December. James Steel

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ a raised eyebrow and nodded meaningfully.

      This complete change of direction flummoxed Alex and he looked back at Sergey, unsure as to what he should say.

      The Russian exploded, throwing his arms wide again and shouting, ‘It’s the biggest in the world!’ He burst out laughing, looking round the table to see if they got the joke.

      Lara and Fyodor both smirked and shook their heads, while Grigory bellowed with laughter.

      An obsession with being the biggest in everything was all part of their country’s general insecurity complex but some of the more intelligent Russians enjoyed poking fun at it. Sergey grinned, pleased to have made people laugh. ‘It’s good, yeah?’

      Alex smiled and nodded appreciatively.

      Sergey was finally satisfied and continued his former line of thought. ‘So, the tower is about five miles north of the centre of Moscow but there was a lot of fighting there in the revolt against Yeltsin in 1994—about thirty people got killed.’

      Alex looked surprised. ‘I didn’t realise it was such a big fight.’

      Fyodor seemed to take a gloomy pride in the event. ‘Well, I was there as a junior staff officer. It was a big deal. We had six hundred armoured vehicles out in Moscow. Tanks shelled the presidential palace and burned it down.’

      Sergey nodded. ‘So, that’s the plan. We get Raskolnikov to Ostankino, do the broadcast with him and Lara, call the crowds out onto the streets and win over the 568th Regiment—simple.’

      Again he shrugged off the enormous risks with a smile. Alex was already thinking of a hell of a lot of things that could go wrong.

      Sergey admitted some of them. ‘What we don’t know is what Krymov will do. The OMON riot police and the MVD troops will certainly support him, but the question is whether the other regiments around Moscow will support us. If they do respond to the broadcast then we win, but if they don’t then we will have a hell of a fight.’

      Alex nodded in agreement. ‘Hmm, as von Moltke said: “When your enemy has only two options he invariably chooses the third.”’

      Sergey pondered it for a moment and smiled before he clapped his hands. ‘Anyway, that’s the Moscow end of things. Now explain your plan for the camp.’

      Alex sat forward, pulled some maps out of his wallet, laid them on the table and talked them through his initial ideas for an attack. Fyodor leaned over and took a keen interest whilst Lara and Grigory sat back. Sergey listened carefully whilst Fyodor asked useful questions.

      Alex wrapped up his presentation: ‘I have been in touch with my usual team and they are interested in the job. Colin Thwaites is in the UK already, Arkady Voloshin and Yamba Douala are on their way back here from Africa, and I have contacted two more people.’

      Sergey nodded with satisfaction. ‘Hmm, very good, Major Devereux. Now, my only input on this is your call sign for the operation—it will be “Baba Yaga”!’ he grinned.

      Lara rolled her eyes. ‘Sergey, is this necessary?’

      Sergey looked at her with exasperation. ‘Lara! Will you indulge me for once?’

      She turned to Alex. ‘His enthusiasm for Russian folk stories sometimes gets the better of him.’

      Sergey’s excitement was undeterred. ‘It’s a good name!’ He too turned to Alex. ‘She’s a witch who flies around Russia doing harm to people—just like you! Although she has iron teeth and she eats children!’ He grimaced, gnashed his teeth and made clawing gestures with his hands. ‘Anyway, Alex should read some Russian literature if he wants to understand what this is all about! The struggle for the soul of the Motherland!’ he declared grandly.

      ‘Hmm…’ Lara sounded unimpressed; Alex had the idea that this was a well-worn argument between them but that she was happier just to let it go for now.

      Sergey jabbed a finger at Alex. ‘You see, you asked me last night—will we win? And I say, yes! We will win because we have the Russian soul!’ He emphasised the words Russkaya dusha. ‘All you Western bastards say we’re all slaves but the Russian soul is not a slave soul!’ He banged the table. ‘Our free spirit will overcome this Krymov son of a bitch!’ He tossed his head so that his thatch of blond hair flayed around.

      Lara put a hand on his and smiled at him sweetly. ‘Sergey, my little fish, can we get on with the briefing, please?’

      Sergey harrumphed but she ignored him and looked at the others. ‘So, now we have Raskolnikov, how are we going to get him back to Moscow?’

      The airforce officer Fyodor came into his own here. He pulled a document wallet out of a briefcase; his eyes narrowed as he looked at the papers. ‘Moscow has the best air defence system in the world but I have some ideas for getting around it.’

      He talked them through, with Alex and the others chipping in suggestions. After a while they had finalised things as much as they could, and Sergey’s attention began to wander.

      ‘Right! I now want you all to piss off downstairs and eat and drink! I am going to explain to Alex why we are fighting for the soul of Russia!’

       Chapter Five

      The authoritarian side of the soul of Russia was making itself felt to Roman Raskolnikov that same evening.

      He lay on his bunk in Barrack 9 and looked at the ceiling. He was at the top of the stack of four beds, shoved right under the planks. He slept there so that no one could get at him during the night—it was not unheard of for prisoners to be found with their throats slit in the morning. Two politicals who supported him and Big Danni slept in the three bunks below him to act as protection.

      It was the half-hour after dinner when the men were allowed a few dingy electric lights so that they could get ready for bed and do their chores: darning socks and bartering for cigarettes with favours of one kind and another. He could hear the hundred other men in the hut moving around, muttering and cursing. They were only allowed a bath once a week and the place had the reek of old sweat.

      He knew he should be using his time wisely—repairing boots and clothes, chatting to find out useful information, filing down a small knife to use or sell—but he was just too exhausted after his day dragging logs in the forest. The sinews in his shoulders and forearms felt like they had been pulled out of him.

      His sawdust mattress was thin and conformed to his hipbone so that it rested on the hard wooden bed boards. He lay still, staring at the cobwebs of hoar frost in the corner of the roof. It was below freezing in the hut and he slept fully clothed with his feet stuffed into the arms of his jacket and his head under an old blanket.

      That had been his 868th day in the camp and he was still alive, so he had something to be grateful for. The slack-mouthed rapist, Getmanov, had watched him closely during the day but hadn’t gone anywhere near him and none of the guards had beaten him up as they sometimes did when the mood took them. So, overall, it had been a good day.

      There were only 4,607 more to go.

       СКАЧАТЬ