Cold East. Alex Shaw
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the time the back of the truck had been opened all six men were awake and alert. The driver informed them that they had arrived in the holy town of Mashhad. They hopped down to find themselves in the courtyard of a large villa. Above, the sky was a piercing blue and a slight breeze lightened the midday heat. This was the residence of Yassin al-Suri, the Al-Qaeda facilitator who, granted some leeway by Tehran, was permitted to operate discreetly within the country. This included collecting money from donors, to be transferred to Al-Qaeda’s leadership in Pakistan, and facilitating the travel of recruits from the Gulf States to Pakistan and Afghanistan. Dressed in a grey, tailored suit, with neatly cropped hair that, if longer, would be curly, al-Suri resembled a banker not a terrorist. Yet he was both. He was one of only three men to know the true nature of the case Tariq carried. Any more would lead to security leaks and the mission being compromised. He was on hand to personally oversee their operation and grease palms. This was the highest-risk Al-Qaeda operation in history, surpassing even the New York attacks, for not only the infidels but the Iranians, too, would give anything to possess the device Tariq carried. ‘Welcome, brothers!’ Al-Suri held his arms wide to encompass the villa behind as he greeted them.
Tariq kissed al-Suri on both cheeks and introduced his team: Reza Khan, Sharib Quyeum, Ashgollah Ahmadi, Lall Mohammad, and Abdul Shinare. All of them were proven fighters, devotees to the cause, and resourceful. ‘Is everything in place?’
The edges of al-Suri’s mouth curled up. ‘Everything. Now let us eat. Tomorrow you shall continue on your path to martyrdom.’
‘Insha’Allah.’
‘Yes, my brother, Insha’Allah.’ Al-Suri’s eyes wandered to the case. ‘Is that it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can I hold it?’
‘No.’
‘Good. Do not let it out of your sight and do not let anyone take it from you. Now let us all go inside. You must wash and then eat.’
Tariq beckoned to his men. ‘Come.’
New York, USA
‘This is most irregular.’ Dr Litvin glared at Needham and Beck, arms folded defiantly.
Needham shrugged as though he had no choice in the matter. ‘I understand, Doctor, but it’s in the best interests of national security that Mr East be moved to a secure facility.’
‘This is against my medical opinion. There are further tests that need to be carried out.’
‘Rest assured they will be, Doctor. Our medical staff consists entirely of experienced specialists.’
‘Really?’ His nose had been put out of joint. ‘What is the name of the medical institution he’s being transferred to?’
‘I can’t reveal that, for reasons of national security, but he’ll be well cared for.’
‘Mr East, what is it that you want? Do you agree to be transferred?’
Gorodetski looked from one man to the other. ‘I think it is best that I do go with them. Yes.’
Litvin shook his head slowly. ‘Very well. Mr East, you have made a swift recovery thus far, but I warn you, head injuries are a very delicate area. Certain symptoms may be delayed in their onset for days after the time of injury. You may start to experience problems concentrating, have memory lapses, become irritable, unable to sleep, or be hypersensitive to light and noise. You mustn’t overexert yourself, and if you start to suffer from any of these symptoms you must immediately report this. Do I make myself clear?’
Gorodetski nodded and was rewarded with a jolt of pain behind his eyes.
‘Goodbye then, or as we say in Russian: Dasvidaniya.’ Litvin held out his hand.
Gorodetski took it and replied in Russian. ‘Thank you, Doctor, for your care and advice. I did appreciate it. Until we meet again, all the best.’
Litvin beamed at hearing native Russian. ‘Moscow?’
‘Tula.’
‘Ah. Tula once had a hearing aid factory. Take care, my friend from Tula, and I mean that.’
*
Beck and Needham flanked Gorodetski as they entered the underground car park. Gorodetski felt unsteady on his feet but refused to let it show. Needham pointed his remote at a black Cadillac Escalade; the lights blinked to confirm the alarm had been disabled and that they could now open the doors.
Gorodetski glanced up at Beck as the taller man opened the sliding door. ‘No hard feelings, I hope?’
‘Not for a week, according to one of the nurses.’ His face was unsmiling, but the eyes betrayed it wasn’t an issue.
‘Live by the pork sword, die by the pork sword,’ Needham added as he climbed into the driver’s seat.
On pulling out of the parking lot both operatives automatically scanned for possible threats. The NY traffic was heavy, but eventually gave way to the emptier roads of New Jersey.
‘It’s gonna be a while yet, James, I’d get some shut-eye if I were you.’ Needham didn’t know Gorodetski’s real name, and nor did the rest of Casey’s team. ‘Sleep when you can, eat when you can, remember?’
‘Yeah, I remember.’ It was a Special Forces motto the world over. Gorodetski needed no encouragement; the cocktail Litvin had administered already had him nodding.
*
Camp Bastion, Helmand Province, Afghanistan
As one of the last units to leave Camp Bastion, Captain Mike Webster of the British Army Intelligence Corps had started to become bored with his posting. The frantic activity that had followed the target acquisition and execution of the Bin Laden kill/capture mission had long gone. There had been some infighting between rival groups, with splinter cells forming new alliances as their leaders vied to replace the late Saudi ‘Sheik’, but now, in Afghanistan at least, there was an eerie silence from Al-Qaeda. The West had turned its attention to the new threat: Islamic State, or IS, as British Intelligence officially called the new organisation. For their part, neither Al-Qaeda nor the Taliban had conducted any major attacks since the announcement that Camp Bastion was to close and ISAF were to pull out of Afghanistan. It was as though they were collectively holding their breath until Bastion’s decommissioning had become a reality. Regardless of the lull in hostilities, Webster was sure that some very fanatical men somewhere were planning the next 9/11. It wasn’t a matter of if – it was when. He supped his regulation milky tea and studied the US drone surveillance photographs. The most exciting things he had seen in months were the images in front of him. Known players in the Pakistani Taliban had been followed crossing into Afghanistan where they were recorded meeting local Afghani ‘Talibs’ and suspected members of Al-Qaeda. In Webster’s opinion, the group posed a perfect target for a hellfire missile, but someone high up, undoubtedly American, had decided to let it play out, to see what the ‘men in black turbans’ were up to. Webster shifted the photographs to one side and sighed. His room was stuffy and he was tired. He closed his eyes and felt himself drift… He was suddenly on a beach with his wife, sipping rum as the sun set. He could taste the alcohol and feel the warmth of his wife’s lips…
‘Captain Webster.’
Eyes snapping open, embarrassed, he looked up. ‘Just thinking with my eyes closed. What is it?’
Corporal Ian McAdam seemed a bit uneasy. ‘We’re holding a… er… local who wants to meet with a member of British Intelligence.’ It wasn’t an unusual request. Every Tom, Dick, or Halib thought they had vital intelligence, especially when rumours circulated about large cash rewards. What was unusual, however, was that Webster was being bothered. McAdam met his superior’s eyes. ‘This one is a bit different.’
‘How so?’
‘He says he’s Russian.’
‘Russian?’