“Hey! Watch where you're going will you!”
Nojovski nodded vaguely in the man's direction. The bustle of Donetsk's early morning foot traffic had caught him off guard, and he was struggling to keep his mind focussed. He navigated his way through the crowds towards a ticket booth, and tried to avoid any more altercations.
“Destination?” the ticket officer asked him, utterly disinterested in the answer.
“Kyev.” Nojovski answered.
“15.60.”
Nojovski handed over a crisp twenty, and quickly pocketed the tickets and change. It felt strange to be doing something so routine again. The past ten years had been enough to destroy the minds of most men, and Nojovski was not exactly “running without fault”. He had to stop himself from just wanting to run home, away from all this, away from the sheer terror of what he was boarding a train to meet. But this had to be done. There was only so long you could put something like this off before you may as well just hurl yourself off a bridge. A tannoy gruffly announced the arrival of the 9:20 to Kyev Central, and Nojovski joined the stream of people heading in it's direction.
The train was typical of Russian design – practicality before beauty, and it was clear they had taken the former so much to heart they had all together forgotten about the latter. It clunked to a halt, and Nojovski hurried down the end of the platform in a vain attempt to find some kind of solitude in a quiet carriage. A brief glance over his shoulder revealed the futility of that plan. You would have thought this train was carrying emergency aid supplies such was the desperation in the faces of those heading towards it. He boarded the second carriage from the front, and realised his dream of a quiet journey into Kyev was deader than the slowly decaying pigeon tucked neatly under the seat in front of him.
A morbidly obese businessman made some unrecognisable noise towards him and slumped down in the seat he had hoped would remain unoccupied. His elbow snuggled obtrusively into Nojovski's side. Dimitri squirmed in his seat, reluctantly fighting back the desire to break the man's arm in three places and fold it into his briefcase, but the last thing he needed right now was attention. He moved as close to the wall as he could, and tried to focus on the view outside as the train struggled out of the station and on into the cold wilderness towards Kyev.
It was like a child's xylophone, banging noisily in his ear. Again, and again, and again. Nojovski waved a hand aimlessly, trying to stop whatever was making that noise. A hand gently shook his shoulder.
“Mr Nojovski. We're here.”
Nojovski's eyes snapped open, and his eyes focussed on the shapely figure of a KLM stewardess smiling politely at him. He smiled awkwardly, and thanked her. He cursed for allowing himself to sleep. The surgery must have knocked something out of him, and he made a mental note to get it back.
The light was pouring into the cabin as weary travellers pawed open their window blinds and tried to make out the various London landmarks below. Nojovski followed suit and grimaced as the plane lurched downwards. The pilot quickly chirped up over the tannoy with a belated apology, asking all passengers to please fasten their seatbelts. Nojovski heard a nearby passenger grumble something in Russian about “horses” and “already bolted” and smirked to himself. There was nothing like a bit of Eastern Bloc humour to warm the soul.
Fifteen minutes later, Nojovski was through passport control quickly thanks to his diplomatic papers, and heading toward the rowdy arrivals area. He turned up his jacket collar, and with the aid of his three-day stubble, avoided the attention of almost everyone. One old lady appeared to think he was her grandson, but a quick curl of the lip had her hastily looking for other options. A man towards the back caught his eye, and motioned for him to head towards the rear car park.
“Nojovski?” the man said when they reconvened beyond the crowd.
“Yes. Who are you?”
“Jay Croft. Sanderson sent me to meet you.”
Nojovski nodded and looked at him expectantly. Croft was trying not to look new at this, his over-ironed shirt and expensive haircut betraying him. He was beaming at Nojovski with the look a new dog gives his master and it was disturbing him.
“We should go then?” Nojovski suggested with more than a hint of impatience.
“Sure, do you need anything?” Croft offered eagerly.
“A car would help I guess.” Nojovski surprised himself at how nice he was being.
“Why don't we get a coffee before we head back?”
“I'm not sure if you're on work experience, or you're just that stupid to suggest that two secret service agents spend more time in a public place than is necessary, but whatever your reason, show me where the car is. If you decide to stay here and have a fucking cappuccino, please, be my guest.”
As the last words slipped out of Nojovski's mouth, he closed his eyes and sighed. He half expected to open them and find Croft in a heap on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably, but to his credit there was was, staring at him with a fair amount of burning rage behind the agency trained blank face.
“It's this way” Croft forced out.
“I'm sorry Jay. I know you're just doing your job, and the strain of losing your partner due to a mistake you couldn't possibly have avoided must be terrible.” Nojovski wished he'd said.
Oh the joy of hindsight.
The man was snoring now, a globule of spit trembling between his slightly parted lips. Nojovski looked at him and shuddered. He turned away and caught his reflection in the window. Tears had streaked their way down his face and Nojovski was taken aback by the sight of them. He faked a yawn and wiped his face, trying not to catch anyone's eye, lest they give him a judging look, and stood, stepping out into the centre of the carriage.
He was thirsty, and a guard pointed him in the direction of the buffet cart, which was rumbling its way awkwardly down the aisle, pushed by a man who looked too old to be walking, let alone working. Nojovski purchased a small coffee and allowed himself the moment of pleasure as the thick black concoction stirred him from his daydreams.
The train finally rumbled into Kyev, and Nojovski stooped to look out the window, admiring the ancient archways that criss-crossed above. Even with everything bad that this city now meant to him, the little things that he had always enjoyed shone through, like tiny beacons of sunshine on a dismal day. Dimitri thought he may have smiled if he hadn't felt so thoroughly unlike smiling, something which in itself nearly made him at least smirk. He pulled his jacket from under the right buttock of his still sleeping neighbour, and squeezed his way onto the bustling platform, and out into the city beyond.
Not five minutes from the station, Nojovski settled himself behind a small table in a backstreet café, ordering coffee and a bagel from the skinny young girl who had come to take his order. She smiled when she returned, and set down his mid morning snack before him. Dimitri had forgotten what public etiquette was like, and stammered as he dug around in his brain for a simple thank you and polite nod. Struggling to regain his composure, he looked up quickly enough to see the burly silhouette of Aleksander Yekov attempting to squeeze himself into a seat next to him. He waved the girl away impatiently, and in the same movement, smacked Nojovski clean across the face.
“I am not a man to be kept waiting Dimitri.” Yekov's stare was cold and clinical.
Nojovski had expected worse from his former employer, but was still taken aback by the bravura of his retribution. He clicked his jaw awkwardly, and took a swig of the coffee.
“A hug would have been nice, Aleksander.”
Yekov continued to stare, the stone grey of his eyes revealing nothing, when all of a sudden a roar of laughter burst out of him. The old man's willowy grey hair jumped about his head, sending a small cloud of dandruff into the air.
“Dimitri Nojovski. Ten years out of it and you're still as sharp as ever. I am most impressed and amused. Most amused. Are you well my friend?”
Dimitri shuddered inside but kept himself physically composed. The mere shape of Yekov's lips making the words “my friend” was enough to make him reach out and crash the old man’s face against the table, over and over again, until those lips could utter no more than a bloody gurgle. But now was not the time.
He nodded. “Thank you for seeing me. I'm here to take you in.”
Yekov started to shake his head, but Nojovski grabbed his face tightly.
“Don't even think about moving.” Nojovski hissed. “I know you had Jay killed, and after ten years, I can prove it.”
Wednesday, 16 March 2011
Saturday, 18 December 2010
Removing the Wool
Nojovski blinked. His eyes were barely aware of moving shapes around him. Busy bodies of colour rushing past him, blurring into a mist. A buzzing noise hurt his head. The colours became more focused, and the outline of his steering wheel became recognisable. He looked at his watch. 6am. Shift change. The buzzing noise wasn’t going away, and he looked over to the passenger seat to see his cell phone ringing.
"Hello?"
"It’s Hilary. The rain has delayed the next shift. You’ve got 7 minutes, Dimitri. Get in, get out, and if you get caught, I’d better not hear about it."
Nojovski flung his phone back onto the seat and grabbed his gun from the glove compartment. The rain was lashing down outside, and the colours, which he now could see as very wet people, we starting to thin out. It’s not that nobody would see him go into the building, it’s that nobody would care. And when you don’t care, you don’t remember.
Across the hallway from the main door, a security guard eyed him sleepily. Nojovski walked stiffly over to the desk and sneezed.
"Bless you".
Nojovski nodded. "I’m here to see Tony Krieg".
The security guard looked puzzled, and turned to check his phone book.
"I don’t, uh, recall there being a Mr Krieg working in the building…" he said as he aimlessly pawed through the book.
A glint of light bounced off the silver object Dimitri pulled from his jacket, causing the guard to look up suspiciously.
"Perhaps if I write the name down? You may be spelling it incorrectly?" Nojovski said, waving his pen.
"No, no, let me check the mainframe. He may be a contractor".
Dimitri took his opportunity to pour a tiny amount of sedative into the guard’s coffee whilst he rummaged around under his desk, using his hastily modified pen.
"Why don’t you put out a call on the tannoy, and I’ll take a seat over there?"
The guard nodded, and put out a futile call for Mr Tony Krieg to contact reception. He shrugged sheepishly, and took a swig of his coffee. Nojovski checked his watch, silently counted down from 3.
Nojovski brushed his coat down.
2.
A yawn from the guard.
1.
A puzzled look spread slowly over the guard’s face.
0.
The guard’s head slumped onto the open phone book.
Nojovski walked steadily over to the desk, and, checking the guard was still breathing, dragged him into the nearby cleaning closet. The scribbled "Family emergency – back soon" onto a piece of paper, and left it propped up on the desk. He checked the phone book for "Maintenance", and headed for the stairs.
**
"What do you mean you’re unsure of his location? He’s supposed to be under 24 hr observation by a minimum of 4 men!" Yekov snapped angrily.
"Alexander, Nojovski is your agent. We agreed to keep an eye on him only as a favour to you. If you can’t keep him under control, we can’t be blamed." McAndrew replied calmly.
"Technically, he’s not our agent. He’s been out of the loop for over 6 months, and that makes him a rogue spear. Dammit, I haven’t talked to the man in nearly a year!"
"Look, the last time our guys had him, he was coming out of a bar heading towards a run down hotel. He’s washed up. You know he hasn’t been the same since his wife died. And god knows what the Columbians did to him. One of these days he’s going to get hit by a bus. Let’s just let that happen and stay out of it."
"This is a man’s life we’re talking about, a man who used to be one of my best agents!"
"Used to Alex, used to. Deal with the past and move on. We have bigger fish to fry."
Yekov slammed the phone down in disgust and pressed the intercom on his desk.
"Yuri, ask Agent Berbitov to come in here. No bullshit, here now."
Yekov drummed his fingers, and looked up as Berbitov entered noisily.
"You rang?" Berbitov mumbled.
"I want Nojovski officially classed as a rogue spear. It’s been too long."
"So we’re using Yank terms now?"
"We don’t have a term for what Nojovski is, so yes, we’ll make do with the American phrase. This is Class 4 classified, so if anyone outside this room becomes aware of the situation, you’ll be the first to take the fall. Is that clear?"
"Good to know I’m being given an option. You tell me, then warn me, so that I have no choice but to say yes."
Yekov grinned slyly. "I know you Ivan. I know you’re fed up working Narcotics, and when it comes to sorting out Nojovski; there is nobody else better qualified. You’d have said yes the second I mentioned his name."
Berbitov stood silently, before a quiet smile spread across his face.
"I’ll see what I can do."
He turned and left the room.
Yekov picked up the file containing Nojovski’s details, and placed it in the bin. He lit a single match, and threw it in after the file. He smiled sadly as he watch the data burn.
"It didn’t have to go like this Dimitri. We killed your wife to make you focus, but still you tried to make sense of a senseless world. From one Ukrainian to another, let me help make it clear."
**
Nojovski looked at his watch. 4 minutes and the next shift would be piling off the bus, eager to get in out of the rain and pile round the steaming coffee machine. 4 minutes to prove the nagging thoughts that had been building in his mind since Katie… had gone.
He shook his head, and walked stealthily towards the hallway marked "Maintenance".
It was a little known fact that if you want to know something about a computer system, you don’t go to the top - you go to the bottom. That is, you don’t go to the person who has the highest security clearance, you go to the person who makes the security clearances. The low level IS Technicians who spent their days making paper planes wouldn’t have the impenetrable offices, the flash cars with their alarms, or the highly trained security guards.
Nojovski clicked open the door to Maintenance using a single paper clip, and walked inside.
He headed over to the desk when he suddenly stopped in his tracks. There, in front of the terminal, was something he had not accounted for. The technician. Nojovski hid in a dark aisle of racking, and watched the problem type slowly at his terminal. He did a quick recon of the surrounding area, before climbing the nearby racking. Once at the top, he pulled out a small pair of binoculars to have a better look at the technician. He was in his late thirties, with a definite beginning of a beer belly. He looked very tired, and several empty crisp packets were lying around him on the floor. This was a guy from the last shift, who for some reason, hadn’t gone home. Dimitri focused on the man’s hands, and let out a small chuckle.
The man’s watch had stopped on 5:54am.
**
Berbitov’s hand stung. It was that numbing stinging that he knew would still be with him in the morning.
But the discomfort was outweighed by the end result.
"Alright, dammit, she does know where he is!"
"That’s better." Berbitov growled.
Richard Hendley was a mailroom assistant in MI5. He had been offered the position after failing to get past the first stage of MI5 recruitment, and snapped it up greedily. More to the point, he had been "advised" that if he didn’t, he would have a problem even feeding himself ever again. Richard Hendley was also a Russian mole.
A mole with a sore face. He rubbed it slowly, trying his best to look angry at the towering Russian, but only managing to look even more pathetic.
"I take it you are referring to Ms McAndrew?"
"Who else would I be talking about?"
Hendley cowered as Berbitov threatened to repeat the earlier assault.
"Quit it! McAndrew received a packet from the mailbox Nojovski uses in the UK. She cancelled all appointments for the rest of that day."
"I see. So do you know what was in the package?"
Hendley smiled triumphantly. "Now that you mention it. Most of it was in Russian, but there were maps and photographs of places I recognised."
"And?" Berbitov snapped impatiently.
"And, they’re of the MI5 Data Centre in Birmingham."
"How would you recognise people from there?"
"That’s what surprised me. The photos are of people who work in the mailrooms etc in the building. I talk to them all the time when the idiots upstairs send documents to the wrong place."
Berbitov nodded slowly. "Alright, that’ll do for today." He handed Hendley a brown envelope. Hendley snatched it and opened the package.
"Hey, there’s only about half of what I’m owed here!"
Berbitov spun round and glared. "We only have your word for this information. As soon as we know it to be correct, you’ll what’s owed to you. In the meantime, I’d keep your trap shut!"
Hendley’s head dropped, and he shuffled off. Berbitov sighed, rubbed his face, and picked up his cell phone.
"Yekov."
"The English know where Rogue Spear is."
"As I suspected. Can you get there?"
"I’ll be there by mid-afternoon."
"Good. Remember, I need to know everything before you resolve the situation. There could be other variables."
"Understood."
**
Nojovski made a mental note to find a gym and start going to it. He wasn’t in his prime anymore, and moving 16 stone technicians was making him far sweatier than he was comfortable with. In fact this was the second knocked out person he’d had to drag about in the space of 10 minutes, and there was no obvious hiding place for this one. He made do by propping him up in the far corner, and covering him with the various old boxes lying around. Satisfied, Nojovski headed over to the computer terminal.
His fingers were a blur at the keyboard, remembering all the training he had been given by the KGB on computer navigation. Now the KGB was no more, and in - 2minutes 15 seconds - neither would he if he didn’t hurry up. He used the technicians pass card to quickly navigate through the initial screens, before browsing the personnel files held at this location. He scrolled to the "S" section. Bingo.
"Hello Tyler." Nojovski growled.
He pulled out a piece of paper from his jacket, on which was written key dates – Greg Harding’s shooting, the stabbing of Neil Jenson… Katie’s accident. He closed his eyes and quickly reopened them. He clicked on "Travel History" in Tyler Stewarts file. This listed all department-approved travel he had made since joining MI5. If he’d been stupid, everything he needed would be here.
Tyler had been very, very stupid. Between 3 and 5 days before each of the dates he was checking, Tyler had made trips to Kiev. And every time he returned, he took around a week off due to "exhaustion". It was all here.
Everything that had been wrong with department explanations, press releases, awkward looks from department heads. He checked his watch – 6:07am. He slapped the "Print" key, snatched the printout, and rushed outside. When he reached the lobby, 2 women were helping the security guard out of the closet.
"Hey!" The Guard yelled out.
Nojovski turned up his collar, and quickly exited the building, brushing past another 16 stone technician.
**
Berbitov stepped out the taxi, and looked up at the building. It looked just like all the others in the area. Nothing that shouted out "government building". He shivered in the late autumn cold. His cell phone buzzed.
"Yes?"
"It’s Yekov. Nojovski has been in touch with McAndrew again. From what we understand, he already has what he went for. See if you can find out what it was he was after."
"I’m getting bored of this cat and mouse."
"You and me both Ivan. But with this information, you should pin him into a corner. That’ll get me what I need. Your fun begins then."
"Understood." Berbitov put his cell phone away, and smiled. "Good afternoon, I am Ivan!" He grimaced, and walked over to the entrance.
"Good afternoon, may I help you?" The pretty receptionist enquired.
Berbitov removed a card from his wallet. "I am from Red Square Security. I believe there was an incident here last night?"
The receptionist looked puzzled. "Um, I don’t think so. Let me just check with security."
Berbitov frowned, but figured that a lowly receptionist wouldn’t be privy to high security breaches.
"The head of security Andy Mattason is coming down to see you. Could you take a seat over there?"
"Of course." Berbitov managed with his best smile.
Berbitov sat down, and browsed through a copy of "Cosmopolitan" that was lying nearby.
"Russian women could take a lot from these magazines."
"I’m sorry?"
Berbitov looked up to see a middle aged man hovering over him.
"Never mind. I am Christian Hern from Red Square Security. I was asked to come over to discuss the incident this morning."
"I think there’s been some mistake. We haven’t had any issues in this building in nearly a year. And I’ve been on duty since midnight, so I’d know if something happened today. What type of incident are you referring to?"
Berbitov picked up his case, and walked over to the door.
"Mr, uh, Hern?"
Berbitov turned. "I afraid I must have been misinformed. I’ll get someone from my office to get in touch."
The security head looked puzzled but shrugged and walked back towards the elevator.
Berbitov left the building and began swearing under his breath in Russian. He snatched his cell phone from his pocket.
"Nojovski wasn’t here."
"What are you on about? Of course he was. He wouldn’t take the risk of sending documents to McAndrew if it wasn’t important."
"Well the Head of Security here says otherwise."
"I see. It could be possible that Nojovski knows someone is monitoring him, and told McAndrew he had what he wanted in order to confuse us."
"I guess so. Either way we still don’t know where he is." Berbitov grumbled.
"Hold fire for a while. Literally. Head back to London and talk to McAndrew. She says she saw him heading back to some hotel. He could be around there."
"We’ll see." Berbitov stared at the phone for a moment, then headed to the taxi ranks, shaking his head.
**
Nojovski stared aimlessly into a junk shop window. He carried on his gentle amble down one of the side streets in Moscow’s busy market area. He picked up a small statue of Stalin on a traders table and was immediately hit with a tirade of Russian from the seller. Dimitri smiled and handed over a couple of Rubles.
He turned to look at the small café on the corner of the street. There were a number of tables outside it, and he headed over to one of them.
"Good morning Alexander."
Yekov nearly choked on his coffee. "D… Dimitri! It’s so good to see you."
Nojovski settled into a seat opposite his former boss.
"You look well Alex. I’m sorry it’s been so long." Dimitri tried his best to sound sincere.
"So, what have you been doing with yourself? You know the directors are breathing down my neck to fire you. You haven’t been in touch with anyone at the department in over 6 months."
"I know. Things have been a little crazy. You’ll be hearing from me very soon."
Yekov’s cell phone buzzed. "Hello?"
Nojovski ordered some coffee.
"It’s Berbitov. Nojovski wasn’t in Birmingham. He was in Kiev."
Yekov looked puzzled. "But those blueprints, and the people you had identified…"
Berbitov looked down at the papers he now had. "As part of a joint venture that a Mr A Yekov came up with in 1996, the KGB and MI5 setup a data sharing complex, comprising of 2 buildings, one in England and one in the Ukraine. Both these buildings were built using the exact same blueprints."
Yekov’s face dropped.
"The men the informant identified were on a job swap to see how things worked abroad. We also know what Dimitri was after."
Yekov gulped. "What?"
Nojovski smiled to himself.
"He knows you were in contact with Tyler Stewart before the killings of Harding, Jenson, and even his wife. Stewart, the cheap bastard, used MI5 approved flights to save himself a bit of cash. Flights that get stored in data centres. Like the one in the Ukraine that Nojovski infiltrated."
Yekov stared at Nojovski.
"I’ve checked around, and I think Nojovski is still on the continent. If I were you, I’d head over to South America for a few weeks. Dimitri is a smart man. He’ll have linked you to this shit Alex."
Yekov snapped his mobile shut. He sipped his coffee slowly and slid his hand under the table.
Nojovski carefully waved a 9mm at him. "Looking for this Alex? And in broad daylight too."
"What do you want Dimitri?" Yekov stuttered.
"You. But not here. Not now. Just know that this is far from over. You can tell your fucking little directors that they can stick their job. We all know I’ve been ex-agency since you took Katie from me." Dimitri snarled.
"You don’t scare me Dimitri. You’ll never get to me."
"Keep believing that. One day, somewhere…"
Dimitri emptied the gun and placed it on the table, and began to walk off.
"You’ll what?" Alex yelled.
Nojovski turned and ran, stopping inches from Yekov’s face. Yekov retracted in fear. Dimitri took a step back and laughed. He turned back, and walked off chuckling to himself. Maybe things weren’t all that different…
"Hello?"
"It’s Hilary. The rain has delayed the next shift. You’ve got 7 minutes, Dimitri. Get in, get out, and if you get caught, I’d better not hear about it."
Nojovski flung his phone back onto the seat and grabbed his gun from the glove compartment. The rain was lashing down outside, and the colours, which he now could see as very wet people, we starting to thin out. It’s not that nobody would see him go into the building, it’s that nobody would care. And when you don’t care, you don’t remember.
Across the hallway from the main door, a security guard eyed him sleepily. Nojovski walked stiffly over to the desk and sneezed.
"Bless you".
Nojovski nodded. "I’m here to see Tony Krieg".
The security guard looked puzzled, and turned to check his phone book.
"I don’t, uh, recall there being a Mr Krieg working in the building…" he said as he aimlessly pawed through the book.
A glint of light bounced off the silver object Dimitri pulled from his jacket, causing the guard to look up suspiciously.
"Perhaps if I write the name down? You may be spelling it incorrectly?" Nojovski said, waving his pen.
"No, no, let me check the mainframe. He may be a contractor".
Dimitri took his opportunity to pour a tiny amount of sedative into the guard’s coffee whilst he rummaged around under his desk, using his hastily modified pen.
"Why don’t you put out a call on the tannoy, and I’ll take a seat over there?"
The guard nodded, and put out a futile call for Mr Tony Krieg to contact reception. He shrugged sheepishly, and took a swig of his coffee. Nojovski checked his watch, silently counted down from 3.
Nojovski brushed his coat down.
2.
A yawn from the guard.
1.
A puzzled look spread slowly over the guard’s face.
0.
The guard’s head slumped onto the open phone book.
Nojovski walked steadily over to the desk, and, checking the guard was still breathing, dragged him into the nearby cleaning closet. The scribbled "Family emergency – back soon" onto a piece of paper, and left it propped up on the desk. He checked the phone book for "Maintenance", and headed for the stairs.
**
"What do you mean you’re unsure of his location? He’s supposed to be under 24 hr observation by a minimum of 4 men!" Yekov snapped angrily.
"Alexander, Nojovski is your agent. We agreed to keep an eye on him only as a favour to you. If you can’t keep him under control, we can’t be blamed." McAndrew replied calmly.
"Technically, he’s not our agent. He’s been out of the loop for over 6 months, and that makes him a rogue spear. Dammit, I haven’t talked to the man in nearly a year!"
"Look, the last time our guys had him, he was coming out of a bar heading towards a run down hotel. He’s washed up. You know he hasn’t been the same since his wife died. And god knows what the Columbians did to him. One of these days he’s going to get hit by a bus. Let’s just let that happen and stay out of it."
"This is a man’s life we’re talking about, a man who used to be one of my best agents!"
"Used to Alex, used to. Deal with the past and move on. We have bigger fish to fry."
Yekov slammed the phone down in disgust and pressed the intercom on his desk.
"Yuri, ask Agent Berbitov to come in here. No bullshit, here now."
Yekov drummed his fingers, and looked up as Berbitov entered noisily.
"You rang?" Berbitov mumbled.
"I want Nojovski officially classed as a rogue spear. It’s been too long."
"So we’re using Yank terms now?"
"We don’t have a term for what Nojovski is, so yes, we’ll make do with the American phrase. This is Class 4 classified, so if anyone outside this room becomes aware of the situation, you’ll be the first to take the fall. Is that clear?"
"Good to know I’m being given an option. You tell me, then warn me, so that I have no choice but to say yes."
Yekov grinned slyly. "I know you Ivan. I know you’re fed up working Narcotics, and when it comes to sorting out Nojovski; there is nobody else better qualified. You’d have said yes the second I mentioned his name."
Berbitov stood silently, before a quiet smile spread across his face.
"I’ll see what I can do."
He turned and left the room.
Yekov picked up the file containing Nojovski’s details, and placed it in the bin. He lit a single match, and threw it in after the file. He smiled sadly as he watch the data burn.
"It didn’t have to go like this Dimitri. We killed your wife to make you focus, but still you tried to make sense of a senseless world. From one Ukrainian to another, let me help make it clear."
**
Nojovski looked at his watch. 4 minutes and the next shift would be piling off the bus, eager to get in out of the rain and pile round the steaming coffee machine. 4 minutes to prove the nagging thoughts that had been building in his mind since Katie… had gone.
He shook his head, and walked stealthily towards the hallway marked "Maintenance".
It was a little known fact that if you want to know something about a computer system, you don’t go to the top - you go to the bottom. That is, you don’t go to the person who has the highest security clearance, you go to the person who makes the security clearances. The low level IS Technicians who spent their days making paper planes wouldn’t have the impenetrable offices, the flash cars with their alarms, or the highly trained security guards.
Nojovski clicked open the door to Maintenance using a single paper clip, and walked inside.
He headed over to the desk when he suddenly stopped in his tracks. There, in front of the terminal, was something he had not accounted for. The technician. Nojovski hid in a dark aisle of racking, and watched the problem type slowly at his terminal. He did a quick recon of the surrounding area, before climbing the nearby racking. Once at the top, he pulled out a small pair of binoculars to have a better look at the technician. He was in his late thirties, with a definite beginning of a beer belly. He looked very tired, and several empty crisp packets were lying around him on the floor. This was a guy from the last shift, who for some reason, hadn’t gone home. Dimitri focused on the man’s hands, and let out a small chuckle.
The man’s watch had stopped on 5:54am.
**
Berbitov’s hand stung. It was that numbing stinging that he knew would still be with him in the morning.
But the discomfort was outweighed by the end result.
"Alright, dammit, she does know where he is!"
"That’s better." Berbitov growled.
Richard Hendley was a mailroom assistant in MI5. He had been offered the position after failing to get past the first stage of MI5 recruitment, and snapped it up greedily. More to the point, he had been "advised" that if he didn’t, he would have a problem even feeding himself ever again. Richard Hendley was also a Russian mole.
A mole with a sore face. He rubbed it slowly, trying his best to look angry at the towering Russian, but only managing to look even more pathetic.
"I take it you are referring to Ms McAndrew?"
"Who else would I be talking about?"
Hendley cowered as Berbitov threatened to repeat the earlier assault.
"Quit it! McAndrew received a packet from the mailbox Nojovski uses in the UK. She cancelled all appointments for the rest of that day."
"I see. So do you know what was in the package?"
Hendley smiled triumphantly. "Now that you mention it. Most of it was in Russian, but there were maps and photographs of places I recognised."
"And?" Berbitov snapped impatiently.
"And, they’re of the MI5 Data Centre in Birmingham."
"How would you recognise people from there?"
"That’s what surprised me. The photos are of people who work in the mailrooms etc in the building. I talk to them all the time when the idiots upstairs send documents to the wrong place."
Berbitov nodded slowly. "Alright, that’ll do for today." He handed Hendley a brown envelope. Hendley snatched it and opened the package.
"Hey, there’s only about half of what I’m owed here!"
Berbitov spun round and glared. "We only have your word for this information. As soon as we know it to be correct, you’ll what’s owed to you. In the meantime, I’d keep your trap shut!"
Hendley’s head dropped, and he shuffled off. Berbitov sighed, rubbed his face, and picked up his cell phone.
"Yekov."
"The English know where Rogue Spear is."
"As I suspected. Can you get there?"
"I’ll be there by mid-afternoon."
"Good. Remember, I need to know everything before you resolve the situation. There could be other variables."
"Understood."
**
Nojovski made a mental note to find a gym and start going to it. He wasn’t in his prime anymore, and moving 16 stone technicians was making him far sweatier than he was comfortable with. In fact this was the second knocked out person he’d had to drag about in the space of 10 minutes, and there was no obvious hiding place for this one. He made do by propping him up in the far corner, and covering him with the various old boxes lying around. Satisfied, Nojovski headed over to the computer terminal.
His fingers were a blur at the keyboard, remembering all the training he had been given by the KGB on computer navigation. Now the KGB was no more, and in - 2minutes 15 seconds - neither would he if he didn’t hurry up. He used the technicians pass card to quickly navigate through the initial screens, before browsing the personnel files held at this location. He scrolled to the "S" section. Bingo.
"Hello Tyler." Nojovski growled.
He pulled out a piece of paper from his jacket, on which was written key dates – Greg Harding’s shooting, the stabbing of Neil Jenson… Katie’s accident. He closed his eyes and quickly reopened them. He clicked on "Travel History" in Tyler Stewarts file. This listed all department-approved travel he had made since joining MI5. If he’d been stupid, everything he needed would be here.
Tyler had been very, very stupid. Between 3 and 5 days before each of the dates he was checking, Tyler had made trips to Kiev. And every time he returned, he took around a week off due to "exhaustion". It was all here.
Everything that had been wrong with department explanations, press releases, awkward looks from department heads. He checked his watch – 6:07am. He slapped the "Print" key, snatched the printout, and rushed outside. When he reached the lobby, 2 women were helping the security guard out of the closet.
"Hey!" The Guard yelled out.
Nojovski turned up his collar, and quickly exited the building, brushing past another 16 stone technician.
**
Berbitov stepped out the taxi, and looked up at the building. It looked just like all the others in the area. Nothing that shouted out "government building". He shivered in the late autumn cold. His cell phone buzzed.
"Yes?"
"It’s Yekov. Nojovski has been in touch with McAndrew again. From what we understand, he already has what he went for. See if you can find out what it was he was after."
"I’m getting bored of this cat and mouse."
"You and me both Ivan. But with this information, you should pin him into a corner. That’ll get me what I need. Your fun begins then."
"Understood." Berbitov put his cell phone away, and smiled. "Good afternoon, I am Ivan!" He grimaced, and walked over to the entrance.
"Good afternoon, may I help you?" The pretty receptionist enquired.
Berbitov removed a card from his wallet. "I am from Red Square Security. I believe there was an incident here last night?"
The receptionist looked puzzled. "Um, I don’t think so. Let me just check with security."
Berbitov frowned, but figured that a lowly receptionist wouldn’t be privy to high security breaches.
"The head of security Andy Mattason is coming down to see you. Could you take a seat over there?"
"Of course." Berbitov managed with his best smile.
Berbitov sat down, and browsed through a copy of "Cosmopolitan" that was lying nearby.
"Russian women could take a lot from these magazines."
"I’m sorry?"
Berbitov looked up to see a middle aged man hovering over him.
"Never mind. I am Christian Hern from Red Square Security. I was asked to come over to discuss the incident this morning."
"I think there’s been some mistake. We haven’t had any issues in this building in nearly a year. And I’ve been on duty since midnight, so I’d know if something happened today. What type of incident are you referring to?"
Berbitov picked up his case, and walked over to the door.
"Mr, uh, Hern?"
Berbitov turned. "I afraid I must have been misinformed. I’ll get someone from my office to get in touch."
The security head looked puzzled but shrugged and walked back towards the elevator.
Berbitov left the building and began swearing under his breath in Russian. He snatched his cell phone from his pocket.
"Nojovski wasn’t here."
"What are you on about? Of course he was. He wouldn’t take the risk of sending documents to McAndrew if it wasn’t important."
"Well the Head of Security here says otherwise."
"I see. It could be possible that Nojovski knows someone is monitoring him, and told McAndrew he had what he wanted in order to confuse us."
"I guess so. Either way we still don’t know where he is." Berbitov grumbled.
"Hold fire for a while. Literally. Head back to London and talk to McAndrew. She says she saw him heading back to some hotel. He could be around there."
"We’ll see." Berbitov stared at the phone for a moment, then headed to the taxi ranks, shaking his head.
**
Nojovski stared aimlessly into a junk shop window. He carried on his gentle amble down one of the side streets in Moscow’s busy market area. He picked up a small statue of Stalin on a traders table and was immediately hit with a tirade of Russian from the seller. Dimitri smiled and handed over a couple of Rubles.
He turned to look at the small café on the corner of the street. There were a number of tables outside it, and he headed over to one of them.
"Good morning Alexander."
Yekov nearly choked on his coffee. "D… Dimitri! It’s so good to see you."
Nojovski settled into a seat opposite his former boss.
"You look well Alex. I’m sorry it’s been so long." Dimitri tried his best to sound sincere.
"So, what have you been doing with yourself? You know the directors are breathing down my neck to fire you. You haven’t been in touch with anyone at the department in over 6 months."
"I know. Things have been a little crazy. You’ll be hearing from me very soon."
Yekov’s cell phone buzzed. "Hello?"
Nojovski ordered some coffee.
"It’s Berbitov. Nojovski wasn’t in Birmingham. He was in Kiev."
Yekov looked puzzled. "But those blueprints, and the people you had identified…"
Berbitov looked down at the papers he now had. "As part of a joint venture that a Mr A Yekov came up with in 1996, the KGB and MI5 setup a data sharing complex, comprising of 2 buildings, one in England and one in the Ukraine. Both these buildings were built using the exact same blueprints."
Yekov’s face dropped.
"The men the informant identified were on a job swap to see how things worked abroad. We also know what Dimitri was after."
Yekov gulped. "What?"
Nojovski smiled to himself.
"He knows you were in contact with Tyler Stewart before the killings of Harding, Jenson, and even his wife. Stewart, the cheap bastard, used MI5 approved flights to save himself a bit of cash. Flights that get stored in data centres. Like the one in the Ukraine that Nojovski infiltrated."
Yekov stared at Nojovski.
"I’ve checked around, and I think Nojovski is still on the continent. If I were you, I’d head over to South America for a few weeks. Dimitri is a smart man. He’ll have linked you to this shit Alex."
Yekov snapped his mobile shut. He sipped his coffee slowly and slid his hand under the table.
Nojovski carefully waved a 9mm at him. "Looking for this Alex? And in broad daylight too."
"What do you want Dimitri?" Yekov stuttered.
"You. But not here. Not now. Just know that this is far from over. You can tell your fucking little directors that they can stick their job. We all know I’ve been ex-agency since you took Katie from me." Dimitri snarled.
"You don’t scare me Dimitri. You’ll never get to me."
"Keep believing that. One day, somewhere…"
Dimitri emptied the gun and placed it on the table, and began to walk off.
"You’ll what?" Alex yelled.
Nojovski turned and ran, stopping inches from Yekov’s face. Yekov retracted in fear. Dimitri took a step back and laughed. He turned back, and walked off chuckling to himself. Maybe things weren’t all that different…
Nikolai
Nojovski trudged outside, the snow clumping around his ankles. He usually hated walking, but this morning had a certain brightness about it. The misty sun cheered him just enough to be lifted partially out of his usual early morning depression.
A snowball arced across in front of him, and he foolishly turned to see who had thrown it. The freezing slush slid down his face as the second snowball found it's target perfectly. He smirked as he remembered Nikolai, his younger brother, pulling the same trick on him 30 years previously.
“Hey Dimitri!, watch as I hit Helga!”, he would cry.
Dimitri would crouch eagerly in anticipation, only for the throw to fall short. Every time he would turn to mock his younger brother's pitiful effort, only to be hit square in the face by a boy barely able to contain his delight.
“Every time you schmuck! Every single time!” he crowed, jumping about like a jack-rabbit.
But now Nikolai was gone, lost in the winter of '81. Dimitri didn't like to think about it, and the smirk was just as quickly replaced with his usual sullen stare. The young boy who had ruined his walk now looked more terrified than triumphant, and wisely ran off. Dimitri kicked at the snow and trudged on, making a mental note to take his car tomorrow, whatever the weather.
A snowball arced across in front of him, and he foolishly turned to see who had thrown it. The freezing slush slid down his face as the second snowball found it's target perfectly. He smirked as he remembered Nikolai, his younger brother, pulling the same trick on him 30 years previously.
“Hey Dimitri!, watch as I hit Helga!”, he would cry.
Dimitri would crouch eagerly in anticipation, only for the throw to fall short. Every time he would turn to mock his younger brother's pitiful effort, only to be hit square in the face by a boy barely able to contain his delight.
“Every time you schmuck! Every single time!” he crowed, jumping about like a jack-rabbit.
But now Nikolai was gone, lost in the winter of '81. Dimitri didn't like to think about it, and the smirk was just as quickly replaced with his usual sullen stare. The young boy who had ruined his walk now looked more terrified than triumphant, and wisely ran off. Dimitri kicked at the snow and trudged on, making a mental note to take his car tomorrow, whatever the weather.
Self Reflection
Dimitri Nojovski sat cross legged on the floor, with everything he knew to be true about his life scattered around him. It wasn't much to look at. But then neither was he. Born in a time when the Ukraine was the powerhouse of the Soviet Union, he was brought up to believe he could achieve anything, become anyone, go anywhere. And now here he was, in a squalid two room bedsit in North London, trying to work out what had become of this life he had been promised.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw a photograph sticking out from a pile of yellowed papers. He smiled softly to himself as he gently pulled it out, the beaming faces of a young family looking back at him. Pavlo and Yulia, twins, would be well into their teens by now, growing up in a country that was far more Westernised that Dimitri could ever imagine or accept. And then there was Katerina – Katie – that beautiful, radiant woman who had saved him from a bar fight, and then slapped him until he apologised to the man who had picked the fight with him! He had no idea what she thought of him now.
It had been 14 long years since he had seen his perfect little family, the last time being a day he wished he could remember. He dropped his head into his palms as the pain of lonesomeness washed over him again, a feeling now all too familiar. He dragged himself to his feet and walked over to the window, his shoulders sagging at the view of a bitter January morning, it's post-Christmas hangover fitted firmly in place. A bedraggled blackbird had nested on his window ledge, and it tried valiantly to inject some cheer into his morning with a meandering song, but it did little to improve Nojovski's mood.
The telephone buzzed in the corner, its noise upsetting the blackbird who flew away, chirping furiously about the disturbance. Nojovski ambled across the room and picked up the receiver.
'Da?'
'Dimitri? Aleksander. How are you?'
Dimitri grunted in response.
'I need you back here tomorrow Dimitri. You've had long enough. I understand your troubles, and they are concerns I too share. But right now we have work to be doing, and while you're not doing it, someone else is making it worse for us.'
Dimitri hung up. He and his former boss had had this conversation roughly once a week for the past 7 months. Every time it was the same, only the exasperation increased each time. He walked over to the window and looked at himself, his hair now an unkempt mess of tangled black, and a darkness over his face that was neither a beard nor fashionable. His eyes were still his though, and they looked back at him with menacing authority.
'I know.' he said to himself. 'It's time.'
Out of the corner of his eye he saw a photograph sticking out from a pile of yellowed papers. He smiled softly to himself as he gently pulled it out, the beaming faces of a young family looking back at him. Pavlo and Yulia, twins, would be well into their teens by now, growing up in a country that was far more Westernised that Dimitri could ever imagine or accept. And then there was Katerina – Katie – that beautiful, radiant woman who had saved him from a bar fight, and then slapped him until he apologised to the man who had picked the fight with him! He had no idea what she thought of him now.
It had been 14 long years since he had seen his perfect little family, the last time being a day he wished he could remember. He dropped his head into his palms as the pain of lonesomeness washed over him again, a feeling now all too familiar. He dragged himself to his feet and walked over to the window, his shoulders sagging at the view of a bitter January morning, it's post-Christmas hangover fitted firmly in place. A bedraggled blackbird had nested on his window ledge, and it tried valiantly to inject some cheer into his morning with a meandering song, but it did little to improve Nojovski's mood.
The telephone buzzed in the corner, its noise upsetting the blackbird who flew away, chirping furiously about the disturbance. Nojovski ambled across the room and picked up the receiver.
'Da?'
'Dimitri? Aleksander. How are you?'
Dimitri grunted in response.
'I need you back here tomorrow Dimitri. You've had long enough. I understand your troubles, and they are concerns I too share. But right now we have work to be doing, and while you're not doing it, someone else is making it worse for us.'
Dimitri hung up. He and his former boss had had this conversation roughly once a week for the past 7 months. Every time it was the same, only the exasperation increased each time. He walked over to the window and looked at himself, his hair now an unkempt mess of tangled black, and a darkness over his face that was neither a beard nor fashionable. His eyes were still his though, and they looked back at him with menacing authority.
'I know.' he said to himself. 'It's time.'
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