Servants Of The State

By James Baddock

A brand new present day thriller, set in the old Central Asian Republics of the USSR. The main character, Cairns, is an experienced courier working for the British Secret Service, who is sent into Sary Shagan, the centre of Russian Missile Defence research, in order to make contact with ‘Tamerlane’, the codename of a high level MI6 source in the Defence Ministry in Moscow - Tamerlane has acquired some explosive information that needs to be transmitted to the West immediately. Tamerlane is, in fact, a woman, Irina Malenkova, who has uncovered a plot in the Kremlin that will turn back the clock in Russia by thirty years or more.

Cairns and Irina are forced to go on the run after he rescues her from being arrested by the FSB (successors to the KGB). They are pursued by the FSB through the Central Asian Republics; their aim is to cross into Afghanistan where they will finally be out of reach of the FSB (which still forms the security service in the Republics). The chase is led by Colonel Krasnin, a senior officer in the FSB, who appears to be obsessed with catching Irina and Verenyev, a Chief Investigator in the Moscow police who is seconded against his will to assist Krasnin in the hunt - basically, Krasnin needs his considerable skills. As the chase unfolds, Verenyev becomes increasingly suspicious of Krasnin’s motives and actions, until he uncovers Krasnin’s true reasons for pursuing the fugitives. At that point, he has to make a decision that could cost him not just his career, but his life… and all the while, the pursuit is closing in on Cairns and Irina.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AUK Authors
• Release date: Jun 19, 2014
• ISBN: 9781782348177

Book preview

coincidental.

Chapter 1

Moscow, Russia

For perhaps the twentieth time, Chief Investigator Yuri Verenyev checked his watch and looked through the windscreen at the shadowy door across the road; it was squeezed in between what had once been two shop fronts, but both of them were now boarded up, as were most of them nowadays along the dingy, rundown street. A sign of the times, he thought absently. OK, so the shops never had amounted to much, even when they had been open, because their shelves had rarely been full, but at least they had been there... Now, this street - virtually this entire district in fact - was derelict, abandoned. And thus ideal for criminals...

There was still no sign of any developments. The darkened street was deserted, except for a young couple making their way along the road, laughing and giggling, and a mongrel dog sniffing at each lamp post and tree, cocking his leg every so often. As Verenyev watched, the couple turned the corner at the far end of the street, disappearing from view, and the dog vanished into a dark alleyway leaving the street completely empty: ‘to darkness and to me’, Verenyev thought suddenly - now where the hell had that line come from? The question nagged at him in the background of his thoughts as he watched the empty street; presumably from the Literature course he had studied at Moscow University years ago, but for the life of him, he could not remember its source. Not that it mattered much, of course...

The only signs of life now were the lights that were still on in some of the windows of the apartment block at the end of the street, but even these were going out, one by one, as the occupants retired to bed. Hardly surprising, of course, as it was after half past eleven and tomorrow was a working day for most of them. For a moment, Verenyev envied the residents their orderly lives.

Impatiently, he unwrapped another stick of chewing gum; he wished he could have a cigarette, but it had been nearly two years now since he had last smoked and he was damned if he were going back to them now, not after all the trouble it had been to give the bloody things up... He was a tall, lean man, with dark hair and brown eyes that had wrinkles around them that showed he laughed a good deal, but, at the moment, they were tense, strained. It was taking too long, he realised vaguely: Dobrynin should have arrived by now. Had he somehow gotten wind of the stake-out, perhaps from one of the many police officers on the mafiya payroll? Was he somewhere safe and sound now, laughing his head off?

Verenyev shook his head, and looked across at the other man in the car with him, seated behind the wheel; Plainclothesman Korneliuk would not be one of those who were taking kickbacks from the mafiyas, Verenyev thought, smiling faintly. The two of them had worked together for eight years now and he trusted the other man implicitly. If there were any justice in the world, Korneliuk would have been an investigator in his own right by now, but he was just a little too outspoken for his own good. A bloody good man to have around, though... Korneliuk seemed to become aware of Verenyev’s stare and glanced across, grinning shyly.

No sign of him yet? Verenyev asked.

Korneliuk shook his head. No.

Verenyev sighed wearily and picked up the radio microphone that was clipped to the dashboard. Let’s hope the bloody thing’s still working... Buljanov? he asked.

Here, chief, came the reply from the set.

Anything yet?

Not a thing.

Petrovskiy?

Nothing here, either, Chief.

Right. Out. Buljanov was stationed in the alleyway behind the terraced row, while Petrovskiy was at the end of the street, concealed in the shadows. Verenyev was annoyed with himself for contacting them because if they had seen anything, they would have reported and now they would know that he was on edge.

With good reason, though, Verenyev decided as he turned back to the window. Two months of patient investigation had brought him here, and, if all went well, tonight would see the reward for their efforts - but only if that bastard Dobrynin turned up.

So where the hell was he?

The radio crackled into life. Petrovskiy here.

Verenyev snatched up the microphone again. Go ahead.

He’s here. Just went past me in a blue Saab, registration-

OK, I see him, Verenyev replied. He slid himself downwards in his seat, even though he knew that they were parked in the shadows so that the Saab’s occupants were unlikely to see the car, let alone anyone in it. But he did not want anything to go wrong, not now... He watched as the Saab pulled up in front of the door; there were two men inside. A tall, heavily-built man - Dobrynin - climbed out on the passenger side; he said something to the driver, then swung the door closed and crossed the narrow pavement to the doorway. The driver switched the engine off, but made no attempt to leave the car; Dobrynin knocked on the door.

All units, Verenyev said into the microphone. Go!

He slammed the microphone down and hit the door handle, erupting out of the car and launching himself into a run. As he sprinted across the street, Korneliuk close behind him, the door opposite opened to reveal the outline of a spindly youth; beyond was a flight of stairs leading up to the flat above the shops. Dobrynin spun round at the sound of running footsteps but then seemed to freeze as he saw the two men pelting towards him. He looked frantically to each side then reached inside his coat, but then Verenyev and Korneliuk rushed him, bundling him through the door with their combined weight; the three of them cannoned into the youth and he reeled backwards. Dobrynin lost his footing and fell awkwardly, taking Korneliuk with him, the two of them sprawling in a heap at the foot of the stairs, but Verenyev managed to keep his balance; he sprang forward and bent over Dobrynin, reaching inside the other man’s coat to take out a Makarov automatic pistol. He stepped back as he heard the sound of police cars screeching to a halt outside, and waved the pistol negligently in the direction of the youth, who was slowly clambering upwards onto his feet, his eyes glazed, unfocused: Probably high as a kite, Verenyev thought distantly, as the youth seemed to see the gun for the first time and raised his hands above his head. A few seconds later, plainclothesmen came piling in through the front door, swarming up the stairs. Verenyev began to relax, and lowered the gun, wondering distantly just what he had been intending to do with it - the youth had not exactly been a threat, after all, and Dobrynin was out of it, still lying on the stairs where he had fallen, half-propped at an awkward angle against the wall. Been watching too many Clint Eastwood films, that’s my trouble... He suppressed a smile as Petrovskiy, breathless from his run from the end of the street, came in and did a double-take at the sight of the gun in his superior’s hand.

OK, Verenyev said briskly. Let’s get this place turned over. Korneliuk, make sure Dobrynin doesn’t do anything stupid.

Right, Korneliuk said; he was on his feet by now and dusting himself down, but there was an undeniable look of triumph on his face; they’d got the bastard.

Assuming we find the evidence... Verenyev could hear shouts and muffled thuds above; presumably there had been other people in the flat, but he had plenty of men to handle any resistance. He allowed himself a momentary glow of satisfaction: it had all gone like clockwork.

Chief? Buljanov called from somewhere above; Verenyev heard the sudden urgency in the detective’s voice and began to run up the stairs.

Where are you? he called out as he pushed open the door into the flat itself.

Upstairs. We’re going to need an ambulance, chief.

There was a further flight of stairs immediately in front of Verenyev; he began to mount them. Buljanov was standing at the head of the stairs, waiting. Ambulance? Verenyev asked. What-

Someone’s overdosed, by the looks of it. She’s in the front bedroom.

She? Is she alive?

Buljanov grimaced. Just - but she’s in a bad way. It’s just that... You’d better come and see for yourself, chief.

Verenyev stared at him, seeing something in Buljanov’s eyes that went beyond anxiety. Anger, almost... He brushed past Buljanov and pushed open the door of the front bedroom, his eyes drawn instantly to the almost motionless figure on the bed.

Dear God, she can’t be any older than fifteen... She was lying on her side, curled up in a foetal position, only the rapid movements of her chest indicating that she was still alive, but her eyes were completely unfocused, sunk deep into a face that was almost deathly white in its pallor; her lank hair had fallen across her forehead, which was shiny with perspiration, and a green slimy trail of vomit was trickling from her half-open lips. She was covered with a threadbare blanket, but Verenyev pulled it aside, grimacing as he saw that she wore only a tattered slip; she was painfully thin. He lifted up her left arm and let out a soft, bitter curse as he saw the telltale needle punctures that pockmarked the inside of her forearm.

Mainlining at fifteen, for Christ’s sake... Son of a bitch, what kind of life had she been leading to get to this state? He covered her up again, and looked around, taking in the squalid room for the first time, with its peeling wallpaper and the patch of damp in the corner - and then he saw the pack of condoms on the bedside table and something exploded inside him. He pushed past Buljanov and launched himself back down the stairs, striding into the living room where Korneliuk was telling Dobrynin his rights; Dobrynin had already been handcuffed, Verenyev noted with a detached part of his mind, but that would make no difference...

Dobrynin! he barked.

The dealer’s head snapped round just in time for Verenyev’s right fist to smash into his jaw, sending him reeling backwards. He crashed into the wall and began to topple sideways but then Verenyev stepped forward and kicked Dobrynin viciously in the groin. Dobrynin opened his mouth in a silent scream of agony and doubled up, clutching at his testicles, but Verenyev hadn’t finished with him yet: he brought his right knee up into the dealer’s face and there was a sudden, sickening, splintering sound as Dobrynin’s nose was broken. Dobrynin crumpled to the floor as Verenyev stepped forward, bringing back his right foot, into the rib cage, teach the fucking bastard a lesson he’ll never forget...

Someone grabbed him from behind, pulling him back. He twisted violently, trying to break free, his eyes fixed on Dobrynin, but then he felt himself being held on the other side; he was being dragged away, despite all his efforts. I’m going to kill the fucker! he hissed. Just let me-

Chief! Korneliuk’s voice in his ear, urgent, insistent. Forget it! He’s not worth it!

He’s a lump of shit - he doesn’t deserve to live! Verenyev spat, still trying to break free from the restraining grip.

Buljanov’s voice in his other ear: Chief, calm down! This’ll ruin you - Oleg’s right, he isn’t worth it!

Somehow, they were out in the hallway and Verenyev felt himself being pushed up against the wall. Let me go! he yelled, some distant part of his mind realising how ridiculous he sounded, but it didn’t matter - he wanted Dobrynin’s hide... There’s a fifteen year old girl up there, overdosed - that shit made her into a prostitute and she’s damn near been killed by his fucking drugs - I want him dead!

I know, Chief, I know. Korneliuk’s voice again, calm, soothing. But you can’t kill him - you know that as well as I do. Remember what you told us - it’s only a job? Remember?

Verenyev stared at him, wild-eyed.

Kill him and you’re finished, chief, Buljanov said. That way, those bastards will have won. Do you really want that? Is that piece of shit in there worth it? Buljanov shook his head. Think about Natasha and Alexei and Sonja - is Dobrynin worth making them suffer?

That girl’s only Sonja’s age, for Christ’s sake and that bastard’s got her mainlining!

I know, I know, Yuri, Korneliuk said quietly. "We’d all like to put the boot into Dobrynin, but what good would it do? There are dozens more like him out there - dammit, Yuri, you’ve told us all this yourself over and over again. We shouldn’t have to be telling you all this - you’re our boss, for God’s sake!"

Verenyev stared first at Korneliuk, then at Buljanov, then, slowly, nodded, letting out his breath in a long sigh. Yes, he said dully. You’re right. I ought to know better. He shook his head slowly, almost disbelievingly. OK, OK, you can let me go. I’m not going to kill the bastard.

You’re sure?

Despite himself, Verenyev had to smile at the concerned expression on Korneliuk’s face. Yes, I’m sure, he said, almost wistfully.

Slowly, only half believing him, Buljanov and Korneliuk stepped back and released him. Verenyev eased himself away from the wall. OK, he said again, taking another deep breath. See to Dobrynin, will you? Despite good intentions, I still don’t trust myself to keep my hands off the little prick.

Right, chief. They turned towards the living room door, but then Verenyev’s quiet voice stopped them.

Thanks, both of you.

They muttered something, plainly embarrassed, then went in. Verenyev stared thoughtfully after them, then walked outside, looking up at the moonlit sky. He shook his head again: what the hell had come over him’? God only knew what would have happened if Korneliuk and Buljanov hadn’t been there to pull him off. He’d have to buy them a drink or three for this...

At least we got Dobrynin, though...

As if on cue, the front door opened and Dobrynin was brought out, supported between two uniformed policemen, blood pouring from his nose, his face a pasty-grey colour. He glanced fearfully in Verenyev’s direction as he went past; Verenyev deliberately glared at him, trying to convey an unspoken message: I haven’t finished with you yet. It would do no harm during the subsequent interrogation if Dobrynin were to be scared of the Chief Investigator in charge of the case... Verenyev grimaced to himself in distaste at his own cynicism.

Korneliuk came out, wearing rubber gloves; he was holding a sealed condom that contained a familiar looking white powder and there was an undeniable look of triumph on his face. We found this - and a dozen others like it - in the attic. There’s both cut and uncut smack up there, by the looks of it, but the forensics people are sorting it out. They estimate there’s over a kilo’s worth up there.

Verenyev whistled softly. The informant had been right. Which is just as well, considering how you went for Dobrynin... A kilo didn’t sound like much, until you worked out that its street value was in excess of two hundred thousand dollars, which was the only way anyone calculated money these days...

Korneliuk was watching Dobrynin climbing into the back of a police car. We can handle the situation here if you like, chief, he said quietly.

Verenyev shook his head. I’ll stay with it, Oleg. I am supposed to be in charge, after all.

Korneliuk smiled faintly. True, he agreed.

Go back with Dobrynin to the station and get the paperwork started. Get on the radio as well and find out where the hell that ambulance is.

Korneliuk nodded soberly. Will do. I’ve left Petrovskiy with her - he’s had some training with drugs overdoses.

Verenyev nodded in turn. Good. He hesitated, then, as Korneliuk turned to go, said, Oleg?

Chief?

Thanks again. You were right - I shouldn’t have let it get to me.

That’s all right. Korneliuk stared levelly at him. At least it shows you’re still human. He held Verenyev’s gaze a moment longer, then turned away.

Verenyev stared after Korneliuk, but then heard a car pulling up behind him. Somehow, he knew what he would see as he turned slowly: a black Volga, virtually the hallmark of the old KGB and equally characteristic of its main successor, the Federal Security Service, or FSB. Should have bloody known they’d turn up sooner or later, Verenyev thought sourly as two men climbed out of the car, each one wearing nearly identical raincoats. They looked around, then the passenger’s eyes settled on Verenyev; the newcomer said something to the driver, then both began to walk unhurriedly over.

Chief Investigator Verenyev? the passenger said.

Yes.

I am Captain Mihailov. He held up an ID pass: sure enough, he was FSB. This is Ivanov, my assistant.

Verenyev stifled a disbelieving grin. Mihailov and Ivanov: they were the equivalents of Smith and Jones in English. What can I do for you?

Mihailov looked around as if checking to see if anyone were within earshot, then said quietly, I’m afraid you’ve just interfered with a high-level FSB operation. I must ask you to withdraw your team immediately and hand your prisoners over to me.

On whose authority?

Colonel Yervushin of-

Never heard of him. You have your written authorisation with you, of course?

Not yet. There has not been time-

No written authority?

Not yet. Mihailov said, a slow fury building in his eyes. But we will get it, believe me.

Then do so. Until then, this case is mine. There was no inflexion at all in Verenyev’s voice; he might have been discussing the weather.

Mihailov took a deep breath, then moved closer. Listen, Verenyev, you don’t know what you’re getting into-

"Then enlighten me. Just what am I getting into?"

Don’t be so obtuse. This is way above both our heads. This is our investigation, get that. If you know what’s good for you, then get out of this now. This moment. Understand?

No, I don’t, Verenyev snapped. "All I can see is the FSB muscling in on a drugs bust. The last time I checked, drugs fall under the jurisdiction of the Prosecutor’s Office, not the FSB. And I take my orders from Prosecutor Gavrilov, not FSB Colonel Yervushin, whoever he might be. Until my boss pulls me off this case, it’s mine, Mihailov. Do you understand?"

Mihailov glared at Verenyev, his mouth set in a grim line. You’ll be sorry for this. You’re making a big mistake, believe me.

Verenyev shrugged slowly, elaborately; Mihailov’s eyes blazed, and, for a moment, Verenyev thought he had gone too far, but then the FSB man spun on his heel and strode angrily back to the Volga, gesturing impatiently at Ivanov to accompany him. Mihailov yanked open the passenger door, then paused, glaring across at Verenyev.

I’ll get authorisation - you know that, Verenyev. And when I do, you will wish you had never been born.

Very good - I’m really impressed. Now, just piss off and let me get on with my job.

Mihailov climbed into the car, slamming the door as the Volga took off in a squeal of tyres, accelerating rapidly away. Verenyev watched it go, a faint smile on his face, then started suddenly at Bulljanov’s quiet voice behind him.

Have they gone, Chief?

You could say that, yes. Though I imagine we have not seen the last of them... He saw the expression on Buljanov’s face. What have you found that you didn’t want them to see?

You’d better come and look. It’s in the basement.

Buljanov led Verenyev back into the house and through the hallway into the kitchen, where the lino flooring had been peeled back to reveal a trap door, whose lid had been lifted open. There were some wooden steps leading down into the basement; Verenyev followed Buljanov down these, looking around as he descended. Illumination was provided by several light bulbs hanging from the ceiling, which enabled him to see that the basement was a lot bigger than he had expected; it looked as though someone had knocked through the walls on each side, to give an impressively large storage area.

Almost the entire floor was taken up by wooden crates; it was the stencilled lettering on these that brought Verenyev to a momentary halt at the foot of the steps. There was no mistaking the distinctive red star symbol on each, but, even without those, the Cyrillic script said it all.

These crates belonged to the Red Army.

So that’s why the FSB is so bloody worried...

We - er - opened one up, Buljanov said, leading the way to where the lid of one crate had been prised open. As you can see, the light in here isn’t very good and we’d got it open before we realised what the labels said.

Verenyev looked up at the hundred watt bulb directly above the crate, then raised an eyebrow archly at Buljanov and nodded. Perfectly understandable - you can hardly see a thing down here. Anyone could make such a mistake. So what did we find?

These. Buljanov reached inside the crate and lifted out a semi-automatic rifle, still in its cellophane wrapping. Kalashnikov - and one of the new versions as well. The crate’s full of them. Ammunition as well.

Shit... Verenyev said softly, almost reverently. He looked around at the other crates: how many were there? Ten? A dozen? He shook his head in disbelief. If they’re all like this one - there’s enough here to equip a fucking army.

***

It was dead on nine o’clock the following morning when Verenyev arrived at his office, nodding briefly to Korneliuk and Buljanov, both of whom were seated in front of desktops, completing their reports on the night before, a chore that still lay ahead of him. How’s Dobrynin? Verenyev asked, pausing in the door to his own office, separated from the others by no more than a wood and glass partition.

Not too bad, Korneliuk pronounced, judiciously. He’s had treatment for the injuries he received resisting arrest. The careful lack of inflexion in his voice matched the opaque expression on his face.

I see, Verenyev said slowly, grimacing wryly. Then, his expression changed. And the girl?

Korneliuk shrugged. Still unconscious, apparently - but still breathing. According to the hospital, she’s lucky to be alive.

Verenyev nodded and went on into his office, his expression thoughtful, then sat down, powering up the desktop, reflecting on his exchange visit to London the year before; they’d had state of the art equipment instead of these clapped-out museum pieces... So much for the new Russia...

The internal phone rang and he snatched it up with an almost audible sigh of relief: anything was better than typing out a report... Verenyev.

Gavrilov here. Could you come on up?

On my way. Verenyev pushed his chair back and rose to his feet: when Prosecutor Gavrilov said Frog, you jumped. But what the hell was it about? he wondered as he headed out of the office and stepped into the lift. The abrupt summons from Gavrilov could be for any number of things. Without false modesty, Verenyev knew that he was regarded as one of the most able detectives in the Prosecutor’s Office, so this was much more likely to be a new assignment or line of enquiry than a bollocking.

He hoped...

Verenyev paused outside Gavrilov’s office, mentally collecting himself, then knocked briskly on the door.

Come in.

Gavrilov was seated behind his desk. He was a small, neat man in his late forties, who had gone prematurely bald before he was even thirty and who tried to disguise it by brushing long strands of hair across his scalp, the conceit giving him a faintly ridiculous appearance; nevertheless, he was a first-rate prosecutor - and one whom Verenyev would have to exempt from any list of corrupt superiors. He had been offered bribes in the past, but those who had done so had ended up behind bars... Verenyev, he said, pushing the file he had been reading to one side, after marking his place carefully. "Do