Going Rogue, page 23
part #2 of Tom Novak Series
Shona was waiting out the front of the house as they pulled up, a huge grin on her face. She was a lean, attractive woman in her sixties with kind eyes and a warm smile. Sat next to her with an eager expression and a wildly thrashing tail was a small, black cocker spaniel, who tore over to the car, delirious with joy at their arrival. The dog was barely able to run straight as she was hampered by a backside that waggled from side to side as she gambolled around each of the men, utterly euphoric at their presence.
‘Tom, darling, so wonderful to see you. We worry all the time with what’s on the news,’ Shona hugged him tight.
‘Who’s this little lady then?’ asked Tom, crouching to greet the small, black dog.
‘This is the new family member: Peggy. Grand, isn’t she?’ Cameron was a dog lover and Tom had been waiting for the day that their old border collie, who passed away a year or so ago, would be replaced.
‘What a lovely little cocker,’ Tom said, fussing her.
‘Excuse me, Tom, I think you’ll find that Peggy is a cockapoo,’ Shona said in faux outrage, hugging Tom once more.
‘She looks just like a cocker, Shona.’
‘Yeah well, I think we were sold a dud. Her dad was a cocker, mum was a cockapoo, but she’s a little sweetie, whatever,’ she said, smiling adoringly at the still ecstatic dog.
‘Buster, it’s been too long,’ she said as she transferred her hug to the other man.
‘Sure has, Shona. Tom’s been promising to teach me to fish for ages,’ Buster replied with a smile.
‘Come inside, the kettle is on,’ Shona said, brimming with excitement.
They all went into the warm and inviting farm cottage and were all soon sat with mugs of tea. Peggy, now content she had greeted everyone equally, snuggled down next to Tom, her head stretched across his lap, instantly asleep.
‘So to what do we owe the pleasure of this visit, boys?’ Shona said as she lifted her cup to her lips. Tom couldn’t help but notice the missing digit on her hand and his heart lurched a little with the guilt of what he had brought upon them the year before.
‘Just a bit of work in Europe,’ he said. ‘We are dumping some kit here and Cameron is dropping us in Newcastle tomorrow. Hopefully just a couple of days and then we’ll be back to head up to the bothy for some fishing. I’m going to teach Buster’s cockney arse to fish.’
‘Well that sounds nice but a little convoluted. Why?’
Cameron interrupted before either of the others could reply. ‘Come on, love. Let’s not ask the boys questions they can’t answer. We’re all starving. When’s the venison stew ready? I think it’s time to open a beer!’
42
Tom and Buster sat in the almost deserted lounge bar of the ferry, both nursing hair of the dog beers as the ferry cruised out of Newcastle harbour just after 5pm. Neither had much interest in watching the port disappear behind them and both were looking forward to catching up with some sleep once they were properly underway. The crossing was scheduled to take close to sixteen hours, but Tom didn’t mind. It was going to give them time to work through their plan, as much as they were able to at that stage. He had booked a two-berth cabin so that they could talk in privacy as well as get some proper sleep prior to their arrival.
The journey down to Newcastle had taken close to five hours and had been uncomfortable and unpleasant, chiefly owing to the terrible suspension and deafening road noise of the ancient Land Rover. Of course, their appalling hangovers hadn’t helped either. The night before, beer had led to wine with the delicious venison stew and then Cameron had made it worse by reaching for an old bottle of Dalwhinnie whisky from the distillery just a few miles away. They had all marvelled at the character of the old spirit, that had the claim to fame of being made at the highest altitude distillery in the UK. It hadn’t helped the hangover, whatever the altitude.
‘It’s a bit fucking rough, already, Borat,’ said Buster, a look of mild discomfort on his face at the motion of the ferry. ‘How do you bootnecks put up with bleeding sea travel all the time? I’d much rather fly and jump out of a plane.’
‘Buster, the ship is hardly moving; it’s smooth as silk. You paratroopers are such bloody landlubbers. Drink your beer and think of something else.’
Buster grinned. ‘Okay. What’s your plan for this little jaunt then?’
Both men stopped talking as a waiter served them the burgers and fries that they had ordered earlier with their drinks.
‘Well, we get some decent shut-eye and scran on this crossing, that’s first priority,’ Tom said as the waiter departed.
‘Tom, you ain’t in the marines anymore. It’s scoff, not scran. Stop the twattish, bootneck slang,’ Buster said through a mouthful of burger.
‘Mate, we are on a ship, bouncing around on the oggin, so it’s bootneck slang all trip,’ grinned Tom. ‘Scran, maybe another beer, then get our heads down. Once we get there we hire a car, something fairly robust. We also need to get burner phones and a few other bits which I will pick up on the way. We then make our way overland to Poland, driving in shifts. I estimate it will take about fifteen hours.’ Tom bit into his burger, chewing with relish
‘Fifteen hours? Fuck me, are you trying to kill us both? Why not stop and sleep somewhere?’
‘I want to leave the smallest footprint I can through Europe and particularly Poland so, other than fuel, I don’t want to spend anything or put ourselves on any maps or databases whatsoever. Lots of hotels want a credit card and ID so I’m not risking it. I also want to get this job done as quickly as possible so we can get back to Scotland and actually do some bloody fishing.’ Tom spoke quickly and efficiently, now in full operational mode.
‘Fair enough. You’re a shit driver, though; I’ll never get any sleep.’
Tom ignored the jibe and continued. ‘We will cross the Ukrainian border at Korczowa and head straight to Lviv. Cover story is a fishing trip, hence all the kit we’ve brought. There are some serious carp ponds in the area so it’s entirely feasible.’
In addition to the usual travel essentials they had packed, Tom had brought a bag of camouflage fishing clothing, a couple of collapsible rods, and a box of assorted tackle.
‘You’ve neglected one thing, mate.’
‘What?’
‘I ain’t posing as a carp fisherman. They are proper fishing wankers. Don’t even eat the stuff, do they?’ Buster said, with fake disgust.
‘Actually, I think they like a bit of carp in Ukraine, so pipe down,’ Tom said, smiling before continuing. ‘Once there we will head into Lviv and get a hotel for a night. I want to look like tourists and it’s the biggest town that close to the border. We will do a night there before we scope out the dacha and see what we are dealing with. I think a day or two on a close target recce then, once we know for sure that McEwan is there, we make a plan to go in and get him and get him over the border. Once in Poland he’s in the mix to get nicked on a Euro Arrest Warrant and he will be back in Blighty ASAP.’ Tom spoke quickly and with conviction, hoping that Buster would not come straight back with the multitude of holes in the plan.
‘Right,’ Buster said, slowly and sarcastically. ‘Shall I start with all the “what if’s” now, then, Borat?’
‘No, not now,’ said Tom. ‘Look, I know there are loads of problems, but until we get there and assess what we have and how the border looks I’m not sure we can plan. I’ve researched the border and it is entirely feasible that we can cross on foot. It’s only lightly patrolled and, away from the crossing points, only amounts to a small wire fence. I may be able to arrange a distraction to steer the guards away from our crossing point. We used to plan on the hoof all the time in Iraq and Afghan and it was far more dangerous there. Look mate, you don’t need to come; I was always happy to do this on my own.’
‘You go on your own and we all know what the outcome will be, right? McEwan will turn up shot, stabbed or beaten to death. Then you will then continue looking at yourself in the mirror wondering why you are such a murderous numb bastard. I’m not gonna let that happen. I’m coming. Get used to it. We are going to put that evil, corrupt, mass-murdering piece of shit back where he belongs: getting his arsehole broken every night in Belmarsh HSU. Kapeesh?
‘Kapeesh,’ Tom said resignedly. ‘Come on, then. Buy me another beer then I’m going to get some sleep. We’ve got fifteen hours in a car through mainland Europe to plan and the cabin cost me nearly two hundred quid.’
*
One more beer ended up being another three and it was almost 8pm when they both retired to their cabin, both ready to sleep.
The cabin was tiny, with barely enough room to swing a very small cat, especially once the bulky bags were deposited in the room. Despite this, within about five minutes of being in the cabin both men were in the tiny single beds. It was the military way and it was ingrained in both of them: sleep when you can, eat when you can.
Tom was just beginning to drift off when Buster’s cockney voice spoke quietly.
‘Tom?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Will you read me a story?’
‘Fuck off, you twat.’
Buster sniggered childishly.
*
Long distance travelling through mainland Europe can be dreadfully dull: a conclusion that both Tom and Buster soon came to after the first few hours.
On arrival near Amsterdam they had quickly hired a car at the ferry terminal using a passport and driving licence in the name of Tom Johnson. This alternate ID had been a legacy of their SRR days when they all held genuine documents in different names. SRR had been formed when it had been decided that its predecessor, 14 Intelligence Company would have an extended remit beyond Northern Ireland. During the restructuring someone had got careless with all the documentation and most of the team had held onto their alternate identities, as souvenirs if nothing else.
They hired a Honda CRV at an extortionate rate, given that it was a last-minute booking. Not knowing what they were facing, they had agreed that some degree of off-road capability would be useful. Tom, fortunately, had fully loaded his prepaid bank card before heading off.
After a quick shopping trip to pick up a couple of budget smart phones and some food for the journey, they were on their way along the E30, a fast autobahn that would take them straight through the middle of Germany, via Hanover and skirting Berlin before entering Poland. The Polish border was very quiet, despite a light police presence, and being in the Schengen zone they didn’t need to stop.
The journey seemed to go on forever, only stopping for tolls or at rest stops to refuel and use the bathroom. They had barely spoken about the task ahead, aware that it was pretty fruitless until they got eyes on the dacha. So they had chatted about everything else instead. It took Tom right back to their military days, being cooped up in uncomfortable urban observation points for days on end talking about any old nonsense, just to pass the time.
Despite the bluster and yobbish exterior, Buster was an intelligent guy and a devoted family man, with a wife and two young boys whom he doted on. Tom felt guilty about dragging him along on this potentially dangerous trip, but he knew his old friend well enough to know that once he’d made his decision there was no going back.
He pushed any concerns out of his mind while Buster snored in the passenger seat. It was a simple job: grab McEwan and get him over the border, by hook or by crook. If he would come willingly, then fine; but other than that it would be by whatever means necessary.
Tom’s thoughts also turned to Zelenko. He just couldn’t see any way of dealing with him. It seemed that the evidence would never be there and that they wouldn’t be able to grab him even if there was a legal route. Zelenko, with all his wealth, would be protected; he and Buster had no chance.
His thoughts turned to Jaco and Freddie once again and he began to feel anger rising at the injustice of it all.
He saw a sign indicating the presence of the border crossing into Ukraine in five miles. ‘Time to wake up, sleepyhead,’ he said, nudging Buster.
‘You are an absolute twat and I hate you. I am absolutely fucking knackered. Do you know we have been in this shite lump of Japanese metal for twelve hours?’
‘More like thirteen, mate. Also, Hondas are mostly nailed together in Europe, I think you’ll find.’
‘Well that makes me feel better.’
‘Border coming up, my fisherman friend. Happy with the cover story? Sightseeing in Lviv and fishing at the carp lakes at Drozdovychi.’
‘I’ll never be able to pronounce that.’
‘It’s okay, I’ll do the talking. They won’t understand your cockney, anyway.’
‘How many languages can you speak, Borat?’
‘I’m bilingual in Serbo-Croat and English. I can get by in most of the dialects from the old Yugoslavia as well. Other than those, my Russian is improving, Arabic is out of practice but I can get by, and my German is good.’
‘You also talk bollocks fluently as well,’ Buster sniggered.
‘You’re so predictable, Buster. I bet you only asked me that question so you could get that jibe in,’ Tom said, smiling.
‘You know me too well, Borat,’ Buster said.
‘Right, mate. Game faces on, border coming up.’
As they approached the border they selected the lane for the EU passport holders and then halted in a moderately long queue, which was, thankfully, much shorter than the alternative non-EU one.
‘I hate queues,’ Buster lamented.
‘You’re English. You’re supposed to be patient at queueing.’
‘No, mate. That’s you ex-commies. Bread queues and all that.’
‘You do love an old stereotypical trope, don’t you Buster? That was decades ago.’
They were soon waved through by the Polish border guard, who barely glanced at the British passports.
It took a little longer at the Ukrainian side. Firstly, they had to present their passports to the unsmiling Ukrainian guard, who studied them solemnly.
‘Purpose of trip?’ he said in heavily accented English.
‘Fishing and tourism in Lviv,’ Tom replied politely in Russian.
The guard’s attitude brightened significantly once he realised that Tom could speak to him in a familiar tongue. Most Ukrainians spoke good Russian and a significant number had it as their first language. As always, Tom found that the path of bureaucracy was smoothed over if you could speak to the bureaucrat in a familiar language.
The guard requested that they open the boot but gave it only a cursory search before ordering them to go over to the customs channel where, after another short wait, they had to sign further declarations before yet another official stamped their entry forms.
‘Welcome to Ukraine,’ said the official. ‘Enjoy your stay.’ And with that, they were over the border.
‘That was a bit too easy, Borat,’ said Buster as they drove away. ‘I expected to be dragged into a room with an unsmiling ex-shot putter with rubber gloves and a pot of KY Jelly.’
‘You sound disappointed, Buster.’
‘More up your street, mate. I reckon the language smoothed the way.’
‘Glad to be of service. Right, let’s get to Lviv and find a hotel. I think we need some rest, mate. It’s been a long old drive and it will be dark soon.’
‘I couldn’t agree more. How long to Lviv?’ asked Buster.
‘It’s seventy-five kilometres, so about an hour-and-a-half.’
‘Brilliant,’ said Buster sarcastically. ‘Another ninety minutes in a car. Bloody brilliant. You’re a twat and I can’t believe you dragged me on this shite show that is probably gonna get me killed or locked up in a Ukrainian prison.’
‘I can always drop you off somewhere and you can start making your way home.’
‘What, and have you rampage around killing everyone in sight and causing international incidents? No way, mate. I’m sticking with you.’
‘Stop moaning then,’ Tom smiled. Despite all the histrionics, Tom knew that his friend was with him out of concern for his welfare. It was just packaged in playful abuse.
Buster yawned, extravagantly rubbing his face as he did, stretching in his seat. Looking at Tom he looked puzzled for a second. ‘Why don’t you yawn, Borat?’
‘Eh?’ questioned Tom.
‘You know what I mean. I’ve worked with you for years. Yawns are supposed to be catching but I’ve never seen you catch a yawn off no one. Why?’
Tom merely shrugged and shook his head.
‘You’re a fucking freak, Borat,’ Buster said, shaking his head and closing his eyes once more.
Tom said nothing but, in reality, he knew exactly what Buster was talking about. Tom had even researched the concept of yawning being contagious when he realised that he never experienced it. He had been slightly disturbed to find that it was an evolved empathetic response shared by a number of social species. Once again, he tried not to think about what Buster’s flippant comment meant about who exactly he was. He shook his head to clear the thought and concentrated on the driving.
A little less than ninety minutes later they were driving into Lviv. It seemed a bustling city, but as it was dark, they couldn’t really appreciate it. From the brief bit of research that Tom had done on his smartphone during the journey he had learned that it was a decent-sized city with a population of about 700,000 and a thriving tourist industry centred on the old town and market square. It seemed the perfect place to blend in while they were undertaking their task, with a good number of anonymous hotels, cafés and restaurants.
Tom had pre-booked and paid for a twin room in a corporate and bland-looking Ibis hotel on his prepaid smartphone. The hotel was central and had car parking so was perfect for their purposes while they acclimatised before performing their first reconnaissance trip to the dacha, after dark the following evening.
It was close to midnight local time when they parked the car at the hotel and checked in, the smiling receptionist directing them to a small and clean first-floor room.
