December (24 page)

He glanced at his watch anxiously: 7.35 a.m.

They had only ten minutes to get Roman across town and on air.

Roman had been shaken up by the crash but Pete manhandled him firmly down the steps and then, with Alex, bundled him over to the first helicopter, opened the door and pushed him inside.

Alex and Pete both had their assault rifles across their chests as they settled into their seats, the aircraft’s engines roared and it tilted and quickly swooped away east towards Ostankino.

7.25 A.M. MOSCOW TIME ZONE, TUESDAY 16 DECEMBER

Grigory stood up in front of the assembled journalists and technical staff in the Ostankino tower to break the news of the coming revolution.

They had all gathered together in the big newsroom, standing and sitting amongst the rows of desks. Grigory and Lara climbed up onto a table in front of them. The room buzzed with anxious chatter and people looked around with worried expressions.

‘OK, people!’ Grigory clapped his hands together and held his arms up for silence. He had on his black suit and a white button-down shirt, and was unshaven as usual. Lara stood next to him, looking uncharacteristically formal in a fitted, dark blue skirt suit. She had her arms crossed over her stomach and stared down at her feet. She was sick with tension and thinking about Sergey.

‘Right, I have a big announcement for you. Some of you may have guessed what is going to happen.’

Those in the know swallowed hard: the revolution that they had thought about for so long was really happening. No longer would it just be fighting talk over a glass of wine at home—they were really going to go head to head with
the might of the Russian state and try to do what no one had achieved since the Bolsheviks in 1917.

Grigory was a popular MD at work and he in turn cared about his staff. He looked out over them now and wondered—Could they really do this?

They didn’t look like a band of crack revolutionaries. Scruffy, intellectual and cool—yes, but definitely not hardened fighters. He looked down in front of him and saw Nikolai, an anaemic script editor, staring up at him expectantly through his large black-rimmed glasses.

He was going to have to make this good.

‘Now, you all know what the Krymov regime has done to human rights in this country—the reopening of the Gulags and the disappearances. You know how many journalists have been harassed and murdered over the years.’

There were nods around the room; their profession had been heavily targeted by the regime. In addition to notorious cases like Anna Politkovskaya, over sixty others had been murdered.

‘You know also how the regime has damaged the economy with inflation and petrol rationing in a country with the second largest oil reserves in the world.’

Again people shook their heads at the situation.

‘And how, with his energy blockade of the UK, Krymov has taken us into a virtual Third World War with the West. This has to stop!’ Grigory said emphatically.

There were shouts of encouragement from around the room and a smattering of applause.

‘Well, today will go down in history as the day of the second Russian Revolution! The day when the ordinary people of Russia get to determine the course of her future! We will do what the first Decembrists could not achieve all those years ago; we will build a free and democratic Russia!’

Many more clapped and shouted.

‘Today, we will have, very shortly, returning to us after two years in a labour camp, the leader of the United Civil Opposition! Our last hope! Roman Raskolnikov!’ He punched the air.

Everybody burst out clapping and cheering now.

‘He will be here in a few minutes and,’ he threw an arm around Lara, who had rallied under the influence of his rhetoric and managed to smile shyly, ‘our very own Lara Mikhailovna Maslova will front his broadcast to the nation, calling for the people and the army to come out onto the streets!’ He raised the fist of his free hand.

The helicopter skimmed over the dark roofs and orange streetlights of the Moscow suburbs, heading for Ostankino.

Alex was up front next to Sergey’s company pilot while Roman and Pete were in the back.

In a couple of minutes they would be at the Ostankino tower for Roman’s revolutionary broadcast, but Alex could only think of one thing: he was going to see Lara again.

Throughout the whole raid he had been too focused on the job in hand, but now that he had a free moment the thought of her streamed back into his consciousness like a floodtide. He looked down at the front of his arctic combat smock. The white material was stained brown with Bogdan’s blood. He reached a hand in under it and felt his webbing shoulder strap.

It was still there. The long lock of her hair felt silky smooth to his touch. He had done what she wanted and brought it back safely to her.

The pilot was gaining altitude now as they approached the tower. They rose up and up until the city streetlights dwindled vertiginously below them. Ahead, Alex could see the black bulk of the tower looming over the city, with lines of red aircraft warning lights running up its length.

They flew level with the roof of the TV station, just underneath the cloud base, and went into a hover. The pilot was
wary of the gusts of wind whipping around the tower and sideslipped gradually over the guardrail and onto the flat roof. Alex could see a little group of people standing inside the glass doors at the top of the staircase.

The two skids bumped down and the pilot cut the rotors. As they wound down, Alex and Pete leaped out with their assault rifles held upright in one hand, and helped Roman down.

The wind billowed around them and flapped his dark suit and tie. The group inside the doors burst out and ran over to them. Several were United Civil Opposition members who were in tears to see their party leader again. They cried and hugged Roman as Grigory stood back, smiled and watched, as solid and reassuring as ever.

Lara stood next to him in her heavy coat with the hood framing her face. Alex glimpsed her behind the others and began to walk over to her. Grigory intercepted him with a smile, shook his hand and then thumped him on the shoulder. ‘Very well done, Major Devereux!’

Alex lowered his assault rifle and let it hang at his side on its sling. He grinned back. ‘It was the least I could do,’ His eyes flicked on to Lara.

Grigory saw he wanted to talk to her alone so he smiled, ‘You did great!’ and moved on to welcome Roman.

Lara pushed the hood back off her head, her blonde hair streaming out behind her. She looked uncertain as she saw Alex approach, her head tilted back and her lips parted in a slightly suspicious pout.

After all the tension and danger in getting through the raid and back to Moscow he felt as if she was his reward. For a moment he couldn’t think what to say.

‘I brought it back,’ he said at last, and held up the lock of her hair.

She smiled, but her thoughts seemed to be somewhere else and she twisted her head away and tapped the front of his combat smock to admonish him lightly. She then turned back and saw what she had just touched and appeared shocked. ‘Is that your blood?’

Alex was confused. ‘No, it’s someone else’s,’ he said blankly as he looked down at her, trying to work out what game they were playing now.

Her eyes travelled over him. His face was still covered in camouflage cream streaks and cuts and bruises from the storm and the assault.

She noticed that his left hand was bandaged and held it up. ‘What did you do?’

‘Someone cut my finger off.’

She frowned at him questioningly, but then answered the question on his mind. ‘Sergey just texted me. He’s with Fyodor and Krymov in a car on their way back to the Kremlin.’ She paused to see if Alex understood her.

He nodded, feeling overwhelmed with disappointment at Lara’s taciturn reception of him, but knowing that he couldn’t let it show. Of course she would be concerned about Sergey.

‘I have to do the broadcast now but as soon as Krymov sees that Raskolnikov is in Moscow he will know it is because Fyodor and Sergey have betrayed him.’

Alex looked grim as he fought hard to be fair to her; he also knew that they had to be practical as well.

He said quietly, ‘We can’t stop now. We have to go on.’

She looked up at him, her blue eyes wide with pain. ‘Even though I will cause Sergey’s death?’

He looked straight back at her. ‘Even though you will cause Sergey’s death.’

She gave a sob and pressed her face against his bloodied chest, her voice muffled. ‘He has my soul.’

Despite everything Alex felt compelled to embrace and hold her. For a long moment they stood completely still.

Lara breathed and sighed deeply against him before she pushed herself away and wiped the tears from her eyes. She looked up at him helplessly and kissed him quickly on the mouth before she broke away and walked purposefully over to Roman.

Alex looked away at the vast city panorama stretched out around the tower. The lights of Moscow glowered back at him from the darkness. He felt more dazed and confused than ever before.

After he texted Lara, Sergey slid his phone back into his suit pocket before Krymov noticed; they were in the back of the Zil with Fyodor, driving through Red Square and about to enter the Kremlin.

He glanced nervously at his watch. It was 7.25 a.m. The plane would be landing in five minutes and the broadcast would be at 7.45 a.m.

He had twenty minutes of his life remaining.

After the faked shooting down of the plane during the night, Fyodor had insisted they wait for the search-and-rescue helicopters to find the ‘wreckage’ and beam pictures back to Air Command. Krymov had called for vodka for everyone at the command and had gone round slapping backs and congratulating people. Fyodor had hoped that during the delay Krymov would get tired and give up on his idea of dragging them back to the Kremlin.

Instead he just got more drunk and more elated by the apparent crushing of the coup attempt, and the sight of the scattered white pieces of plane wreckage merely increased his enthusiasm. ‘Ha! We made a right fucking mess of them, didn’t we!’ he gloated as the pictures came in.

So, he was now continuing with his original plan to go
to the Kremlin, steamrollering Sergey’s complaints about having a business meeting that morning. Sergey was trying to maintain his usual mask of bonhomie but it was hard to do when he knew he was about to die. At least Fyodor could just maintain his usual mask of icy calm.

Krymov was beginning to notice Sergey’s lack of animation. ‘Hey, Shaposhnikov, what’s up with you? You missing Raskolnikov or something?’

‘No, Boss, just tired, that’s all.’

Krymov grunted, annoyed that Sergey wasn’t joining in his fun.

The convoy swept across Red Square, past Lenin’s Mausoleum and drove through the massive gates of the Saviour’s Tower. Once inside it, the black Zil slowed to make a sharp right turn and drove along the inside of the main wall of the citadel.

They drew up at the apex of the triangular-shaped Senate Building where Krymov’s office was. It was ornate and classical, painted pale yellow with white cornices, dusted now with snow, and with a Russian tricolour drooping from a pole above the entrance.

Krymov pulled Sergey out of the car—‘Come on, you lazy bastard!’—and then ran up the steps and through the impressive large double doors.

The group walked through the grand entrance hall, trailed by Batyuk and a squad of six guards with rifles. The sound of their boots echoed as they walked under the huge dome.

Krymov was in an inspired mood and paused to look up at the beautifully painted cupola, which was just trapping the first gleams of wintry morning light. He clapped his hands—‘Come on!’—and urged them out the other side and down the steps into the central hexagonal court
yard, lined by impressive four-storey classical façades painted yellow and trimmed in white. The whole thing was covered in a field of snow now but the straight path across it had already been swept clear.

Sergey lagged behind again as they walked across, and Krymov dropped back alongside him and poked him in the ribs. ‘Hey! I said come on!’

Sergey shrugged; in the face of death he just couldn’t maintain the front any more. He grunted disconsolately.

Krymov wasn’t taking that as an answer and barged into him; Sergey stumbled over the lip of the path and fell on the snow.

‘Ha, ha!’ Krymov roared with laughter, glad to have got back to their usual level.

Sergey floundered around on all fours with his back to Krymov, scraping a snowball together, then suddenly stood up, turned and threw it at the President. It hit him in the chest and sprayed up over his face.

Batyuk had his pistol out of his hip holster in a flash and the other Echelon 25 men were already hunched over their rifles, Sergey in their sights.

Fyodor stepped away in alarm and looked at Krymov, expecting an explosion of anger—but this was exactly the sort of horseplay he had been looking for.

Batyuk waved the guards off; they lowered their rifles slowly as Krymov scraped the snow off his face. ‘Son of a bitch! Ha!’

He marched onto the snow, scraped a ball together and hurled it back at Sergey, who ducked and the two then began running around each other, alternately flinging snowballs.

Fyodor stood aside, watching with a tense, disdainful expression on his face. How could Shaposhnikov play around at a time like this?

He pulled up the elegantly tailored sleeve of his greatcoat and looked at his watch: 7.35 a.m.

The plane had landed. Ten minutes to live.

The excited group of supporters on the roof of the Ostankino tower hustled Roman away and down the staircase.

Grigory and his young female assistant hung back. The big director walked over to where Alex was standing, looking lost after his talk with Lara, and put a hand on his shoulder.

‘Alexander, thank you for bringing Roman back to us. I really think he will do it.’ Grigory was feeling pumped up on the rhetoric of his own speech to the staff. ‘Now that I have seen him again after all this time—it’s just so good to remember what a presence he has, how much he means to us—I am sure that we can do this thing peacefully now. As soon as he goes on air, I just know that the surprise will bring the people out onto the streets. The government will collapse. It’ll have to.’

Alex looked at him and nodded. In his experience these things were rarely that simple, but he was glad that Grigory was feeling so positive.

He evidently had something else he wanted to say.

‘Look, Alex, I don’t want to sound ungrateful, but from now on I think we can let the military side of things take a back seat?’ He raised his eyebrow questioningly.

Alex nodded. ‘Sure.’ He was happy not to fight if he didn’t have to.

‘We have to be very careful from the media presentation point of view when the cameras are on downstairs. We’ve got a big crowd of United Civil Opposition people in here already and we’re going to have several cameras roving around getting the general positive atmosphere. I can’t afford to have them picking up any of your guys. Foreign soldiers in Russia would
really
damage our credibility.’

Alex nodded. He knew how prickly the Russians were about foreigners on their soil, having been invaded and trashed by just about every single European and Asian country in the course of their history.

‘So, I’m afraid, when the guys arrive in the second helicopter I’d like you to leave the weapons and ammunition onboard and all go with Natalya.’ He gestured to his assistant, who smiled. ‘She’ll take you to a conference room away from everyone and you can watch it all there on TV.’ He paused, seeming to remember something, and then grinned and slapped Alex’s shoulder. ‘The revolution will be both live and televised!’ he beamed. ‘I’d better go and sort out the broadcast.’ He paused, then: ‘Alex, I’m sorry to do this to you, but you understand?’

‘Sure, I’m English—I’m all about modesty.’ He managed a grin.

‘OK.
Vive la Revolution
!’ Grigory gave a clenched fist salute to Alex before disappearing down the stairs.

Natalya smiled nervously at him and waited at a distance.

Alex turned as Pete sauntered over with his hands folded on his rifle across his chest. The long-haired Australian flicked his head after Grigory. ‘What was all that about?’

Alex looked out over Moscow. ‘Well, he says he thinks that he won’t need our services any more and that we should stay out of sight, which I’m happy to do. But somehow I just don’t believe it’s going to be that straightforward.’