‘They’re always connected, sir. Guys like him might leave the service, same as the FSB and the SBP — the Presidential Security Service — but there’s more than just an esprit de corps involved; they have a duty to remain in touch at all times. Like auxiliaries, I guess. As we’re beginning to learn with the events in Ukraine at the moment and South Ossetia before, some of these people were farmed out with a deliberate mission in mind.’
‘To do what?’
‘To infiltrate government departments in the former satellite states of the old Russian Federation. We know the Ukrainian Ministry of Affairs and their intel and security services have got former FSB and GRU members in their ranks, as have a few government offices. It’s the way they do things: infiltrate and take over. By the time anybody finds out what’s going on, it’s usually too late.’ He grinned and made rabbit’s ears signs with his fingers. ‘Like the Borg Collective.’
‘The what?’ Callahan scowled. He was never entirely sure with some of the geeky types down here if they were having a quiet joke at his expense or not.
‘Star Trek, sir. The Borg Collective was an alien race who—’ Andrews stopped, sensing he’d lost his listener with the first two words. He was right.
‘But Voloshyn’s with a private security company based in Kiev.’
‘Same thing, different uniform. During my research on Voloshyn I found references to BJ Security working in Russia, on contracts issued by government departments and under direct orders of Russian military and security personnel. But they’ve also got connections with Russian organized crime. In fact one of their directors recently finished a five-year term for robbery. They’re a pretty diverse organization and a lot bigger than their public face indicates. In fact,’ he added, ‘I recently circulated a report advising that BJ Group has established a representative office here in Washington DC.’
‘What?’
‘Yes, sir. I believe there’s been a watch placed on it since then, but there’s nothing on the file yet. I checked.’
‘What, they’re just watching it?’
‘Yes, sir. The FBI and Homeland are arguing over whether to leave them be until they make a mistake, or close them down. Trouble is if they do that the guy could go underground and they wouldn’t know where he was.’
It made sense, Callahan thought. Keep your suspects where you can see them. ‘You said guy. One man?’
‘Yes, sir. Name of Gus Boranov. Looks, dresses and sounds all-American, but my guess is his heart is pure Kremlin. He has a nice office downtown and does a lot of entertaining.’ He grinned cynically. ‘I guess they don’t believe in travelling economy.’
Callahan felt as if he’d been living in a bubble. On the other hand, that was why the CIA employed people like Andrews: to keep a weather eye on what else was going on out there. This news altered his whole line of thinking. ‘Right. So what’s the bottom line with this Greb Voloshyn?’
‘Bottom line?’ Andrews shrugged. ‘Bottom line is, I don’t have definitive proof right now, but I’m prepared to bet my girlfriend’s car, which is a very nice 1978 Mustang, that Voloshyn is still a serving FSB or FSO officer.’ He smiled with the supreme confidence of a man who knew his job. ‘And you can take that to the bank. Sir.’
FIFTY-TWO
I threw the branch away and ran back round the lake. I was heading up the slope when I heard three short whistles and looked up to see Travis beating his arm downwards in a frantic ‘hit the deck’ signal, before he dropped out of sight.
Even travelling at high speed the Lancer’s tuned engine hadn’t carried far, and was almost on me before I knew it. I dropped to the ground and heard the buzz on the road as it went by. Then I heard the harsher sound of the UAZ coming. I stayed where I was and cocked the Ero. The Lancer would have been going too fast to see any detail at ground level, but the UAZ was making heavy weather and the men inside would have more time to study the surrounding countryside.
I waited as the high-pitched whine of the tyres went by and counted to ten. No slowing down, no change of engine note. Gone.
I gave it another count of ten to be sure then jacked myself to my feet and started running.
I was almost at the top of the slope when I heard the squeal of brakes behind me. I turned to see the UAZ doing a virtual ninety-degree turn off the road, its tyres stuttering as they lost traction on the surface. It barrelled across the verge and started on down the slope, and a soldier in the back stuck a rifle out the window and began firing.
He was good. I guessed he’d been trained to shoot while mobile, and was probably a member of a Russian raider force. I heard the snap of rounds going past me and saw grass being kicked up in vicious clumps, the shots following me up the slope like angry hornets. Something plucked at my sleeve and I knew I was running out of luck. I dived off the slope and rolled behind cover.
The UAZ was still coming, following the same path round the lake that we’d just taken, the engine howling as the driver pushed it as hard as he could.
I looked out and levelled the Ero, waiting for the right moment. Where I was lying I was in dead ground. If the UAZ appeared, I’d have maybe two seconds to open fire and take them out of the game.
The engine started grinding as it hit the slope and I got ready to go for it, following the sound as it came nearer.
Then I heard the flat bark of a semi-automatic, firing evenly spaced rounds.
Travis?
I looked up. He was on the rise above me, using a two-handed grip, feet planted wide and shooting down the slope at the oncoming vehicle. He was right out in the open, and looked pale and unsteady, but determined, and had evidently remembered enough from live firing exercises to know what to do.
The UAZ’s engine note changed and went up the scale for a few seconds, rising to a screech, then it fell silent and Travis stopped firing. ‘Portman, come on!’
I scrambled up the slope and looked behind me. The UAZ was nose-down in the lake, muddy water washing around the base of the windshield and steam brushing across the windshield and roof. I could see the driver slumped over the wheel, but two soldiers had already scrambled out of the back and were rolling desperately into the reeds to find cover. One of them turned and fired off a couple of wild shots with his rifle before disappearing.
I fired a return burst with the Ero, peppering the reeds and digging holes in the side panels and windows of the UAZ.
Silence.
‘Good work,’ I told Travis. ‘Get the car and I’ll check them out.’
I jogged back down to the UAZ. The driver was out of it, slumped over the wheel with blood on his face. I walked over to where I’d seen the two soldiers dive into cover, ready to return fire if they came up shooting. But it wasn’t necessary. The first one had lost his weapon and was clutching at a bloody wound in his leg. When he saw me he forgot about the wound and shook his head, throwing up his empty hands. I motioned for him to stay where he was and went looking for his pal. He was half in the water, but buoyed up by the reeds and holding his arms out wide. He looked dazed and wet, all the fight gone out of him.
I dragged both men out on to solid ground and told them to lie down back to back, then stripped out their bootlaces and tied their thumbs together. It would be uncomfortable but bearable. And at least they were alive to tell the tale. I checked the wounded man’s leg but it wasn’t a killer. The driver was coming round so I left him where he was.
Travis drove up in the Land Cruiser and I climbed in. He took us back round the lake and up the other side, and we got back on the road heading west.