The Hijack (21 page)

Stratton could feel his night vision slowly kicking in, the cones in his retinas taking over from the rods, but it had a way to go before he would be able to make out anything inside the blackness of the wood. The headlights of a car appeared in the distance.

Stratton looked over at Gabriel who was still in the road.

‘Gabriel? Car.’

Gabriel snapped out of his thoughts and looked over at the oncoming lights. He walked across the road then stepped a few yards off it towards the edge of the wood.

Stratton turned his back to the car and closed his eyes as it approached to preserve his night vision. He waited for a few seconds after it had passed before opening his eyes and looked over at Gabriel, but he had gone.

Stratton took his hands out of his pockets as he scanned around.

‘Gabriel,’ he called out, but there was no reply. Then came movement from the wood and Stratton crossed the road towards it.

‘Gabriel!’ he shouted again.

Gabriel was pushing his way through the slender, brittle pine branches that stuck out almost horizontally from the trunks, snatching glances up at the sky. He paused, looked around, then moved ahead in a different direction. He heard Stratton call his name but he was on the scent of something he did not want to lose and pressed on. Without a doubt, there was a familiarity about this place, a smell, the temperature, the light, the feel underfoot, as if Gabriel had been here before and quite recently, all the sensual memories still fresh.

Stratton entered the wood and paused to listen before readjusting his direction towards the movement. He was straining to look into the blackness as he walked forward, when his foot banged into something solid and he stopped to look down. He crouched to see it more clearly and found what appeared to be an old milestone. Then he heard a metallic clang some distance ahead followed by a crashing sound. As he moved quickly toward the sound, his senses began to tingle, a warning.

‘Gabriel,’ he called out against his better judgement. It was instinctive for him not to make more noise than he had to, especially when alone in the bush. Years of experience had ingrained in him the subconscious practice of reducing one’s target profile, by movement, shape, silhouette, or sound. But they were not in a battlefield right now.This was Thetford Forest, England.

There was no reply to his call and Stratton moved carefully forward.

Another few yards and he paused to listen. The sound of movement he had been following through the trees had ceased. Then suddenly he thought he could hear it again, but it was a distance away, fifty or eighty metres. He moved forward once more, his senses tuned to the maximum.

A few paces further on Stratton stopped again, this time holding his breath so that he could hear more clearly. He picked up one particular sound, unnatural to the wood, rhythmic, like strained breathing, and very close by, then the sound of movement, metres away, low on the ground. Stratton moved forward until he saw what looked like a log until one of the limbs moved. He inched closer and realised it was Gabriel.

Stratton dropped to his side. Gabriel let out a moan. Stratton flashed a look in all directions, tensing for any attack. He heard movement again, this time further away. There was rhythm to it: walking, and fast, which was why it was louder. Gabriel’s assailant was hurrying away. But the priority was Gabriel and Stratton crouched by his side and felt his head and face and then something wet which he assumed was blood.

‘Gabriel,’ Stratton said in a loud whisper. ‘It’s Stratton. You’re okay. You’re safe now . . . Can you hear me?’

Gabriel let out a moan and moved a shaking hand towards his head.

‘Everything’s okay,’ Stratton reassured him. ‘Keep still.’

Stratton felt along the back of Gabriel’s neck to see if there was any damage to the vertebrae, then his face and jaw, his nose and forehead. It all seemed intact and dry, except for the back of his skull, which appeared to be intact although starting to swell.

‘Gabriel? Give me some sign you can hear me.’

Stratton put a couple of fingers into Gabriel’s hand. ‘Squeeze my fingers if you can hear me,’ he said.

‘I can hear you,’ Gabriel said, weakly.

‘I’m going to sit you up,’ Stratton said as he turned Gabriel carefully over, then, supporting his back, raised him up.

‘Do you have pain anywhere else other than your head?’ Stratton asked.

‘I don’t think so . . . Someone hit me. Did you see who?’ Gabriel asked, his hand coming up to feel the back of his head.

‘No,’ Stratton said, pulling his hand away. ‘Don’t touch your head. Can you get to your feet?’

‘Yes,’ Gabriel said, but then took a moment to respond as he gathered himself, and Stratton pulled him up. Gabriel almost lost his balance but Stratton held on to him.

‘Take a step. I’ve got you.’

Gabriel took a wobbly step forward.

Stratton steered him through the wood and into the open.

They crossed the road and Stratton led him around to the front passenger side, opened the door and helped him in. Stratton climbed into the driver’s side and within a few seconds had started the car and was pulling a U-turn in the road.

‘Where are we going?’ Gabriel.

‘Mildenhall air base. They have a hospital there.’

‘No. Go back. We need to find him.’

‘He’s gone.’

‘We still need to go back.’

‘I’m getting you to a hospital.You’re in no condition to do anything.’

Gabriel leaned forward holding his head. Stratton glanced at him, wondering how badly he was hurt. RAF Barnham was nearby but Mildenhall was a US base and Gabriel was US government property on loan to the Brits.

Sumners was going to be pissed off about this. Stratton had been looking after Gabriel for just a few hours and he already had a dent in him.

This was really quite bizarre, Stratton thought.Was it possible the mysterious man Gabriel had been talking about had hit him, and had he really recognised a place at night just by looking through his assailant’s eyes? It was a lot to believe but there were no other explanations at the moment. The fact remained that Gabriel had talked about a dangerous, angry man in a wood near a US air base in England, and he found one.That could not be ignored, no matter how sceptical a mood Stratton was in.

‘Don’t lose consciousness,’ Stratton urged Gabriel. ‘Stay awake.’

Several rows of bright lights in the distance looked like airfield landing lights. He applied the brakes gently and took the next corner tightly where a sign indicated the air base entrance.

Up ahead was the main gate and several armed US soldiers wearing helmets. Stratton reached inside his pocket for his identification. With luck, it would be enough until he could find Gabriel’s ID.

Stratton decided to wait until Gabriel was in safe hands before calling Sumners. He had the feeling this was going to be a long and sleepless night.

Zhilev’s Volvo was parked on the side of a quiet road at the highest point of the tallest hill for miles, the side of the car up against some thorny scrub growing out of the grey-and-white rocky landscape. Behind it the road twisted downhill for miles through the Ciceklibeli Pass to the ancient town of Mugla. Ahead, just about visible between a range of small hills, was a slither of blue water, the Gulf of Ceramus.

The day had begun chilly but the sun had broken through by mid-afternoon and Zhilev was enjoying its warm rays as he sat on a rock in front of his car dipping bread into a jar of local pine honey and eating it. In front of him, on a rock, was a picture of him and his brother, both wearing brightly coloured windproof jackets, arms over each other’s shoulders, their straggly hair wet and matted, both clutching a bottle of beer and grinning broadly.

The picture was not there to remind Zhilev of his purpose, for that was now as much a part of his existence as was breathing. It was one of several photographs of Vladimir he carried in his pocket, inside a plastic bag to protect them, each from a different year and occasion going back to their youth. Zhilev was playing a kind of game with himself whereby each day he chose a new photo and tried to remember as many moments from that period as possible using the background, objects or clothing in the picture to help with the association. He was surprised just how effective the process was for conjuring up forgotten times. That particular day they had spent boating on the Dvina, the river that divided the city in two on its way to the Gulf of Riga. It was a major task for Zhilev to get his brother on the water simply because Vladimir spent all his working days at sea and insisted he preferred to spend his time off on dry land. Despite his complaining,Vladimir always ended up having fun and that day was no exception.

Zhilev looked up from the photo to find the glimpse of blue water in the distance. The journey from Ostende to Istanbul had taken him six days, which he would have enjoyed more if not for his neck although the vertebrae had been less painful than expected. He had started this day early, an hour before first light, just outside the town of Bursa, south of old Constantinople across the Denizi Sea, having spent the night on the back seat of the Volvo. It was the last day of driving and he wanted plenty of time at his destination to organise the next leg of the journey.

He had chosen to spend every second night sleeping in the car or on the ground immediately outside of it, not because he was short of funds, but as part of a self-imposed hardening process. He did not feel operationally fit yet and was determined to take advantage of the driving phase to toughen up as much as possible. He still considered himself too soft by Spetsnaz standards and felt the exposure to the damp and cold nights and rugged ground would help prepare him. Sleeping outside would also hone his senses and help him back into half-sleep, a resting mode where he remained constantly aware of every sound and movement around, a condition all Special Forces operatives had to achieve, ideally before an operation since the first night would be too late to begin developing it. But it was not always possible to create the right atmosphere in training and it usually took several days in a live operational environment with the threat of death or capture to unlock that particular sense. Judging by the way he had slept the night before, Zhilev felt he was close to getting the old form back, but he was also aware that too much exposure to the elements might weaken his immune system, which was why every second night was spent in a warm bed following a hot bath and a hearty meal.

Zhilev pulled a map from an inside pocket, folded to show his location, and studied it. He was satisfied with the distance he had covered so far that day. The sight of the Mediterranean was a welcome one and stopping to enjoy the view for a few minutes was essential psychological therapy. It was as important to look after his mind as his body. Stress could be more debilitating than a broken limb.

Zhilev had been to this part of Turkey before but many years ago. He liked it here where the Mediterranean lapped against the shores of Turkey, Greece and old Yugoslavia. He would spend the night in the open since he was feeling so well, and, besides, the next phase was the move into the operational area and the fewer chances he took the better. Staying in a hotel or bed and breakfast had to be regarded as a risk because it meant having to communicate with people, exposing his face and possibly providing identification such as his passport.

Zhilev dipped the last piece of bread into the honey pot and chewed it slowly before swallowing it. To top off his meal he reached into a side pocket and pulled out a chicken leg wrapped in paper. This was the last of a dozen he had bought from a village that morning as a snack while driving. It was a large leg, barbecued in the Turkish style and seasoned with herbs. He bit down on the bone halfway along it, his powerful jaws crushing it easily, and moved it around inside his mouth to trap the knuckle between his molars and pulverised it. It seemed excessive to eat the brittle bone as well, but it was another habit he had developed in the Spetsnaz where the philosophy of wasting anything edible while in the field was heresy. He chewed thoughtfully, masticating the bone, meat and skin until it was a poultice before swallowing it. Then he put the rest of the chicken leg in his mouth and crunched on it, like a hound, chewing it thoroughly.

A car approached from behind Zhilev’s Volvo, a white Mercedes saloon that looked old but in fair condition. Zhilev stopped chewing and lowered his heavy head out of habit, avoiding eye-to-eye contact, and looked through his straggly hair.

Three men were in the car, two in front, one in the back, all looking at Zhilev through closed windows as they drove by.They appeared to be locals but it was impossible to say at a glance. They continued up the road at an easy speed and drove over the crest and out of sight.

Zhilev continued chewing while he watched the spot where the car had disappeared. He wasn’t feeling paranoid but there was a scent of trouble in the air and he could clearly smell it. There was something vaguely familiar about the car that niggled him. He was sure he had seen it somewhere before. Then it came to him. That morning in the village where he stopped to buy the chicken legs; after parking the car he had taken his backpack out of the boot and carried it to the barbecue stand. The Mercedes had been parked across the square. He did not remember seeing the men, but had they been there they would have seen him buy the food, return to the car, put the pack back into the boot and drive out of the town. Anyone treating a pack with such reverence was bound to attract the attention of people whose livelihood was banditry.

Zhilev swallowed his food, stood up, his heavy knees creaking, walked around to the boot of his car and pulled on the handle to check it was locked. There had been little danger getting the nuclear bomb through customs in England and Belgium. He had discarded the case in England and placed the block in the boot. The odds on being searched were low and no one would have taken notice of a block of wood that Zhilev would explain away as something used to hold up the car if a wheel needed changing. As for radiation-detecting devices, there was little chance of the plutonium registering on them. The radiation was minimal at best, and inside its specially designed skin it was impossible to detect. The device had not left his side since he took it out of the cache. He had slept beside it, taken it to shops and cafés with him in his backpack and even carried it with him on the ferry.