December. James Steel
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with the government after protesting about human rights abuses. Has impeccable populist credentials: is widely trusted as an honourable man and has a lot of popular sympathy. The only problem is,’ Harrington shrugged ruefully, ‘the government got so pissed off with him that they sent him to prison in Siberia for fifteen years on trumped-up tax evasion charges.
‘So, this is where we come in.’ He paused, looking intently at Alex. ‘We are going to indulge in what Sir Francis Walsingham used to refer to as “lighting fires in other men’s houses”. It’s going to be your job to attack the prison camp, free Raskolnikov and then take him to Moscow to launch a coup against the government.’
Alex didn’t blink but looked straight back at Harrington as he tried to take in the enormity of this task.
Harrington took his silence as assent.
‘If you’re wondering why we picked you, it’s because you’re ex-army and therefore trusted and have a proven track record of being able to pull off this sort of small-scale raid.’ He gave a rare smile. ‘You have the network of contacts that you can call on at short notice to do this, apart from which you apparently speak good Russian. However, you have been out of the Forces for a few years now and are well known on the international circuit as a mercenary, so I’m afraid that, if this does all go tits up, you will be completely deniable. As you can guess by the secretive nature of this meeting, the government is going to have no more contact with the op after this briefing. It will be over to you.
‘Our contact can’t organise the raid himself because he’s a businessman, not a soldier. He approached us for help because he’s based in London a lot and has links here, and it’s more secure for you to organise it than anyone inside Russia—it would run the risk of leaks.
‘Now, there is one final point. The oligarch has actually been talking to us about this for some time now but we ignored the idea as being too risky until this current energy crisis blew up. The reason this whole contact with you has been,’ he paused apologetically, ‘a bit rushed, is because our man now has intelligence from inside the regime that they may be making moves to kill Raskolnikov in a prison “accident” soon. If that happens then our last chance of bringing down this regime from inside will have gone and we could well be looking at a World War Three situation as Krymov goes increasingly crackers.’
Harrington looked at Alex grimly, but with the confidence that he would now have grasped the importance of the mission and do as he was ordered.
Alex unfolded his arms, leaned forward in his chair, looked straight at Harrington and said calmly, ‘That is the maddest plan I have ever heard in my entire life. No way.’ He shook his head and sat back.
He was not in a forgiving mood after his abrupt pick-up and the railroading at the start of the briefing. Quite apart from that, he was a sharp-minded, independent field commander, used to analysing the feasibility of operations and giving direct opinions on them.
He held out a hand in exasperation. ‘It’s as mad as…’ he fished in his memory for a comparably risky venture, ‘…Suez!’
The word visibly stung Harrington. He was well aware of the risky nature of the operation and hated being reminded of the similarly secretive and half-baked foreign policy disaster that had brought about the end of the British Empire.
Alex pushed his chair back, stood up and leaned over the table, extending a hand again towards Harrington. ‘This will start World War Three! I mean, we don’t know that Krymov will start it himself but we sure know it will happen if we do this.’
Harrington wasn’t used to having to persuade people to do things.
He jabbed a finger back at Alex, his face red. ‘Look, Devereux!’ he shouted. ‘If you don’t do what we say, you’re fucked! We’ve got enough charges on you for launching illegal wars in your African adventures that you will never work again as a mercenary and will spend a long time at Her Majesty’s pleasure if we really decide to kick you in the balls. And I don’t give a fuck if you think you deserve a medal for saving the world! Do I make myself clear!’
The two were eyeball to eyeball over the table.
Alex was enraged but his mind was working fast. He knew that what Harrington said was true: if the government really wanted to get him they could; and from what he knew of Harrington he would enjoy grinding Alex into the dust. At the same time he could see that the country was in trouble and that this would be the opportunity to serve that he felt he had been denied.
Without breaking eye contact with Harrington, he said in an even tone: ‘OK…I’ll do it. With conditions.’
He paused. Harrington blinked.
‘I want ten million quid, plus the same amount for my men.’ He paused again. ‘And, since I am putting my arse on the line for the good of the country, I do want a medal, actually. If I pull this one off, I want a VC. Gift of a grateful nation.’ He raised an eyebrow.
Harrington huffed indignantly. ‘You can’t dictate that sort of—’
Alex interrupted calmly, ‘Look, Harrington, you make the rules, so bend them. If you don’t, you’re fucked. Do I make myself clear?’
THURSDAY 4 DECEMBER
Alex stumbled on an icy patch in the dark and cursed. He steadied himself and moved on more carefully. Getting around London now was like going for a walk in the countryside at night: there were no streetlights at all and he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face.
The road was silent and knee-deep in snow; the stuff was falling slowly but heavily, his footsteps were muffled and he felt a soft resistance to each stride. A thick layer of snow had accreted on every horizontal surface, no matter how small: the tops of car wing mirrors parked along the street; between the uprights of the black metal railings screening the houses from the road.
He had met Harrington two days before and was now making his way from his house up the New King’s Road to The Boltons in South Kensington—the exclusive street where he had been instructed to meet the oligarch. He hadn’t even been given the man’s name yet. Apparently he had just flown in from Moscow and was hosting a party, although Alex wasn’t sure how the hell he was going to do that in the present circumstances: there was no power, and food stocks were beginning to run low.
Harrington had read out the invitation with a pained expression: ‘It’s to celebrate the Fixed Great Feast of the Russian Orthodox Church: Entry into the Temple of our Most Holy Lady Mother of God and Ever-Virgin Mary.’
He had then barked in irritation: ‘Look, just turn up and introduce yourself as Alexander Grekov. Our contact will take it from there. I will sort the transfer of the money and I’ll look into that other thing…’ He waved his hand in disgust at Alex’s demand for a VC. ‘Just pull this off and frankly you can ask for the bloody world. As far as you’re concerned, though, this is your last contact with HMG. From now on we don’t know who you are and we don’t care if you get into any shit when you’re on the op. You are totally deniable. You’re on your own, Devereux!’ he had added with relish.
Alex stopped to check his location with his torch. He shone the beam along a wall looking for a street name; familiar places suddenly became alien when they were plunged into pitch-darkness. The few passers-by he did meet seemed threatening and they huddled away from each other. He found a name and then brushed the snowflakes off the torch, stuck it back in his overcoat pocket, and walked on.
He was always struck by the huge scale of the houses in The Boltons neighbourhood: five floors plus basement. ‘House’ was an understatement; they were really white stucco palaces. Some of them had candlelight shining dimly from their windows but most were just black looming hulks.
Despite the ill-tempered meeting with Harrington, Alex was actually feeling