The Kremlin Device (40 page)

On the floor of the warehouse we laid out white mine tape to the exact dimensions of the rooms in the flat, and decided who would clear which. In the building across the street from the target, one startled family had to be evicted from their penthouse so that sniper observers could be installed and listening equipment brought to bear on the windows. Early indications suggested that the flat was occupied by two men.

Meanwhile, a Russian-speaking policeman – a young, dark guy called Michael, who looked more like a student than a police officer – was seconded to Red team, with orders to come up and join us as soon as the flat was secure. Two nuclear technicians from Porton Down were standing by to neutralise Orange, when or if we found it.

At 10.45 a.m. we were ready to roll. Our CO and ops officer were installed alongside the police in a control room set up in Marylebone police station. I knew that at the last minute, before we went in, the CO would take command of the operation by signing the formal order, but that didn't concern us at the sharp end.

The police team who had Markham Court under surveillance confirmed that nobody had entered or left No. 10 since the arrival of Barrakuda, so we were reasonably confident that we'd find only two men inside.

Red team slipped into the building so easily that we might have been arriving for Sunday morning coffee.

Just as we were debussing a small, heavily veiled Arab woman came out of the block. Funny, I thought, she's just like us, dressed in black from head to foot. She did a big double-take at the sight of us. I thought she was going to dart back inside, but she kept going and walked off along the street.

One of our lads got a foot in the open door, saving us the need to pick or smash the security lock. Then it was three into the lift, two running up the stairs, and the sixth man staying down to guard the entrance.

Outside No 10. I paused till I heard from the commentary in my earpiece that Blue team were in position at the head of the fire-escape. Then I quietly said, ‘Placing charge now.' The door had a peep-hole in the centre at head level, but as we'd arrived in total silence the chances that anyone was standing with his eye glued to it seemed exceedingly remote – so I ignored it and went forward to tape the det cord straight down the middle.

With that done, I stood back against the wall, the other guys lined up beyond me.

‘Red, all set,' I reported.

‘Blue, ready,' came the answer.

‘OK then. Stand by . . . stand by . . . GO!'

I closed my clacker. The bang was very sharp and loud in the confines of the little landing, and the front door split in half and caved inwards. I lobbed a stun grenade through the opening, squinted sideways as it cracked off, and burst into the flat.

Two men in shirtsleeves were sitting at a table – or rather, they had been. By the time I entered the room they were half-way to their feet, staggering backwards in shock from the explosions.

‘Stand still!' I yelled. ‘Hands up!'

I saw immediately that the left-hand man was Barrakuda: a smaller version of Akula, with the same hollow cheeks, but younger, maybe in his late thirties, his features less haggard. He'd been taken completely by surprise. Before he could move two of our guys had him pinioned and cuffed with his hands behind his back. His companion was a big fellow, older and heavier, with stiff brown hair brushed up and back. He, too, was instantly overpowered.

Blue team, bursting through from the kitchen end of the flat, confirmed that there was nobody else in residence.

A rapid search proved that the device was not on the premises. We looked under beds, in cupboards, behind furniture: there was no recess large enough to conceal cases that size.

From out in the hallway I reported, ‘Red leader. Flat secure. No casualties. Device not here. Repeat, device not here. Let's have the interpreter up soonest.'

Now I noticed two small suitcases standing by the wall inside the front door. I picked one up. The weight told me it was full. Back in the living room I saw that our prisoners' jackets were hanging on the backs of the chairs where they'd been sitting. On the table stood an open attaché case made of crocodile skin, which immediately reminded me of the Moscow apartment. This one contained only papers, but among them were two air tickets and two passports with green plastic covers.

The passports were issued by the Republic of Chechnya and made out in Cyrillic script, with Roman equivalents underneath the names. One belonged to Hussein Amadov, the other to Andrei Musayev. The photo showed that Barrakuda was using Musayev as a pseudonym. The Air Malta tickets were made out in the same names. The destination was Valetta, but the flight numbers and dates were so densely printed that I had to stare at them for a few seconds before I could make them out. Then I realised that the tickets were for 21 October – that very day – and that the departure was scheduled for 12.45 p.m. Eh, I said to myself. These guys were about to do a flit.

As I flicked through the documents, Barrakuda watched me without moving, but I could feel controlled hatred emanating from him. I was glad we had him cuffed. I still had my MP5 on its sling over my shoulder, so I moved in on him, jammed the muzzle into the front of his expensive-looking cream shirt and jerked it violently sideways, ripping off two buttons. Sure enough, under the hair on his scrawny chest was the tattoo of a long, slim fish.

‘You speak English?'

He said nothing, but lifted both elbows outwards to mean, ‘No.'

I gave him a crack on the right ear with the barrel of the weapon, and although the blow rocked his head sideways, he hardly flinched.

I turned to the big man and asked the same.

‘A little.'

‘Where's the bomb?'

He pretended not to understand. I repeated the question. Again it produced no answer. Then I heard a movement behind me, and there was Mike, the interpreter, in the doorway. Behind him I saw police officers moving in to evacuate the other flats.

‘Tell this guy I know who he is.' I pointed at Barrakuda. ‘His real name's Gaidar, Supyan Gaidar. Tell him I want to know where they've put the nuclear device.'

As I spoke the names, I saw a flicker of unease run through the prisoner.

Then Mike started in. His Russian was impressively fluent and fast, but it produced only a negative response.

‘He doesn't know what you're talking about.'

‘What's he doing here, then?'

This time the man did answer.

‘He says he's here on business,' Mike translated. ‘It's his first visit to London.'

‘OK. Take a look at those papers on the table.'

Mike picked up a couple of sheets and scanned them briefly. ‘They're about a shipment of goods from Valetta to Amsterdam.'

‘Drugs, I bet.'

A telephone rang, right beside me.

‘Pick it up,' I told Mike. ‘Answer it in Russian.'

He lifted the receiver and said, ‘
Da?
' He listened briefly, went, ‘
Khorosho. Spasibo
,' and put the phone down. Barrakuda was glaring.

‘What did they say?' I demanded.

‘“Everything's in order. Precisely three hours from now.”'

I checked my watch and said, ‘Ten twenty-one. That gives us until thirteen twenty-one. Thirteen twenty.'

Immediately the phone rang again.

Again Mike said ‘
Da?
' and listened, but this time nobody spoke.

‘Keep grilling him,' I told Mike. ‘Back in a moment.'

I went through the shattered door on to the landing, out of earshot. I knew the telephone line had been tapped that morning so the spooks could trace the calls. Now that the flat was secure, the SAS ought by rights to hand control over to the police and get out; but I'd had another idea.

I jabbed my pressel and said, ‘Red leader. I need to speak to the CO.'

‘Here,' said the boss immediately.

I reported the calls and said, ‘If they can trace the source, we need to hit it. But I've got another idea.'

‘Carry on.'

‘The Barrakuda guy's obviously trying to do a flit. He's got his flight out booked for this afternoon. But I'm sure he knows where the bomb is. He knows it's not far away, and that it's set to go off three hours from now. We could try beating hell out of him to get the information, but my hunch is that wouldn't work. On the other hand, if we just keep him on site, he's soon going to start shitting himself.'

‘OK. I'll square it with the Director and the Police Commissioner that you remain on target. How many men do you need?'

‘Red team will do fine.'

‘All right. Blue can pull out, then. The QRF will remain on standby outside.'

‘Roger.'

The six guys from Blue team disappeared down the stairs. I put two of our own lads to guard the back door of the flat, two outside the front door, on the landing, leaving myself, Darren Barnes and Mike the interpreter to harass the prisoners.

‘Tell him he's not going to Malta,' I said. ‘Tell him he's not going anywhere. He's staying here to enjoy his own little explosion.'

Mike translated. Barrakuda remained impassive but the big guy immediately began to look sick.

‘Go through the briefcase,' I told Mike. ‘Every bit of paper.' I turned to Darren and said, ‘Get a brew on, for fuck's sake. See what you can find in the kitchen.'

He went out and rummaged in cupboards. ‘There's tea,' he called, ‘but no milk.'

‘Black tea, then.'

The big guy started trying to say something to his partner. I waved at him to shut up and asked Mike, ‘What was that?'

‘Couldn't get it. Must have been Chechen.'

We hustled the two men to opposite ends of the room and sat them on chairs facing away from each other so that they couldn't communicate even with a look.

‘Sugar?' shouted Darren from the kitchen.

‘Three,' I called. ‘Make it four.'

The scene had started to seem surreal. There were these two guys sitting handcuffed, back to back. Outside, London was enjoying a peaceful Sunday. Overhead, the cloud was breaking up, with occasional blue sky showing though. The odd jet went over on its way into Heathrow. Down in the street, cars accelerated as they headed north along Seymour Place.

Somewhere not far off, a nuclear device was ticking its way towards detonation.

I began to feel light-headed, almost as if I was floating.

Darren brought the tea. It was black as pitch and tasted like syrup, but it helped bring me back to reality. I got half the cup down my neck, then noticed some keys on the table beside the briefcase. One of them fitted the suitcase in the hall, but the luggage turned out innocent – spare suit and shirts, pyjamas, shaving kit.

Looking round the living room, I saw that it had old-fashioned mouldings, like fake panelling, on the walls, but that in an attempt to make it look more modern, somebody had put up large, abstract prints of geometrical designs, mostly black and white. The furniture was modern too, and expensive, the centrepiece a three-seat sofa covered in white hide.

Time crawled. After what seemed like an hour I found that only eighteen minutes had passed. I'd put my radio on listening watch, to conserve the battery.

Then, at 10.45, I got a double hiss and switched on again.

‘Red leader,' I said.

‘Your two calls.' It was Joe Darwent, the ops officer. ‘The first was from a mobile. Sweeper vans are out, but it was too short for them to get a fix. The second call came from a house in St John's Wood, just north of you. Blue team are on their way there now.'

‘Roger. What else is happening?'

‘The top brass are meeting in the COBR. The Director's there, with the Home Secretary and a few others.'

‘What about the police?'

‘They've evacuated your block.'

‘Is that all?'

‘They're searching suspect houses, but they can't start mass evacuation unless they know where the device is. They might find they were moving people into a danger area.'

‘Roger.'

For twenty minutes I sat on the window-sill and let silence go to work. With my covert radio switched on, I heard Blue leader reporting the arrival of his team at the location in Elm Tree Road, behind Lord's cricket ground. Quickly they deployed on both sides of the house and blasted their way in, only to find the place deserted. A search revealed no sign of the bomb.

At 12.10 the big guy began to get restless, shifting his arse around on his chair. At last he said something, which Mike translated. ‘He wants to have a shit.'

‘He can have a shit if he tells us where the bomb is.' It sounded ridiculous, as though I was bargaining in an attempt to make some child behave well. ‘Otherwise he can shit in his pants.'

The man was in obvious physical discomfort, which my answer only increased.

‘Tell both of them there's only one way they're getting out of here,' I said to Mike. ‘That's by giving us the information we want.'

Mike translated. Suddenly Barrakuda began to talk in Chechen at the top of his voice.

‘Shut up!' I shouted – but he carried on regardless, even when I belted him across the side of the head. Soon he was yelling like a madman in a high, hoarse voice. The big guy began to bellow back, and all at once I felt glad, because I saw that stress was getting to the pair of them.

I left them to it, and from out on the landing I called Control. ‘They've started arguing like lunatics,' I reported. ‘Their nerve's going.'

‘It had better break soon,' snapped Joe. ‘Things are getting bloody fraught around here.'