Craig Russell - The Carnival Master

She stole a glance across at the two men who had accosted her on Sunday night. The man with the injured face still looked pretty sorry for himself and his drinking buddy looked equally as glum, but seemed to be trying to console him.

Maria casually swung round on her bar stool. It took her a while to locate Viktor. He was sitting at a table in the far corner, wreathed in blue cigarette smoke. Maria felt a thrill when she saw he was talking to another man while his girlfriend sat looking gloomily bored. There was something about Viktor’s body language that suggested Maria had hit the jackpot: Viktor’s companion was clearly someone he was more than a little afraid of. The man had his back to her but she could see enough of his profile, build and hair colour to be confident she could ID him when he left the bar. She drained her glass and got up.

‘What about your friend?’ asked the barman.

‘Sod him. His loss,’ she said with a grin and left the bar.

It was Wednesday the twenty-fifth. Buslenko had been able to give his team three solid days of briefing. It still wasn’t enough, but he knew that Vitrenko had so many informers and double agents in place across the Ukrainian security apparatus that moving quickly and surprising him was their one advantage.

Buslenko was impressed, however: Sasha had done well with his choices. After only three days, it seemed as if the eight members of the team had worked together for years. The only slight exception was Olga Sarapenko. Her background as a Kiev city militia policewoman set her slightly apart from the others. Sasha had recommended her and Buslenko had agreed. There was no doubt that she was tough enough but Buslenko struggled to see her that way, continuously pushing aside the way he felt attracted to her.

But the team had to contend with another enemy that was even more unpredictable than Vitrenko. The weather had taken a turn for the worse and more snow had made the track impassable. Buslenko had always known that choosing such a remote location in the middle of the Ukrainian winter carried the risk of this happening. He had allowed himself a couple of days’ leeway in setting the start of the mission. That said, they were going to have to start digging their way out if it snowed any more.

Buslenko decided that the third evening should be free of talk of the dangerous mission they had to undertake. Stoyan, the Crimean Tatar, reheated the leftover varenyky. They ate and played cards, taking turns to take lookout duty in the cold night air. Buslenko always felt more secure when Vorobyeva watched their backs. He was one of the team members personally selected by Buslenko and was going to handle the security for the mission. Vorobyeva’s background in a specialist Titan unit meant that he could read any environment and identify exactly where threats were likely to come from. It was as true in an otherwise unknown German city as it was here in a snow-covered forest. Vorobyeva had been out on a two-hour duty and was a couple of minutes late.

Olga Sarapenko, wrapped up in her fleece coat, came back into the lodge. She had said she wanted some fresh air and had taken a cigarette outside.

‘Did you see Vorobyeva?’ asked Buslenko.

She shrugged. ‘No. But I was only out on the porch. Maybe he’s further down the drive.’

Buslenko looked at his watch. ‘He’s late. He’s never late.’ He picked up the two-way, hit the transmit button and called Vorobyeva. Silence. He called again. Still no reply.

Buslenko didn’t need to give the order. Tenishchev and Serduchka unzipped the large canvas holdall in the corner and started passing out brand-new Ukrainian Vepr assault rifles and clips before taking a couple of AK74Ms for themselves.

‘Lights!’ Buslenko said, unholstering his Fort17 handgun. The night filled the lodge. The moon was not yet full, but reflected brightly off the snow. It traced the snow-smoothed edges of the drive and Buslenko followed its sweep round to where it disappeared into the dense forest. No fresh footprints. He looked at each one of his team in turn. Now he would find out how good they were. He signalled to Tenishchev who passed him the night-vision scope. Buslenko scanned the forest and the fringes of the drive for movement. Nothing.

He used hand signals to order the team to spread and search. He indicated that Olga should stay in the lodge.

It was impossible to move without making a noise. The snow had stopped falling, but the night-time drop in temperature had given it a sparkling crust which twinkled in the moonlight and crunched underfoot. Anyone waiting for them would be able to see and hear them. Buslenko’s mind raced. He knew something was wrong. Vorobyeva was now well overdue. He sent two teams of two out on either side of him: Tenishchev and Serduchka to the forest side of the track, Stoyan and the Berkut officer, Belotserkovsky, on the river side. He walked along the middle of the track, exposed, while the others covered him, their weapons sweeping from side to side. Buslenko strained the night for any sound of an enemy hidden in the forest, the sound of the river to his left became deafening.

He followed the track around the corner. The river was now behind him and thick forest on either side. He waited until the others flanked him, sheltered on the edges of the forest. About three hundred metres down the track he found fresh bootprints in the snow. Vorobyeva’s: he was the only member of the group who wore Russian OMON boots. Buslenko crouched down and signalled for the others to follow him twenty metres behind, on either flank. He followed the bootprints into the forest and deeper snow. He could tell that Vorobyeva had swung across here to check something out. Buslenko felt his heart pound. He was only a few kilometres from his old home town, yet he knew he was at war. Clearly Vitrenko had decided not to wait until Buslenko travelled to Germany before finishing him off. He froze. About twenty metres ahead was a clearing in the forest, illuminated like a stage by the moonlight. He took aim at the figure kneeling at the edge of the clearing, not moving. He drew closer, trying to minimise the sound of his progress through the snow and the forest debris, always keeping his aim locked on the kneeling figure. He was ready to fire if any sound he made caused the man at the edge of the clearing to turn. Buslenko’s foot sunk into a snow-filled hollow, making a slow crunch that the kneeling man must have heard. But he didn’t move. Buslenko moved further forward; from this distance he could recognise the black parka, its hood pulled over the man’s head.

‘Vorobyeva!’ he hissed. ‘Vorobyeva… are you all right?’ Still no answer. He moved further forward. ‘Vorobyeva!’

He signalled for the others to join him. Stoyan and Belotserkovsky appeared like ghosts from the undergrowth.

‘Where are Tenishchev and Serduchka?’ Buslenko asked.

‘They were there a minute ago…’ said the Tatar.

Buslenko scoured the forest to their right. There was no sign of the other two Spetsnaz. No sound.

‘Cover me,’ said Buslenko. ‘We’ve definitely got hostiles.’

Buslenko crawled through the snow. He reached the kneeling figure.

‘Vorobyeva!’

For the last three minutes Buslenko had known what to expect. The snow in front of the kneeling Vorobyeva was stained dark. Buslenko touched the figure’s shoulder and Vorobyeva toppled backwards. His throat was gashed open and glistened a cold crimson-black in the moonlight.

‘Fuck!’ Buslenko turned his attention like a searchlight on the fringes of the clearing, scanning them for any sign of the enemy. He moved back to where he had left Stoyan and Belotserkovsky.

‘He’s dead. Vorobyeva was one of the best in the business. Whoever’s taken him by stealth must be even better. We’re in trouble.’