A mocking cry way up high pinpointed a lone hawk off to my right, circling on the thermals, a majestic master of the skies. He was either laughing at me for being such a sucker or dissing the shooter for not providing him with some easy pickings in the shape of my corpse. I shook my head at him and took another deep breath before rolling over and continuing across and down the slope in a fast crawl, using my elbows and feet to power me along on my belly like a lizard. It wasn’t pretty nor was it entirely pain-free, but if it got me out from under the gun I’d be happy.
Then the air around me exploded and an array of dust and chippings fell around me like dry rain.
TWO
Moscow
Building No 3, as it would have been known had it worn a nameplate, was an innocuous, concrete-and-glass office structure on the corner of Grizodubovoy Street in the Khoroshyovsky Administrative District in north-west Moscow. It was near to but not part of the central headquarters building of the Main Intelligence Directorate, known more commonly as the GRU – Russia’s foreign military intelligence agency.
The location was a coincidence, since none of the people in the building were connected with the GRU, although they would have readily admitted to the same nation-state loyalties. The structure was guarded by a mobile security team and counter-surveillance systems, and anyone trying to gain access from the street, the roof or up through the basement would encounter fierce preventative measures to stop them.
In an austere room on the fourth level, which was the only one in use, a woman and four men had gathered. An armed guard stood outside the door with orders to admit nobody for any reason save, perhaps, President Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin himself, should he be in the unlikely position of making a personal visit.
No personal phones or electronic devices were permitted inside the room, which the occupants were well aware of, and no obvious records were kept of the discussions here. It was known, not unsurprisingly and with an element of dark humour by those who used it, as the ‘dead room’.
The security in and around the building might have been regarded by many as considerable, even excessive, for it had limited use. The few discussions that took place here formed no part of Russia’s general political activities or duties; those involved were not serving government officials, military or security officers; and none of them would have been recognized as ever appearing in media exercises, political campaigns or puff pieces for consumption by the general public.
In short, the four men and one woman were, to all intents and purposes, faceless and nameless. The security was in place to ensure they remained that way.
‘Further to our previous discussions, I am pleased to announce that our affirmative action against the American CIA is about to go live. We are even now waiting for news of a successful outcome.’
The speaker was a slim man in a plain but expensive suit and crisp, white shirt. Konstantin Basalayev had small hands, thinning hair and an air of restless energy that regularly caused those around him a degree of unease, mostly, he was aware, because he bore more than a passing resemblance to the President, Vladimir Putin. Not that he cared one way or another; unease among others, he’d found, especially those on his own level who were invariably looking for dominance and upward mobility, bred uncertainty and allowed exploitation of their weaknesses.
Right now his words, spoken in a soft voice, caused two of the other men, who had been talking quietly while waiting for the meeting to begin, to fall instantly silent. ‘Affirmative action’ in the context Basalayev was using meant something final. Terminal. No publicity, no record; another small and dirty detail for which they had been gathered together more than once before in the name of Mother Russia.
‘And we have a specific target?’ The only woman, who was sitting at the opposite end of the table, was the first to break the silence. Irina Kolodka was in her forties, with dark eyes and glossy hair, and a figure which had caused the men in the room to study her arrival with carefully concealed interest. But that was all they did. She was, they knew, out of bounds to all. Off limits to anyone who cared for their life, their career … and their balls.
Basalayev tilted his head to one side. It could have been yes or no, but that was his way of speaking, of retaining attention, of keeping his audience guessing. This time it was unequivocal. ‘We do. His identity was revealed and communicated to us recently by Agent Seraphim in Washington.’
‘Seraphim?’ Anatoly Dolmatov, a former FSB officer, sounded surprised. ‘Is that where the information came from? I thought she’d retired to America and become a filthy capitalist.’
The comment caused a brief ripple of ironic laughter. As they were all well aware, one could find almost as many capitalists within spitting distance of this room as could be found in any hectare of the US capital.
‘She did. She was reminded of her duty and agreed to help.’
This time the laughter was nervous. They all knew it was so but it demonstrated a level of caution they each recognized as necessary in these dangerous times. Any appearance of doubt was a contagion to be avoided at all costs.
Basalayev did not join in, but studied each person in turn. They were all members of a small and exclusive group dealing with highly secretive plans and projects, while remaining outside the normal run of the Moscow elite. Each had long ago given up their public roles in security, military and strategic operations, and their responsibilities now went far deeper than any normal matters of state.
‘As you know it was decided that the time had come to send a message to those who threaten us, who seek to
