But they still locked him up for the night. The cell contained almost nothing — a tiny and inadequate radiator, barely warm; two bunk beds, each with a thin mattress, a pillow, a blanket and a discoloured single sheet; a steel toilet bowl and sink bolted to the wall in one corner, and a small hand-towel. The only illumination was a bright bulb inside an armoured wall light, mounted well out of his reach above the door.
Borisov guessed it was going to be a cold and uncomfortable night, and in that he was right. He dragged all of the bedding to the lower bunk, tucked the cleaner of the two sheets around the mattress and put the other sheet and both blankets on top. Then he slid into bed, still fully clothed apart from his jacket and shoes, closed his eyes and tried to sleep. In this endeavour he wasn’t helped by the light, which remained on all night, or by the stabbing pain from his broken arm and swollen hands as the effect of the painkillers wore off. It was well past midnight before his body finally succumbed to fatigue and he finally dozed off.
Chapter Five
Volgograd was the rock that broke the back of the German advance in the Second World War. Then known as Stalingrad, its strategic location on the Volga ensured that the Germans had to take it if they were to conquer Russia. The assault began in August 1942 and ended six months later, with the city virtually flattened, almost half a million German soldiers lying dead, and an ignominious surrender for what was left of Hitler’s Sixth Army.
Of course, neither Dawson nor Wilson knew any of this, and wouldn’t have cared if they had. Their sole concern was to get themselves and the weapon out of the CIS as quickly as possible. And now they were running late.
It had taken them longer than they’d anticipated to dump the truck and get back to Saratov, and the train on which they’d booked tickets was long gone by the time they reached the station. The next available train to Volgograd was running late — very late — and didn’t reach its destination until after midnight. Not surprisingly, they found they’d missed the Astrakhan connection they’d planned to catch by over two hours.
Despite the lateness of the hour, all the waiting rooms were packed with people, presumably waiting for something other than a train, as the last scheduled departure of the evening — a Moscow express — had already left. Wilson opened the door to one waiting room, peered inside, then swiftly withdrew. The combined odours of stale tobacco, alcohol, unwashed bodies and the inevitable boiled cabbage were more than he could take.
‘So what do we do now?’ Dawson asked. ‘Find a hotel?’
‘At this time of night? No way — the last thing we want is to attract attention, and two foreigners checking into a hotel in Russia at one in the morning would definitely ring alarm bells. We’ll go find ourselves a train. Any train. It’s too cold to sit on the platform, and we can’t go tramping round Volgograd lugging this lot.’ Wilson gestured to the two large suitcases and computer bags lying on the platform beside them.
‘And if somebody finds us camping in a deserted carriage?’
‘We’re stupid Americans. We’ll just say we thought it was the Kiev express.’
Ten minutes later, they closed the compartment door of a carriage standing at a deserted platform on the far side of the station, stretched themselves out on the lumpy bench seats and closed their eyes.
The two Mitsubishi Jeeps drove down the tarmac road that ran past the stud farm. Beyond the entrance, both drivers slowed their vehicles, turned round and drove back, stopping about five miles from the farm, on a wide parking area just off the highway. And then there was nothing the six men could do but wait for the other two jeeps to arrive, with the digger and the four remaining members of the team.
A little over two hours later, one of the drivers spotted approaching headlights, and stepped out of his vehicle. By the time the other two four-by-fours had stopped, dust and sand swirling in their headlight beams, all six Arabs were standing ready, waiting.
Massood and Saadi — both randomly chosen names, a very basic security precaution for all the team members — climbed out of their vehicles.
‘Any problems?’ Saadi asked.
‘No, none.’
‘Good. Then we’ll run through the operation one last time.’
Saadi opened the glove-box of his vehicle and removed a plan of the nearby stud farm. Massood flicked on the parking lights of the Toyota to provide some illumination as Saadi squatted down and unfolded the diagram, the others all clustering around him.
For fifteen minutes Saadi sat there with the men who had been placed under his command, ensuring that each knew exactly when to act and what to do. Then he stood up and opened the boot of the Nissan. Unzipping the first fabric bag, he reached inside it and pulled out a Kalashnikov AK47 assault rifle, its magazine already attached. He passed this to Massood, then seized another. Within minutes, each man was holding a Kalashnikov and two spare magazines.
Saadi glanced at his watch. It was just before dawn, ideal timing. ‘Is everybody ready? Good. We’ll start now.’
The four jeeps pulled back onto the road and headed for the entrance to the stud farm. The gates were wide open and Saadi guessed that they were probably cosmetic, intended to create the right impression as owners and trainers drove in, and not designed with any security considerations in mind.
Lights now switched off, they drove slowly towards the house and farm buildings. Both sides of the drive were lined with white-painted three-bar fences, beyond which they could occasionally see the dark bulk of horses.
The ground plan of the farmhouse that Saadi had been given was based on the architect’s original drawings, and was extremely accurate. In fact, calling it a ‘farmhouse’ hardly did it justice, for the elaborate building boasted six bedroom suites, a formal dining room, an indoor swimming pool and games room, plus servants’ quarters. It was the kind of house that Saadi — who had never set foot in America — thought was far more suited to California than to Saudi Arabia. He wondered briefly if this particular farm had been selected because of its obvious opulence, or just because of the horse.
The vehicles parked quietly in front of the house. Saadi and Massood walked over to the main door while the other men dispersed to their pre-briefed positions. Two remained close to Massood, while the other six slipped away, vanishing like wraiths into the lightening dawn, heading for the rear of the farmhouse and the stable block beyond.
Saadi silently motioned for Massood to stand aside, then pressed the buzzer. Immediately bright security lights, positioned on either side of the door, flared on, and Saadi looked up into the dispassionate gaze of a security camera right above him. He ignored it and waited. Even if the camera was attached to a video recorder, it didn’t matter. They would check the house security system and remove any tapes before they left.
After a couple of minutes the two lights switched off. Saadi pressed the buzzer again, and this time kept his finger on it. If they couldn’t get the owner or a staff member to open the door, they would just have to break in.
Through a glass panel in the door Saadi saw the hall lights come on, and a vague shape approaching. A key turned in the lock and the door swung partially open: framed in the gap stood a young Filipino man, obviously roused from sleep. For a brief second he stared at Saadi, his expression puzzled, then the Arab stepped forward and kicked out, knocking him violently backwards into the wide entrance hall.