The Kremlin Device (7 page)

‘That's right.' Johnny took him up, holding the weapon across his knees as he sat at the front of the classroom. ‘It's a beaut. It's got everything bar the spots.' He hefted it in one hand. ‘
Extremely
light. Under four and a half pounds without a mag. As you see, there's a strong resemblance to a sawn-off Kalashnikov AK74U: more than half the parts are interchangeable. But it's a hell of a lot more versatile. From what we've seen on the range so far, it's accurate and nicely balanced. Handles exceptionally well. Looks like it could be a winner in CQB and law enforcement.'

He demonstrated how the tubular steel butt-stock could be flipped out to turn the weapon into a rifle, or downwards to form a grip for sub-machine-gun mode. Then he rapidly stripped it, removing the bolt and bolt-carrier, the return spring, the upper hand-guard and gas chamber. As he brought each component away, Sasha gave us the Russian names.

‘Two models of magazine,' Johnny went on, having reassembled the pieces. ‘This one holds twenty-two rounds, this one forty. The selector switch here has three positions. On safe, the bolt is locked half-way back so you can just see down into the magazine. Second position, O, as you know, stands for
odin
– one.
Odinochniy
is single fire. Is that right, Sasha?'

‘
Konechno
.' The Russian grinned. ‘And next position, AV, is for
avtomaticheskiy
– automatic.'

So they went on, back and forth. The Gepard's greatest novelty lay in the fact that it could fire several different types of 9mm round without having to change the barrel. Sasha reeled off eight possibilities, ending with the 9 x 30 hard-alloy-core bullet called the Grom. ‘You know what
grom
means?' he asked jokily. ‘It means thunder! Very big impact and penetration. Will pierce body armour at three hundred metres.'

Sasha also sat in on a couple of language classes. When he and Valentina found they came from the same city – the place the Communists had called Gorki, now back to its original name of Nizhni Novgorod – they really hit it off. There was one hilarious session when somebody asked Val for a few swear-words, just to put us in the swim, and she pretended to be greatly shocked.

‘Swear-words?' she said. ‘In Russia, there are no such things. The Communist system was so pure that after seventy-five years of it, all obscenities were eliminated.'

Her teasing kept everyone in good spirits. Of course there was no question of her joining the team in the field, but as we broke up from one lesson, to butter her up, I said, ‘Val, I wish to hell you were coming with us.'

‘Get me a visa and give me a Gepard,' she quipped back, ‘and I'll be there.'

One little task I set the lads was the creation of lapel badges bearing their names in English and Russian. Obviously we didn't want anything that would flap about, so I told everyone to make up a cream-coloured linen patch, with black writing on it, that could be stitched on the tunic of the Russian DPMs we would be wearing. My own name came out as ZHORDI, Mal was exactly the same – MAL – and Rick was RIK, pronounced as if he stank. Johnny became ZHONNI, Dusty DOSTI, and Pete PYOTR. Even Pavarotti could be easily transliterated. But the one name that knackered everybody was Whinger. His real name was Billy, but he'd been known as Whinger for so long that none of his mates could call him anything else. The trouble was, the Russian alphabet has no W, and the nearest we could get to it was VUINZHA.

Among the lads there was a good deal of talk about money, because this looked like being a lucrative trip. What with allowances for food, accommodation, laundry, arduous conditions and so on, our pay was going to build up to two or three times its normal level. The expenses for the whole trip had been reckoned at £6,000 per head, and four grand of this had been paid up front. Anyone prudent put most of the cash into his bank account, but Pavarotti went straight into Monmouth and put down a deposit on a thirty-five-year-old scarlet XJ120 Jag which he'd been fancying for months. I put three grand into my building society account and changed the rest of the money into dollars, insisting that the paymaster got me new notes from the bank, with no year earlier than 1997 on them and in low denominations, because I'd heard that fifties and older notes wouldn't be accepted in Russia.

When we asked Sasha about the black market for money, he said that it had collapsed. He explained that Moscow, like all Russian cities, had become so flooded with US dollars that anyone could get them, and the rate of exchange was the same everywhere – about seven roubles to the dollar, ten or eleven to a British pound. In the previous year, he told us, following rampant inflation, the rate had swollen to outrageous proportions: 7,000 roubles to the dollar, 10,000 to the pound. But then on 1 January the Russian government had divided the currency rate by a thousand in an attempt to simplify things and calm the economy down.

More briefings about the Russian Mafia came from another visiting professional from the Firm, this one a smooth, silver-haired fellow called Edgar (his surname). Again, Sasha was able to supplement his information, which had been collected from intelligence reports, with first-hand knowledge. The briefings confirmed what Sasha had already told us – that the main Mafia activity was extortion, and the worst threat was against people with big money: leading businessmen, heads of companies, bankers. We learnt that over the past few years various branches of the Mafia had risen to prominence and then faded away. The first to show had been the Solntsevo gang, named after the scruffy suburb on the south-western fringes of Moscow where its members lived. Lately, however, that lot had apparently yielded supremacy to the Ismailovskaya Mafia, also based in Moscow and led by a notorious crook called Sergei Askyonov. This group, with its strong military connections, claimed to have a private army of more than a thousand men.

Edgar, an intelligent guy, quickly appreciated Sasha's worth, and started asking for comments about what he himself was saying. ‘One reason for so much crime,' he told us, ‘is that there's a fantastic amount of paper money actually in circulation. One the one hand, people don't trust the banks. On the other, inflation's moving so fast that they reckon they get a better return by having dollar bills in their possession. So there's cash everywhere, and a big incentive for robbery. Is that right, Major?'

‘Certainly!' Sasha gave a vigorous nod. ‘More dollars in Russia now than in rest of world.'

‘Outside the States,' Edgar corrected.

‘Of course. But that is very much money.'

The lectures helped us all to refine the aims of our course. With kidnappings so common, hostage rescue was obviously of prime importance, and we decided to concentrate on that. EMOE – explosive method of entry, or blowing in doors and windows – was clearly going to be another key area. A third vital subject was ambush drills, and a fourth, the bodyguarding of VIPs. Strictly speaking, BG work fell outside the remit of the Subversive Action Wing, but as all the members of our team had been on specialist close-protection courses it seemed natural to include the subject in our syllabus.

Sasha's tales of the Mafia were so lurid that they acted on the team like shots of adrenalin. All right, we were going in on a training task, but soon every one of the lads was dreaming that we would somehow become directly involved in a Tiger Force hit and get some action ourselves. And it was obvious from the relish with which he described anti-Mafia operations that Sacha was a born killer.

‘In Gorki, my home town, is this godfather figure,' he told us one evening. ‘Real name Borzov. But he calls himself
Nepobedinyi
– Unvincible.'

‘Invincible,' I suggested.

‘Yes – Invincible. He thinks nobody can keell him. He is former criminal, many years in gaol. Like I told you, he is true
vor v zakone
, a criminal in the law. Now his chauffeur drives him in bullet-proof Mercedes. Always four bodyguards with him when he moves around. He lives in a palace – like the Winter Palace in St Petersburg, almost. At night, in the yard round his house, a Siberian tiger is wandering. Like a guard dog. A guard cat, you say?'

‘Some cat,' said Pavarotti.

‘Two hundred kilos,' Sasha said, not joking. ‘We heard he feeds this cat on human flesh, his enemies. This Invincible wears a Patek gold watch. His body is covered in pictures . . . tattoos. Small Mafia are not allowed such pictures. If some man gets one without authority, he can be keelled. But Invincible has on his chest a portrait of Lenin. And why? Because no one would dare to shoot at our great Communist leader. On his knees, he has pictures of stars. And why? That means he never kneels for anyone.'

Sasha broke off and gave a quick, rather nasty laugh. ‘But one day soon, I think we make him kneel.'

When Sasha flew back to Moscow we missed his cheerful company, and I looked forward to seeing him again when he met our recce party at Sheremetyevo Airport.

‘What's the weather going to be like?' I asked him before he went.

‘In Russia, autumn is one month ahead. Days warm, nights cool. Typical September.'

His final instruction as I saw him off was, ‘Breeng plugs.'

‘Plugs?'

‘For bath and basin. In Russian hotels, such things do not exist.'

FOUR

We had the weekend clear for our own preparation, then on Monday morning we set off for Heathrow – myself, Whinger and Rick. Obviously the commander and second in command had to go, and we selected Rick as a third partly because he was one of our signallers – he and Pete Pascoe were level when it came to radio work – but mainly because he was our best linguist. He had an incredible knack of picking up languages informally, learning wherever he went: already he spoke French and German, and Russian seemed to be giving him no problems.

In the event, our flight was delayed for nearly three hours by technical problems – one aircraft went tits-up on the runway, and another had to be brought into service – with the result that the whole day seemed to disappear, and dusk was already settling on the land by the time British Airways' flight 262 began its descent into Sheremetyevo.

In the distance and far below us on the starboard side of the plane, I saw lights glowing in the dark, and as we came closer I realised I could see the whole of Moscow enclosed within a single ring of illumination. ‘Look at that,' I said to Whinger. ‘Ten million people inside that circle. Can you imagine it?'

‘Yeah, and a couple of well-placed nukes would finish most of the bastards.'

‘Come on,' I laughed. ‘They're our friends now.'

But there wasn't much sign of that when we landed. We were travelling on civilian passports made out in our own names, and so had to go through Immigration along with everyone else. The hall was hot and dimly lit. Everything looked dirty and dilapidated – walls, doors, lights, the local staff. Worst of all was the ceiling, close over our heads, which looked as if someone had nailed ten thousand copper saucepans to it, rims downward.

‘Jesus!' I said quietly. ‘This is worse than Africa.'

For forty minutes we sweated shoulder-to-shoulder with passengers from other flights, shuffling forward like snails in queues that stretched towards the booths manned by the immigration officials. As we inched closer, I saw that the lady we were heading for could have walked straight off the set of a James Bond movie: grey uniform with lieutenant's bars on the shoulders, a mane of long, straight streaky blonde hair and half-inch false eyelashes.

Finally reaching her booth, I summoned up my best Russian and said, ‘
Dobriye vecher
.'

She glared at me, glared at my passport, glared at her video monitor and punched my details into her computer terminal, then shoved my documents back across the shelf without a word. It was definitely the wrong time of the month for her.

‘Friendly lot,' Whinger observed as he came through behind me. ‘Roll on the fucking Customs!'

To our surprise, they gave us no trouble. We took the green channel and nobody even looked in our direction. On the far side of the screen a swarm of taxi-drivers engulfed us, all shouting and trying to snatch our luggage; but through the middle of them came Sasha, dressed in civvies and smiling as he shouldered the mob aside. I recognised his shirt as one of the pair we'd bought in Hereford.

He greeted us warmly and led us out to a battered grey saloon which he'd parked on the pavement. We put our hold-alls into the boot and climbed aboard, myself in the front, the other guys in the back. Because the hinges had worked loose, it took three slams to make my door shut securely.

‘I am sorry,' Sasha said as he drove off. ‘You are in Intourist Hotel.'

‘What's wrong with that?'

He let go of the wheel to spread his hands. ‘Not nice. We wanted the Moskva, but no rooms.'

‘Oh, well. It's only two nights.' To change the subject I asked, ‘What sort of a car is this?'

‘It is Volga. Old, old. I would like to buy new one, something good. But that would be too dangerous. And why? Because the Mafia would take it. One day, in a traffic jam, my mother is driving it, she sees two gun-machines in her ears, this side and that side. “Give me the keys.” Finish.'

‘Can't the police do anything?'

‘Police!' He shot me a hopeless look. ‘They are worst. They are cowards. And anyway, half of them are paid by Mafia.'

The highway into town was wide but rough: four lanes in each direction, treacherously pitted with dips and potholes. I realised that when Sasha had described the Russian roads as diabolical he hadn't been exaggerating. We were really getting thrown around – and this on one of the main thoroughfares. We were also being overtaken on both sides simultaneously: anybody with a reasonably fast foreign car was weaving in and out of the traffic like a lunatic.