Chapters (58)
- Cover
- Also by Oliver Harris
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- FORTY-FIVE
- FORTY-SIX
- FORTY-SEVEN
- FORTY-EIGHT
- FORTY-NINE
- FIFTY
- FIFTY-ONE
- FIFTY-TWO
- FIFTY-THREE
- FIFTY-FOUR
- FIFTY-FIVE
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Ford gestured to her men. They approached, one eye on the Russians, one on the GL5 contractors, and grabbed hold of Walker. Then, before I knew what was happening, Cherenkov had bundled me into a car and it was already moving, a glimpse of Suzanna Ford in the mirrors giving chase, yelling for him to stop before running back to her own team.
FIFTY-FOUR
I was in an armoured Mitsubishi Outlander filled with military communications systems, a compact signals intelligence suite and four Russian special forces officers dressed in civilian clothes but operation-ready. I saw a couple of AK-12 assault rifles, stun grenades, respirator kits and a sniper rifle. There were headsets and a blocky laptop monitor. They had the special forces habit of looking as unlike soldiers as possible. The driver was unshaven, gloved hands on the wheel, earpiece in. Beside him sat a malign-looking figure with a ponytail and webbed body armour over a denim jacket. The sniper sat behind mirror shades in the back beside a signals operator with a tactical data link system, involving a headset, mic and two screens on a portable box. It looked like they had a quad drone up.
Cherenkov briefed them on the situation. He brought up a feed on the laptop.
‘Know if the bomb involves chemicals?’ he asked me. ‘Gases? Radioactive materials?’
‘I don’t know. Try not to cause panic over the radio; we need to keep the streets clear. Have you got access to Emergency Command?’
‘Possibly.’
We headed into the centre. Cherenkov had a live feed of the square: it was packed edge to edge with people. They were still pouring in, holding candles and posters. The man who was working the data link touched his ear piece, checked the laptop screen, said:
‘Look at that.’
He prodded the screen. The roof markings made it conspicuous from the air: one ambulance, heading north. It was ten minutes from us and less than half a mile from the square.
‘It has its lights on, moving fast.’
‘We’ve got about four minutes,’ I said. The Mitsubishi accelerated. I checked the map again.
‘He’s going to circle and come from the east,’ I said. ‘That gives him the longest run-up. Either Akhmet or Jumeken. There’s no obstacles on either. He’ll get up to ninety miles per hour. We need to reach him before that.’
The driver muttered curses in Russian. Radios crackled. Moscow wanted to know what was going on. Cherenkov was struggling with his Kazakh counterparts.
‘Yes, I am FSB. Russia. The situation is live … ’
‘It’s already inside most security checks,’ the signals operator said. ‘I don’t see any further blocks between it and the square, until you get to the guards around the square itself.’
‘What defences do they have?’ I asked.
‘Crowd-control barriers. They wouldn’t stop a push bike.’