Since moving to this site from their previous headquarters three years before, the Russian Military had been totally inept at locating them. With only one or two hours remaining, that record would seem to be remaining intact.
With an infection to his right foot hindering his progress, Omar limped from truck-to-truck. He busily instructed the drivers on what routes they would follow to the new headquarters in the Goltea caves. Even though they would operate at night, in a convoy, the possibility did present itself that they could come under attack along the way.
Omar wouldn’t allow one truck nor one body to be left for the Russians. He instructed his men to wire all of the trucks with demolition charges in case they encountered the enemy. The two pounds of Semtex each truck carried would effectively obliterate any trace of the trucks and its cargo.
Most of the work had been mundane; consisting of packing everything from cots for sleeping to foodstuffs. Omar stood proudly surveying the area that his staff had broken down in a remarkable 4 days. They were now in the process of loading into the last of the 10 Mazda trucks for their short, but treacherous journey.
Omar waved to the last truck driver, limping over to shake his hand.
Omar never reached the truck as a sudden shrill sounded from above, the earth around him shook violently in a massive series of explosions. Omar first saw the lead truck and his 3rd in command disappear via a huge fireball, the explosions rumbling towards his position consuming truck after truck and the earth surrounding them. Omar turned to run from the convoy and hopefully to safety when struck by a cluster bomb fragment from behind. He quickly succumbed to injuries before yet another bomb shredded apart his body as if it were paper.
It was a quick and painless death for him, unlike the many Russian soldiers and airmen he had murdered.
The resulting explosions engulfed the entire complex area for a kilometer in radius, dismembering most of the rebel’s bodies into hundreds of small fragments.
There was nothing left to bury, only DNA to be examined.
Chapter Eighteen
The Aeroflot flight from Moscow touched down at London’s Heathrow airport, arriving in time for a full English breakfast to be had. They had even managed to land a few minutes earlier than expected, a rarity for the Russian National Airline. Not that Igor minded. He enjoyed the comfort provided by traveling on a civilian airline versus a military transport; at least he knew they would not end up in a hostile environment upon landing.
Before leaving Moscow, General Poszk had taken Igor aside and informed him that the Captain had an appointment to call on Sir Robert John, Director of MI-6, and to relay the complete story to him — in effect, putting all of his cards on the table.
Igor hoped Sir Robert would take pity on a wary traveler and compassionately send a car for him instead of forcing him to take the damn train. With only a three-hour layover in London, he could figure wasting at least an hour of that time traveling in each direction. The last time he visited London, he wound up getting lost taking the subway or “the Tube” as the Brits endearingly referred to it — windingup back at the airport dazed and confused — finally deciding to take a Taxi to his hotel. Hopefully the urgency of the situation would dictate VIP treatment Igor thought as he picked up his single leather garment bag from the baggage carousel, preparing for immigration inspection.
Sir Robert John and General Poszk had history together, with both having served their respective governments in East Germany during the turbulent 70’s and early 80’s. One essentially spied on the other. After 30 years in the business, they had each reached the pinnacles of their careers in representing their respective governments. Over time, they developed a mutual admiration for each other, even golfing together once a year to increase détente.
Igor’s mission would only solidify their informal partnership.
He felt uneasy standing in the passport control line, forced to travel incognito and using his civilian attire. It may seem absurd to some civilian, but there was something about the wearing of a uniform that provided a sense of security; a feeling of belonging. Standing in the long line of many nationalities made him feel, naked.
Igor stood behind a large, middle-aged group of vacationers from Kiev, knowing that the overhead security cameras would be focused on each of them from the time they left the aircraft. Their pictures would be run through an existing database containing thousands of pictures of known intelligence agents or terrorists. A giant leap in technology from the 70’s or 80’s when each airport control would have 5 to 10 security agents watching the disembarking passengers to compare black and white photos of known terrorists or foreign agents. The airports would purposely stall the passengers by making them wait 45 minutes for their luggage to show on the carousal then an hour for passport control. This provided time for the security personnel to manually compare each passenger to the photos. That was in the past, as archaic as radial engines on aircraft for passenger travel. The new computers at Heathrow would digitally scan each unsuspecting disembarking passenger and electronically send each image to its massive database, comparing the picture took mere seconds for the hi-power TROLIC software. When the software did find a match it spat out the results to a waiting team of security agents who would indiscreetly “assist” the subject in question to an interrogation suite.
Igor noticed that a well-dressed couple had suddenly staked out a position beside him. Igor nodded to the woman, a well-built red head wearing an expensively tailored business suit. She in turn, shot him a quick all knowing glance, sizing him up from head to toe. Igor then looked to the man, taking note of his impeccably tailored Seville Row pinstriped suit and handcrafted leather briefcase. The briefcase was one that he carried strangely with both hands, the case in front of his chest. Funny, he hadn’t noticed the smartly dressed couple on his Aeroflot flight. He would have undoubtedly noticed the red head.
The redhead leaned into Igor causing Igor to instinctively reach for his wallet having heard horror stories about pickpockets operating throughout the airport complex.
She produced a badge for him alone to see. “We work for MI-5, Captain Isinov,” she whispered softly into his ear. “Police matter. Would you please not make a scene and follow us.” She pointed to the man in the pin stripped suit now stationed to his left, producing a 9mm weapon from behind the leather briefcase. “We would like a few words with you,” she said in an impeccable, upper class accent.
The man in the pin stripe suit walked toward a door that had only seconds before contained a wall of two-way mirrors.
Igor had a distinctive feeling that the facial recognition software was up and running.
“Please come in and have a seat Captain,” the man in the pin stripped suit said, allowing the red head to close the door behind them.
“We.ve been waiting for you,” the red head said. She carefully removed Igor’s bag from his shoulder.
He was about to protest. But how could he? With him outnumbered two to one in a foreign country.
“What are you doing in Great Britain, Captain?” The agent in the pin stripped suit said, studying his body movements for any tell tale signs.