‘Let’s go,’ he said.
Twenty-seven
Captain Anatoly Aleksandrov listened to the final report in his earpiece — outbuildings clear — and allowed the adrenaline surge to ebb a degree, not enough that fatigue could get even close but sufficient to allow himself a moment’s reflection.
Around him, in the entrance corridor, his men moved like spectres through the haze of gas still hissing from the CS canisters. Two of the men, their faces made insectoid by the snouts of their gas masks, hoisted the trussed body like pallbearers. The gag had been ripped from the choking mouth as soon as it was evident the bound man was still alive. He was being carried face down, to spare his lungs in case he vomited, and Aleksandrov glimpsed the red, swollen face, the spew of drool and nasal mucus.
‘Sir.’ Another man strode over and handed Aleksandrov a folded slip of notepaper. ‘This was attached to him.’
They’d hit the station eight minutes earlier, fast and hard, compensating with speed for the inevitable warning of their arrival that had been broadcast by the noise of the Mi-26 helicopter. Ten men, each equipped with AN-94 assault rifles fitted with grenade launchers. Aleksandrov had studied and memorised the floor plan of Yarkovsky Station during the flight, and went in through the front door with four of his men, dispatching two to the vehicle hangar and the other five to the rear of the main complex on either side.
Eight minutes later, the complex was secured.
Apart from the bound man in the entrance hall, who seemed to have rolled some way down the passage judging by the thin trail of blood on the floor, and three corpses, one in the deep-freeze room and one twisted on the floor near the entrance and one inside the generator shed, there was nobody there.
The Ural truck listed on the station’s inventory of vehicles was gone, as were three Arctic Cat sleds.
As his men carried the trussed captive through the open doorway, the door itself having been smashed off its hinges in the assault, Aleksandrov read the note.
He read it a second time to make sure he hadn’t missed anything.
He took out his phone handset.
‘Tsarev.’ The General answered before the end of the first ring.
Aleksandrov debriefed quickly. He read out the note, verbatim.
At the other end, the General deliberated in silence for five seconds. Then he gave his orders.
‘Understood, sir,’ said Aleksandrov.
He emerged from the station into a storm of white, the snow whipped into a swirling funnel by the spin of the colossal helicopter’s eight rotor blades. The trussed man, Ryan Montrose if the note was to be believed, had already been carried into the rear. Ducking beneath the air current produced by the rotor, Aleksandrov made his way to the Mi-26 and climbed up into the cargo bay. Its vast, warehouse-like space was ridiculously large for the twelve men it had ferried to the station, but the helicopter had been the vehicle which both was most immediately available and had the required flying range.
Plus, the cargo bay carried a GAZ Vodnik, a high-mobility infantry vehicle mounted with a KPVT heavy machine gun that was capable of traversing the extreme terrain of the Siberian far north.
Inside the bay Aleksandrov’s men had become individuals once more, their gas masks discarded. He summoned Nikitin, his lieutenant, with a flick of his fingers. Over the roar of the engine and the staccato thwup of the rotor he shouted: ‘A change of plan. You’re in charge. You’ll go north-west with the chopper.’
Aleksandrov gave his orders, as General Tsarev had relayed his.
Nikitin had served with Aleksandrov long enough that he felt confident to express his opinions. ‘Sir, wouldn’t it be more appropriate for you to lead the assault to the north-west? Politically, I mean?’
‘No. You can handle the mechanics of the operation, no question. The political angle lies in the other direction, with the fugitives. I feel it in my gut.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Nikitin was already beckoning behind him. ‘Guys, let’s move the truck out.’
Aleksandrov hopped out and stood back and watched as the GAZ Vodnik was steered down the ramp.
Eight twenty-two p.m. in Yakutsk.
The time seared itself on Lenilko’s memory for the remainder of his life. All the clocks in his office were of the analogue variety. Digital might afford more accuracy, but Lenilko never got the same sense of immediacy, of reality, from a sequence of four numbers bisected by a colon as he did from the almost grand sweep of hands round a dial.
The phone rang and he picked it up and General Tsarev said: ‘The station is secured. My men found three bodies, two of them shot dead recently, the other frozen and locked away and possibly a suicide. One man remained, alive, tied up. Otherwise… they’ve gone.’
The mid-afternoon greyness beyond the windows pressed in on Lenilko.
Tsarev continued, ‘You told me it was a containable situation. One that a rapid intervention at Yarkovsky Station would put an end to.’
Lenilko said: ‘Yes.’
‘It seems there are complications. My group commander found a note on the surviving man. It said the terrorist activity was centred on an abandoned research site ninety Ks from the station. The note urged immediate action to prevent the extraction of nuclear material from the site.’
Lenilko closed his eyes.
As if Tsarev had somehow detected the action, he remained silent until Lenilko cracked his lids a fraction.
‘What did you tell our President?’
‘I told him precisely what I told you, General. That there was a terrorist cell operating at Yarkovsky Station, that my usual line of command had potentially been compromised, and that the station needed to be quarantined and its personnel terminated with immediate effect.’
Tsarev said, his words almost hidden behind the rasp in his damaged voice, ‘I acted on the direct instructions of our President. I had no option, as a senior member of the military, other than to obey. As such I am legally blameless. Morally, however… there lies the problem. I put in motion a course of action which may well turn out to be part of a spectacular bungle, one which could put nuclear warheads into the hands of a group of people who will use them against us, or against the United States, or Europe, without compunction.’
This time Lenilko didn’t reply.
‘I’ve notified the President’s office,’ Tsarev went on. ‘Also the Chief of the General Staff, and the Director of the FSB. This is beyond any favour I owed you, Semyon Vladimirovich. This is too big.’
Lenilko watched the flakes of snow strike the pane of the window and slide, misshapen and spent, down its length.
‘Your silence suggests to me that you held something back. That you’ve been dealing with a situation that should have been escalated to your superiors long ago, that you’re not equipped to handle. I get the feeling, Semyon Vladimirovich, that you’re out of your depth. And that you know it, and something — pride, ambition, whatever it is — has blinded you to the magnitude of what you’ve been facing.’
Lenilko’s mouth worked, but no words came.
‘I’ll tell you what I’ve ordered, since this is the end of your involvement in this crisis and you won’t be receiving any further information,’ said Tsarev. ‘As you know, I sent twelve men to the station. I’ve instructed their leader to divide the group, to despatch the helicopter to the location of the Tupolev while a smaller force pursues the fugitives from the station. A larger detail is being scrambled elsewhere to help secure the Tupolev, but my men are closest and therefore have the best chance of salvaging the situation.’