Ryan, Chris - Zero 22

Poliakov was talking almost before it was out of his mouth. ‘You’ve got it wrong, you’ve got it wrong!’ he said in Russian.

Stark sighed regretfully. ‘Put it back, if you’d be so kind,’ he said, and the man stuffed the rag back into Poliakov’s mouth amid much muffled dissent. Stark took a step back and Alice emulated him. Stark bowed his head miserably. ‘Go ahead,’ he said.

The masked man didn’t hesitate, other than to give the secateurs another couple of test squeezes. They didn’t make a sound as the curved blades closed in on each other. Poliakov started to squeal, each squeal accompanied by another scraping of the chair. The man leaned over and moved the secateurs into position over Poliakov’s right hand. Alice was relieved that she couldn’t see it happen. Her view of Poliakov’s hand was blocked by the masked man’s back. She heard it, though. The same slice and crunch that she remembered from watching her mother cut up chicken in their tiny kitchen at home. And she heard the flat splash as the finger landed in the puddle on the concrete floor. Poliakov’s squealing went up an octave. As the masked man stood aside, Alice couldn’t help her eye being drawn to the detached digit. It looked much smaller now that it was no longer connected to the hand. Blood dripped on to it from the wound. Alice felt nauseous, but manage to remain impassive.

‘We’ll try again,’ said Stark, his usual polite tone now had an edge. ‘Which other military operations are currently compromised?’

He nodded at the masked man, who stepped round again and pulled the rag from Poliakov’s mouth. Poliakov inhaled noisily and started to pant. Alice was reminded of a thirsty dog. But Poliakov wasn’t thirsty, he was desperately trying to control the pain, or so it seemed to Alice. His eyes were clenched shut, his face screwed up. After thirty seconds or so, the panting stopped and his eyes opened. ‘You’ve got it all wrong,’ he said, and he was speaking English now, albeit with a thick Russian accent. ‘Why do you think I am hiding in London? Why do you think the oligarch Rostropovic is giving me sanctuary?’

Stark and Alice exchanged a look then Stark’s eyes flickered towards the finger on the floor. ‘I suggest you tell us,’ he said.

‘I was not receiving intelligence from O’Brien. I was supplying it.’ He grimaced horribly. ‘My hand . . .’

‘What do you mean?’ Stark said. There was a catch in his voice.

‘You don’t understand what’s happening. You don’t know your friends from your enemies . ’

‘What the . . .’

Alice put a gentle hand on Stark’s arm to silence him. Stark flicked her away, clearly irritated by her intervention. But she persisted. ‘Sir, think about it. Number 10 were hesitant about us raiding Rostropovic’s apartment. Surely that means he’s more aligned to us than to the Russian administration.’

‘Rostropovic hates the Russian administration!’ Poliakov almost shouted. ‘He was the only person I could trust to hide my family while O’Brien does his work!’

‘Poliakov is a whistle-blower, sir,’ Alice said.

Stark shook his head testily. ‘We heard the tape of Poliakov and O’Brien talking,’ he said. ‘We heard O’Brien give him details of the Zero 22 operation.’

‘We heard fragments of a conversation, sir,’ Alice said quietly.

‘I demand to see the British foreign secretary!’ Poliakov shouted. ‘This is no way to treat your allies! Untie me! Give me my clothes! Give me medical assistance!’

‘We heard your conversation with O’Brien, Poliakov. Chapter and verse. He was giving you sensitive military intelligence so the Russians could ambush a British unit.’

Poliakov’s wild eyes narrowed. ‘Give me my phone,’ he said.

‘No phone calls,’ Stark said.

‘I don’t want to make a phone call! Give it to me!’

Stark nodded at the masked man. He produced a phone and handed it over.

‘I have only met O’Brien once,’ Poliakov said. ‘In Crete. I recorded our conversation. You can listen to it. It will tell you what you need to know.’

It was a messy business, tapping the fingerprint sensor on the phone with Poliakov’s bleeding hand. Stark did it with obvious distaste, holding the phone by the edge gingerly in an attempt not to become bloodied. Poliakov directed him to a recording app. ‘June the twentieth,’ Poliakov said. ‘Play the recording.’

Alice was aware of a strange shift in power as Stark followed Poliakov’s instruction. He put the phone on speaker. Two voices filled the room: Alice recognised General O’Brien and Poliakov himself. They were muffled. It sounded to Alice as though Poliakov’s phone had been in a pocket as he was recording. But they were audible.

— I don’t feel good about this. I’m supposed to be on vacation. We shouldn’t be seen together. Your people or my people work out we’ve been talking, it could blow everything apart.

— You think I would take this kind of risk without looking you in the eye? I need to know you mean what you say.

— You don’t need to worry about that. I got the security of the whole damn United States in my hands. That son of a bitch in the Oval Office is unhinged and I gotta deal with him. And I can’t do it without you, right?

— Right.

A pause. The clinking of glasses. A low hubbub of voices in the background. Poliakov cleared his throat in the recording.

— I have something for you.

— I’m all ears.

— The Americans have passed us information about a British military operation in Syria. I have details. Fourteen men. A night-time raid on a prison facility to collect some Kurdish militants. Operation call sign, Zero 22. My people have passed it to the Wagner Group. There will be an ambush. A massacre.

Another pause.

— Jesus. Fourteen men. Zero 22, you say?

— Zero 22.

— I can’t do anything about it.

— You must tell the British.

— Not possible. If my people have given your people hard intel, and the Brits suddenly change their plans, we got a whole world of problems. Both sides are going to know there’s a leak, and our job becomes twice as hard.

— Maybe you’re right. This is the biggest operation we’ve worked on. We need to be careful we don’t make a mistake.

— I need to be careful nobody points a finger at me.

Pause.

— Damn, it bites. Fourteen men. SF, by the sound of the op. Fourteen good men. But what we’re doing is more important, grand scheme of things. We got to accept there’s going to be collateral. Casualties of war. Every soldier knows the risk.

Pause.

— Damn, it bites. You’d better get out of here. Anyone sees us . . .

The conversation was suddenly drowned out by the blare of loud dance music. But they’d heard enough. Stark killed the recording. Silence fell on them like a heavy weight.

‘Untie me,’ Poliakov said.

‘Do it,’ Stark said. He sounded slightly sick.

Poliakov’s release was an unseemly business. Once the ropes were loosened, he slipped in his own urine, seemingly dizzy from the loss of blood from his wound. He refused any help to put his clothes back on, but it took an age as he awkwardly wormed his damaged hand into his shirt, smearing blood all over the material as he did so. Scruffily dressed, he turned back to Stark and Alice. ‘Where are my family?’

‘Safe,’ said Stark.

‘I don’t trust you. I demand to see the foreign secretary and I demand to see my family. I don’t say another word until I see them.’