Mark Blair - Stroika

‘Two hundred metres,’ chimed the reconnaissance officer mechanically. ‘Man and child in small sedan.’

They would die if they got caught in the maelstrom that was about to be unleashed.

Over the radio he heard the captain’s voice. ‘Snipers… at my command, third vehicle… tyres only.’

Through his headset Yuri caught the almost imperceptible growl of a fast-approaching vehicle. Suddenly the smaller vehicle pulled out from behind the sedan. Yuri watched it accelerate. It was level with the hijacker’s sedan now.

‘Snipers fire!’

Tyres shredded, the small sedan spun wildly out of control before crashing side-on into the trees. On cue, machine-gun fire ruptured the night air. The juggernaut surged over the chain barrier and began to swerve erratically. Yuri watched it cross the narrow roadside storm gully and ram a tall pine. The second car slewed to a halt fifty metres behind. Dense black smoke drifted skyward. The helicopter shifted position.

For a moment, everything freeze-framed, even the smoke pouring from the diesel engine seemed static, as if painted by a broad brush onto a perfect tableau. Yuri was tempted to bang the scanner when someone below hit the restart button. The car’s rear doors flew open, followed by the front. Four men tumbled to the ground. A hijacker rolled over and took aim at Yuri’s MTV. There was a clunking of metal on metal as heavy ammunition ricocheted off the fuselage. The MTV turned. The flight captain’s finger moved towards the weapons’ control system as four men jumped to their feet and sprinted towards the woods. One died instantly, blown back against the now burning car a second before he reached the roadside. The survivors hurled their AKs into the undergrowth and threw themselves on the ground, arms outstretched.

Yuri’s helicopter landed downwind of the acrid smoke. A soldier helped a man and young boy out of the wrecked Lada. Across the highway the two survivors were handcuffed and hauled to their feet.

‘Give me their wallets, soldier,’ said Yuri when he had come up to them.

Yuri pulled out a wad of roubles.

‘Give this to him.’ He pointed at the man climbing into the second MTV with his son.

‘Casualties, Captain?’

‘None, sir.’

He walked over to the trailer and waved for a soldier to open it. With a torch he began examining boxes. Soldiers stopped what they were doing and watched as he began shifting them around: computers, CDs. He stopped and smiled, delighted. He grabbed one box and then a second, passing them down to the nearest soldier from the duck board.

‘I hope your men like Chivas Regal, Captain… off-duty rations! Captain, that was an excellent night’s hunting.’

LENINGRAD

Vdovin passed Konstantin a box of Cuban cigars. He took one, bit off the end, struck a match and lit it. Konstantin gave the cigar a long pull and exhaled in the direction of the general seated across the desk. He glanced up at a photograph of the general secretary looking down on them benevolently and back at Vdovin.

‘Do you think he’ll last?’ Konstantin asked, wondering idly whether the general’s jacket would burst its seams.

Vdovin shrugged. ‘Glasnost, now perestroika. We need democracy just like we need air to breathe. Stirring stuff,’ he scoffed.

Vdovin was so old school. Konstantin thought back to when he had first met him – 1983, Kabul. The general was a colonel then, head of the intelligence section and he a low-ranking intelligence officer. He remembered spending the best part of one week tracking the colonel’s movements, looking for an opportunity to speak with him on his own. One had finally presented itself – a well-known local brothel reserved for officers. Vdovin was seated at the bar, a shot glass of vodka in his hand, eyeing up three heavily made-up young women. The colonel had barely given him a second glance. To Konstantin the choice was obvious. He had signalled to the youngest and prettiest of the three to join him at the bar. She was Tajik, no more than sixteen, with fine Persian features, brilliant brown eyes and straight black hair. He could still recall the scent of her over-sweet perfume. Vdovin had looked at him annoyed, his choice reduced by a third.

‘Colonel, I’ll trade you this beauty for ten minutes of your time – my expense.’

The colonel had looked at him quizzically, shrugged and grabbed the girl from him. Forty minutes later he had reappeared, flush-faced, tucking his shirt into his trousers, his jacket over his arm.

‘Ten minutes then,’ was all Vdovin had said, and he sat down at a table away from the bar. Ten minutes had turned into an hour. He had made drug dealing sound almost patriotic. The Afghanis would be free to grow and harvest their poppy crop in certain areas, and they in turn would leave the Soviet troops in peace. Russian government money would subsidise the farmers and he would manufacture and market the heroin. It was simple. Wasn’t the whole military infrastructure at their disposal and intelligence packages given top-secret priority clearance?

In just four years it had made the two of them rich. He had returned to Leningrad and focussed on building his Soviet distribution network and expanding into Europe, and Vdovin had been rewarded with command of the north-west district and two hundred thousand men. He just needed the war to continue, they all did, all those monkeys in the chain: the general, KGB, the army, politicians. The list was almost endless.

The door opened and a secretary brought them two cups of coffee, retired, and shut the door behind her.

‘We have a small security problem,’ said the general, picking up his cup. ‘Some lieutenant at Pulkova Airport nosing around noticed the last shipment and has been asking questions; seems he wants to get in on the act.’

‘How did you find out?’

‘KGB.’

At least Konstantin thought he could rely on KGB self-interest.

‘They think you should deal with it.’

‘Wouldn’t it be easier to shift him to front-line duties?’

Vdovin shook his head.

‘Okay.’ Konstantin decided there was no point in arguing.

‘And there’s another matter, highly sensitive, they think you can help them with.’

Konstantin wondered who the ‘ they ’ were that Vdovin constantly referred to.

‘How well do you know Mikhail Dimitrivich Revnik?’

‘We went to secondary school together. I bump into him occasionally. I haven’t seen him in months. Why?’

‘Well, the KGB want to take this offline. They think he has something they are after… sensitive photos, a roll of film, taken some years ago. You know the KGB, they won’t elaborate.’

Konstantin shrugged.

‘I’ll make some enquiries.’

‘You are to hand over anything you unearth intact – no copies.’

‘I get the picture.’ Not even he would pit himself against the KGB. It had a long reach and an equally long memory.

Konstantin got up to leave.

‘Before you go… there’s another big offensive underway.’

Not another doomed expedition, Konstantin thought. Success was only ever temporary. No one seemed to learn.

‘There may be some disruption to our delivery schedule,’ the general continued.

‘General, that’s for you to figure out. I have important customers waiting. I’m sure you can make it happen, offensive or no offensive.’ He wasn’t going to allow Vdovin off the hook.

‘I’m sure I can organise something,’ he replied, looking uncomfortable.

Konstantin was sure he would. This was business as usual.

‘General, you do your job, I’ll do mine.’