Алистер Маклин: Death Train

He touched the brake gently as the Mercedes reached the bend and although he saw what lay ahead of him he had only a split second in which to react – a blue transit van parked in the slow lane of the dual carriageway and, kneeling beside it, a youth partially hidden behind a tripod-mounted anti-tank launcher. Potrovsky stamped on the brake pedal violently and the Mercedes was still slewing across the icy road when the missile struck it broadside. The car disintegrated in a sheet of searing flame and chunks of contorted metal were flung hundreds of feet into the air, landing in the snow-laced pine forest on either side of the carriageway. All that remained was a deep, jagged depression where the Mercedes had once been, encircled by burning fragments of mangled debris.

Lena was transfixed by the gaping trough in the road. Vasili shook her shoulders violently then slapped her across the face. A single tear escaped from the corner of her eye but she made no move to look away. He pushed her aside and unclipped the 33lb launcher from the tripod then carried it to the back of the van where he dumped it on to the grey blanket which they had used to cover it. He tossed the tripod in after it and banged the doors shut. Grabbing Lena’s hand he pulled her to the front of the van and bundled her into the passenger seat. In his haste to get away he grated the gears and the wheels shrieked in protest when he failed to balance the changeover between clutch and accelerator. The van jerked forward but he managed to keep the engine from stalling and within seconds they had turned into a sharp bend and the grotesque crater was no longer visible in the rearview mirror. He glanced at Lena. She was still in a state of shock, her eyes locked on to an imaginary spot in the centre of the windscreen. He had always said she was too young to be involved but had taken her with him at her own insistence. The bitter irony was that the whole plan had been her idea right from the start. His main priority now was to get them to safety. Safety being a dacha in Teplyystan, a village ten miles south of Moscow. The dacha was owned by a doctor who, Vasili reasoned, would be able to snap Lena out of her trance; then the two of them could set off for Tula on the banks of the River Don where they would lie low until, with time, the investigation wound down.

He suddenly became aware of a white Mercedes behind them. Where had it come from so quickly? Road signs were supposed to have been erected at the mouth of the carriageway as soon as Benin’s car had passed through, warning motorists of an impending dynamite blast and rerouting them on to another section of the motorway. His eyes continually flickered towards the rearview mirror as he monitored the Mercedes’ progress with mounting apprehension. He willed himself not to panic: surely there was a logical explanation? The moment he emerged on to a flat stretch of road after negotiating a particularly tight corner the explanation was obvious. A roadblock. A Mercedes and a Zim, bumper to bumper, blocking both lanes of the carriageway and behind them the menacing silhouette of a T-72 tank, its barrel aimed directly at the oncoming van. Vasili glanced over his shoulder, his foot already on the brake and his hand dipping towards the gear lever. The Mercedes had straddled the road, hemming him in, its two occupants now standing beside it, AK47 rifles in their gloved hands.

Four of the five men manning the roadblock were similarly armed. Vasili reluctantly switched off the engine and the unarmed man stepped forward and pulled open the driver’s door. No sooner had Vasili’s feet touched the ground than a pair of tight-fitting handcuffs was snapped around his wrists. He watched helplessly as Lena was hauled from the passenger seat and she too was handcuffed before being led away to the waiting Zim. The unarmed man then produced a buff-coloured plastic ID card and held it up in front of Vasili. Directorate S.

The back door of the Mercedes opened and a tall, craggy-faced man climbed out. He tugged a fur-lined hat over his cropped white hair as he approached the transit van, his eyes riveted on Vasili’s face.

‘Let me introduce myself. General Konstantin Benin.’

Vasili wasn’t surprised. The whole plan had gone horribly wrong, but when? He voiced the question.

Benin reached into the van, turned the music off and ejected the cassette before answering.

‘Women and drink should always be treated as chalk and cheese in this business. Fortunately one of your colleagues didn’t know that.’

‘Who?’ Vasili instantly regretted having risen to the bait.

‘You’ll find out soon enough. Most of your fellow conspirators are already in detention.’

‘How long have you known?’

‘Right from the beginning. Your flat’s been bugged for the past two months.’

‘General, take a look at this.’ The unarmed man was gesturing to the back of the van. ‘It’s not one of ours, sir.’

‘No, indeed.’ Benin peered inside the van and ran his hand over the British-made Carl Gustav missile launcher.

Benin turned back to Vasili then gripped the cassette in both hands and snapped it in half, allowing the tape to spill out on to the road. He stuffed the two pieces into Vasili’s anorak pocket.

‘Anatoli?’ he called out after Vasili had been led away to the Zim.

Benin’s deputy hurried round from the back of the van.

‘Yes, sir?’

‘I want you to deal personally with the Potrovsky widow. Make sure she’s entitled to a state pension.’

‘I sent the details off last night.’

‘Good. Oh, and send her some flowers on my behalf, usual wording.’

‘Yes sir. What about a press release?’

‘Make it brief. Give them some story about how an unexpected delay saved my life. Mention the missile but not the make. You can also add that the two youths involved were shot while resisting arrest. Get it to Tass some time this morning.’

‘Aren’t you going to make a show trial out of it, sir?’

‘It did cross my mind, but how can I when there are no defendants?’ He patted Anatoli’s arm then returned to the Mercedes.

The driver closed the door behind him and moments later the car drew away from the roadblock, heading south. It only slowed down on nearing the outskirts of Teplyystan where it turned off on to a narrow road leading into the Bittsevsky forest park, a panoramic landscape of ravines and gorges layered with fir, oak and pine plantations. The wording at the entrance was ominous enough: HALT! NO TRESPASSING. WATER CONSERVATION DISTRICT. The driver eased the Mercedes to a halt in front of a boomgate a couple of hundred yards further down the road and extended his ID card to the KGB duty officer, who immediately waved them through. The road ended in a cul-de-sac after another quarter of a mile and the driver turned the car into the adjoining parking bay, almost deserted at that time of the morning.

Benin climbed out and crossed to the guardhouse where he showed his ID card to the nearest of three armed sentries. The sentry checked its authenticity then activated the electronic turnstile. All three saluted as Benin passed but, as always, he ignored them. He made his way along a footpath flanked by spacious lawns and spectacularly colourful flowerbeds (rumoured to contain plastic flowers to ensure a year-round display), up a flight of steps and through the double doors of the tri-star-shaped glass and aluminium building. The newsstand was not due to open for an hour but after showing his ID card to a guard Benin asked that a copy of Pravda be delivered to his office the moment it arrived.

He rode the lift to the seventh floor and walked the length of the deserted corridor to the last of the suites of offices. Being on the top floor with its breathtaking view of the surrounding forest was one of the job’s many perks. He activated the lock with his magnetic strip ID card, then repeated the action on the inner door leading into his private office, closing it securely behind him. After switching on the light he sat down behind his solid oak desk (made, on his orders, from Bittsevsky oak), opened his leather-bound diary and scanned the day’s agenda.