrainian word for ‘miss’, also used to mean waitress. ‘Two beers, please.’

The giant turned and leant against the bar, swivelling his large head to stare at them.

Snow involuntarily felt himself tense, ready for action. ‘So, where is this Vlad then?’

‘He’s probably in reception; it’s a family business. His dad owns the hotel; Vlad’s just taken over here and his two sisters work in both. The one at the bar is called Svetlana.’

‘I thought you said you didn’t know him?’

Jones sniggered. ‘Not the giant, the barmaid.’

‘Here.’ Svetlana brought the beers. She no longer seemed happy and hurried back to the bar.

Jones took a long swig and then stood. ‘I’m sorry, I need a slash. Bladder can’t keep up with me anymore.’

Snow continued to assess the threat and the giant continued to stare, until another man appeared in the bar. He wore black jeans and a black T-shirt with ‘Café Bar Standard’ printed on it in burgundy. On seeing the giant, he paused before walking to the bar. Snow watched as the new arrival started to polish glasses as the giant spoke to him.

‘Hokay, Vlad!’ Jones shouted as he emerged from the bathroom a minute later.

Vlad held up a tea towel but said nothing as the giant now glared at Jones.

Jones sat and noticed the expression on Snow’s face. ‘What’s up?’

‘I think the big fella is bad news, Michael.’

‘What, him? He’s just a bloke having a drink. You’ve been away too long.’ Jones produced a new packet of Ukrainian cigarettes from his jacket pocket and fiddled with the polythene wrapper.

‘Maybe.’

A glass smashed at the bar. The giant was pointing at Vlad with his index finger.

‘Shit.’ Snow sighed, getting to his feet. He’d seen enough shakedowns in his time to understand what was happening. ‘Michael, stay in your seat.’

‘What?’ Jones looked up from his cigarettes. ‘Oh, I see.’

Snow placed his empty glass on the counter. Svetlana was sweeping the floor with a dustpan and brush while Vlad stood, frozen like a rabbit in headlights. Snow spoke in Russian. ‘Two more beers, please, and…’ He studied the face of the giant. ‘…Whatever you’re having.’

The big man’s heavy forehead furrowed. ‘Vodka.’

Vlad looked between the two men as he pulled the beer and then poured a shot of vodka.

‘Two vodkas.’ The giant grabbed Vlad’s wrist and scowled at Snow. ‘One for you, too, unless you do not want to drink with Victor?’

‘I’d be honoured, Victor,’ Snow said.

With a shaky hand, Vlad placed the glasses on the bar before retreating. Victor took his glass and Snow copied. There was a moment’s hesitation and then both men threw the contents against the backs of their throats. Victor checked Snow’s reaction to the harsh spirit. There was none.

‘Who is your foreign friend?’

Snow shrugged. ‘He’s an English-language teacher.’

‘I have always wanted to learn English.’ Victor’s face became whimsical. ‘So I can tell foreigners to get the fuck out of my country.’

‘That’s a good reason,’ Snow said.

‘I am sick of seeing all these Westerners around Kyiv! They swagger like they own the place, throwing their money about while, in the East, our men without the correct clothing or equipment or weapons die fighting for Ukraine. And what do the foreigners do to help Ukraine? They call the Russian President and tell him he must stop!’ Victor rubbed his face with his palms before placing them on the bar. ‘Another!’

Snow knew Victor was right, but what could he say? He just nodded at Vlad who again quickly poured two shots.

Victor raised his glass. ‘Ukraine.’

‘Ukraine,’ Snow repeated

Victor swivelled his head. ‘I am from Kamyanka; it’s a village to the south of Donetsk. The DNR have destroyed it. And why couldn’t the Ukrainian army defend it? Because they did not have the equipment! Do you understand?’

Snow remained silent; Victor was dealing with some powerful emotions and likely to explode at any moment.

‘I hate foreigners. They sit, drink, shit, and pay to screw our women. That is all.’ Victor looked now at Snow and said mockingly, ‘Thank you for the vodka.’

‘You’re very welcome,’ Snow replied as he collected his beers and moved back to his table.

‘You made friends then?’

‘He’s from the Donbas. He likes me, I’m a nice guy.’

‘That’s because your Russian is too good; ironic, eh?’

‘What’s ironic is that he doesn’t like foreigners, and he thinks you’re foreign.’

‘Well, as an ethnic minority, I am offended! Does he not know about the significant historical links between Wales and Donetsk? Donetsk was founded by a Welshman who opened Ukraine’s first mine and steel works. Ukraine’s first state school was opened in Donetsk, and the first English-language school.’

‘You looked it up?’

‘Of course. Ukrainians like it.’

‘Well, big Victor wants to learn English.’

‘That’s nice.’

‘He wants to learn English so he can tell all us foreigners to eff off.’

‘Make him the Minister for International Relations.’ Jones puffed on a new cigarette.

Snow slurped his beer. ‘Seriously, Michael, he’s trouble, but he’s not sober so his guard’s down. I suspect he’s part of a local protection racket.’

‘Roof insurance.’ Jones used a well-known euphemism. ‘Aye, that’s one thing I thought Maidan got rid of – the crime and corruption. I got stopped by a militia officer the other day who wanted to see my passport. I told him I didn’t carry it around with me for security reasons. So he said I had to pay a fine of $50.’

‘What did you do?’ Snow was sure he’d heard the story before, but now it was updated for modern times.

‘I did nothing. I was walking with Ina. She told him to piss off or she’d report him.’

Snow smiled. ‘You don’t argue with Ina.’

‘Too right. When we got home she did report him.’

There was another crash at the bar and Victor wobbled. He staggered towards Snow and Jones. ‘Teach me.’ His two words of English were slow and slurred. He raised his voice. ‘Teach me!’

Snow got to his feet and held up his palms. ‘OK… OK, have a seat and we can discuss this. We’re not the enemy.’

‘Enemy?’ A grin appeared on Victor’s face. ‘Tell the foreigner to give me his money, and you give me your money. You then can both fuck off.’

‘I’m Welsh,’ Jones said. ‘A Welshman founded Donetsk!’

The giant frowned and, without warning, but with unexpected speed for a man of his size, dropped his shoulders several inches and shot his mammoth right fist out at Snow. Snow instinctively took a step back and, with both arms working at once, his left palm swatted Victor’s arm down while the back of his right fist slammed into the giant’s nose. It was a simple but effective move; no one throwing a punch expected to receive another back before theirs had struck. Victor blinked and retreated a half-step. Snow reversed the momentum of his right fist and struck the man in the jaw. Victor’s legs buckled and he landed on his knees. He had to go down; Snow didn’t want him to be able to fight back, given his size and inherent strength.

‘I am from Oleg. He says you don’t come here anymore. Oleg is in charge here!’

‘Oleg who?’ Victor was dazed.

‘Oleg.’ Snow high-kneed Victor under the chin; his head snapped back, his eyes closed, and he fell. ‘Michael, we’re leaving.’

‘Hokay.’ Jones stood and shrugged at Vlad.

‘Call the militia quickly. Tell them the SBU are on their way.’

Vlad looked at Snow in confusion. ‘SBU?’

‘Yes.’ Snow reached into his pocket, withdrew a $100 bill, and handed it to Vlad. ‘This is for your trouble; any friend of Michael Jones is a friend of mine.’

Michael stared down at Victor. ‘Don’t mess with the SAS.’

Snow grabbed Jones by the sleeve. ‘Time to go.’

Outside, darkness had fallen and they took the path round to the front of the hotel. ‘Who’s Oleg?’

‘There’s always an Oleg.’

Michael pointed down the street. ‘Sviatoshyn metro station is ten minutes that way.’

‘OK, we’ll go back to the centre and drink in a place full of foreigners.’ Snow tapped Jones on the back. ‘Don’t worry – I’m on expenses.’

‘Oh, that’s great. But can you hang on a minute? I need another slash.’

‘Fine.’ Jones walked down the side of the hotel, opened his flies, and urinated into an evergreen shrub. Snow had ceased to be embarrassed by his friend’s antics years before, so took the opportunity to call Blazhevich.

‘Aidan? What’s up?’

‘I’ve had a bit of a problem with a guy in a bar – a giant to be exact. Can you send someone to collect him? I don’t think the local militia would be up to the job.’

He heard the Ukrainian sigh. ‘Where is the giant?’

‘He’s in a hotel on Horenska Street, not far from Sviatoshyn metro.’

‘Was this giant called Victor?’

‘Yes. Why?’

‘Kyiv really is a small village. He’s known to the SBU, and you were lucky.’

‘Why?’

‘Victor Krilov is a former professional boxer, a good one.’

‘Nice.’

‘Aidan, stay out of trouble. I’ll see you and Mr Iqbal tomorrow, at the debrief.’

*

FBI Field Office, New York

Vince Casey looked up from the computer at FBI Deputy Director Gianni before placing his thick index finger on the laptop screen, the display changing colour under the pressure of his digit. ‘This guy’s a “pro”, no doubt in my mind.’

Gianni stared at the frozen image of the member of the public who had taken down four gunmen.

‘Look again at how he moves.’ Casey clicked and rewound the surveillance tape.

Both men watched as the figure travelled with an economy of movement, without any hesitation or lack of purpose.

‘So who is he?’ Gianni asked.

‘That’s why your Bureau and my Agency are interested.’

Gianni sat back and folded his arms. The speed of the man was impressive, as was the way he had terminated the X-rays. ‘Vince, what’s your professional opinion?’

‘I don’t think it’s any different to yours.’

‘Humour me. Spell it out.’

‘Definitely SF or SF-trained.’

Gianni valued the opinion of the CIA black-ops veteran. In the corridor outside the office they heard footsteps. Both men remained silent from force of habit until the footfall faded away. Gianni leaned forward, dragged his laptop nearer, and tapped the keyboard. He glanced across at his long-time friend from the Agency. ‘The fingerprints come up as belonging to a banker from Boston.’

‘Let me have a look at that?’

‘Sure.’ Gianni pushed the laptop back towards Casey. ‘Just scroll down. All we have is there.’

‘Thanks.’ Casey read the report, although he already knew the basics. James East. Born in Boston, put up for adoption by his mother, no record of a father. Placed in a state orphanage, never adopted. There was a grainy photograph taken from a high-school yearbook, which showed East as a bespectacled, blond-haired teen. How was East’s eyesight now, Casey wondered – he’d better check. He read on. After graduating from high school East travelled to the opposite side of the country to study at UCLA. Upon completion of his degree, he volunteered to teach English for charities in Romania and then Bulgaria before returning to the US several years later.

‘Again, Vince, what’s your professional opinion?’ Gianni asked, deadpan.

‘Again, the same as yours.’

‘Too convenient?’

‘Exactly,’ Casey stated wryly. ‘No family, no ties, out of the US, and then no real job until three years ago when he comes back?’

‘And, as you see, no record of any criminal activity, or military service.’

‘So he’s not one of ours,’ Casey confirmed. His initial thoughts had been that East was a ‘NOC’, an agent with ‘No Official Cover’, a black operative. But his CIA database had thus far come up blank as regards any facial recognition match. In his experience even the blackest of NOCs left some record. He’d continue to search.

‘So what do we have?’ Gianni leant back in his chair and rolled his shoulders.

‘Someone else’s asset?’

‘Perhaps, but we’ve got the local office in Boston digging deeper into his background; if there’s anything fishy, we’ll find it.’

The hard lessons learnt from the 9/11 terror attacks had now been fully implemented; the varying arms of the US intelligence and law enforcement services worked together, transparently and harmoniously. At least that was the official line, but Gianni and Casey did find the activity of their organisations more and more linked. The Bureau’s remit was ‘domestic security’ and the Agency’s the interests of the US abroad; however, each organisation was keen to keep tabs on suspects, wherever they might be.

Gianni continued. ‘We got a court order to open his safety deposit box. There was nothing in it apart from a few thousand dollars in cash. I’ve asked the NSA to look for any recent calls made on the iPhone he was carrying.’

Casey got to his feet and helped himself to a cup of coffee from the pot in the corner of the room. ‘Whoever Mr East is, he’s got some explaining to do.’

‘Oh, he’ll talk. Hero or not, he’s facing four counts of voluntary manslaughter at the very least.’

‘And how many innocent shoppers did the bad guys get?’

Gianni held up his palms. ‘I know… if it hadn’t been for Mr East we’d have had a full-scale massacre on our hands. The fact still remains, however, that he killed four men. Justice cannot be blind.’

Casey pretended to agree. ‘How did we miss them?’

‘Hey, if we knew that we’d have stopped them ourselves.’

‘Why couldn’t just one of them have lived? At least until we bled him a bit.’

It angered and annoyed Casey that the shooters had appeared from nowhere. The leads from the increased chatter following Bin Laden’s kill/capture even now had them all chasing their tails. And, added to this, new threats from Islamic State to take their fight to the West had, in short, created so much chatter that it had become a shield. ‘The bigger question is, how many more have we missed?’

‘You know as well as I do how much traffic the NSA is looking at, the volume Echelon is sifting. My question is, why attack a store in Morristown, New Jersey? Why not hit the branch opposite Ground Zero?’

Casey had been wondering the same thing and had no answer. Was it random, opportunistic, a mistake, or personal? ‘We may never know.’

‘Yep,’ Gianni agreed. The identities of the four men remained unknown. There had been no IDs found on the bodies and the fingerprints had thrown up fake legends, the origins of which were still being traced. ‘How is Mr East?’

‘Why?’

Gianni gave Casey his no-shit stare. ‘I need to talk to him. Remember, we are in the USA; the rule of law has to be followed, otherwise we’ll be no better than them.’

Casey raised his eyebrows. ‘Hey, I’m not farm-fresh, remember? We have laws, and sometimes they bend.’

‘OK.’ Gianni sighed imperceptibly; he knew he was fighting a losing battle. Casey had an agreement with the Commander in Chief that Gianni wasn’t meant to know about. ‘Someday, Vince, you’re not going to get what you want. This isn’t a pissing contest; we’ve both known each other too long for that. East has to be under my watch. I’ll pull my agents back a bit. After you’ve finished talking to him we’ll resume our perimeter and he’s mine. OK? Any intel you get, copy me in.’

‘Thanks, Gino,’ Casey said affably, ‘but I wasn’t asking you for permission.’

Gianni was about to reply when Casey’s Blackberry pinged. Casey retrieved it from his pocket and read the alert. ‘Shit. They’ve hit Moscow again.’

*

SBU Headquarters, Volodymyrska Vulitsa, Kyiv

The room chosen by the SBU for Iqbal’s debriefing was much more elaborately furnished than any at Vauxhall Cross. The walls were clad in ornate, gilded, hand-painted panels, and the chairs were highly padded and covered in an array of exotic leather. The large table in the middle could hold twenty guests, but today it had seated only five: Mohammed Iqbal and the intelligence officers responsible for his rescue – Aidan Snow, Alistair Vickers, Vitaly Blazhevich, and Ivan Nedilko.

At the start of the meeting Vickers officially presented Blazhevich, who was deputising for Director Dudka, with copies of Iqbal’s and Snow’s statements. It had taken most of the day to meticulously go through these, the SBU being loath to miss anything that could potentially be of use in their ongoing antiterrorist operation against the DNR and possible future international indictments. Photographs of known DNR members were shown in turn to both Iqbal and Snow, and videofits were created of as yet unidentified men. All in all, Iqbal’s illegal incarceration had provided the SBU with valuable Humint (human intelligence) they wouldn’t otherwise have been able to gather.