The Doomsday Testament(11)

As he walked though the corridor between the cellars, Dimitriy was more puzzled than alarmed by the ease with which he’d been able to get back into the building. ‘Dimitriy to control. Dimitriy to control.’ He tried to call Yuri to let him know he was back inside, but the basement was a notorious radio blackspot. No reply, no real surprise.


The commander studied the long corridor of packing cases and badly wrapped parcels. ‘Row four, section B,’ he said to himself. He’d memorized the shape, size and number of the package he sought and it took him no more than a minute to track it down. Despite the tight schedule, he allowed himself a few seconds to enjoy the moment. Finally this was the reward for years of searching, planning and training and the client’s enormous investment. He knew he could probably carry it alone, but he gestured to the man beside him to help. Then, a moment of unfamiliar doubt.

‘Hold it,’ he said. The other operative stepped back, his surprise hidden by his night-vision gear. ‘Let’s make sure we got what we came for and not some old guy’s favourite piss pot.’ He produced a knife from his belt and levered free the lid of the packing case with a splintering of nailed wood. The object inside had been packed in straw and he pulled it aside to reveal a glint of gold. Exactly what he expected to see. He grinned at the other man, then replaced the lid, hammering in the nails with the butt of the knife.

Behind them, the armourer had been working to place a series of what appeared to be large upturned soup plates among the boxes and crates, linked by wire to a central mechanism that sat on the cellar floor and included two tubes of liquid, a large battery and an old-fashioned mobile phone. ‘I’m done,’ he announced.

‘Good work,’ the leader said. ‘Cover the rear.’ He inspected the bomb. The explosion would conceal what they had stolen. If the security guards were lucky, they’d survive along with most of the main palace, but the six Russian anti-tank mines would sure blow the hell out of the east wing and the cellars.

‘Go.’ He picked up one end of the packing case as his subordinate manhandled the other. The case felt heavier than he’d imagined, but it was nothing for two fit men. They sidled through the door of the cellar and made their way to the stairway, followed by the armourer. Before they reached it a sharp order rang out in Russian and they were blinded by a searing light.

Dimitriy had been approaching the cellar when he heard the voices. His first thought had been to go for help, but logic told him these men wouldn’t be here if Yuri and the rest of his shift were still free. Still he could have turned and walked away, but this was what he was paid for. He pulled the gun from its holster, checked the ammunition and flicked off the safety catch.

‘Halt! Stay where you are or I shoot.’

The shout and the beam from the powerful torch froze the men in place. ‘Shit,’ the leader muttered beneath his breath. He squinted into the glare past his black-suited subordinates and saw a fat man in an ill-fitting blue security guard’s uniform standing by the cellar entrance pointing a gun in his direction. Black patches of sweat stained the armpits of the tunic and the guard was breathing hard, but he held the pistol steady and from here the mouth of the barrel looked like a cannon.

‘Take it easy, friend. Nobody needs to get hurt here,’ the leader called. The pistol swung towards him. In a whisper, he ordered, ‘Get ready.’

Dimitriy was angry. The night-vision goggles puzzled him, but the dark boiler suits and ski masks told him only one thing. He had watched and wept when the Moscow theatre siege ended in explosions, clouds of poisoned gas and gunfire. He had no doubt the rescuers had been incompetent, but the reason 129 innocents had died was because men like these brought terror into his country. ‘Move and I shoot,’ he warned and he meant it. The torch moved between the three men, the light magnified and eyeball-scorching in the lens of the goggles, but the leader saw his opportunity. The armourer partly shielded the mercenary carrying the other end of the crate. ‘Hit him when you get a clear shot,’ he said calmly in English.

‘What did you say?’ Dimitriy demanded. ‘You—’ He didn’t have the opportunity to finish the sentence. The man in the centre of the trio moved faster than he’d ever seen a man move and he flinched at the muzzle flash before the bullet from the GSh-18 hit him low in the belly. Despite being half-blinded by the torch the soldier had had a clear aim and he believed to his last heartbeat that he’d fired a killing shot. But Dimitriy wasn’t just a fat man in a bad suit. He had once been a thin man wearing the uniform of the Guards Airborne Assault Brigade among the super-heated rocks of the Panshir Valley and as his body absorbed the energy of the bullet he got off a round that took the other man in the right eye and dropped him in a spray of blood and brains. Dimitriy knew the damage the bullet had done to his insides but, even with his strength failing, he tried to raise the gun for a second shot just as the armourer fired his first. The 9mm parabellum round left the barrel at a muzzle velocity of 1,100 feet per second and hit the cylinder of Dimitriy’s Kobalt revolver. It struck at an angle which made the grotesquely misshapen bullet ricochet upward with a force that blew off most of Dimitriy’s lower jaw and part of his left cheekbone before hurling his body off the door jamb into the cellar.