The Kremlin Device Part 4

"You see him?"

"Oh yes, from time to time. We're good buddies."

Sasha's mind was evidently dwelling on the IRA.

"Why be so soft with such terrorists?" he asked.

"Why not eliminate all? In Chechnya we shoot many rebels, no problem."

"Yes but down there a lot of innocent people got killed as well."

"Chechens vary primitive people," Sasha said scornfully.

"If they come to Moscow they go beggars. They make things worse.

"And in any case," I persisted, 'you didn't win the war."

"And why? Because our army has such bad equipment. Many, many shortages. No guns. No ammunition. No food. But Zheordie - I tell you something... "What's that?"

"The Chechen Mafia vary clever at stealing gold. They have more gold than all the other Mafias collected together. Chechens are gold specialists. Drugs also. They bring drugs from Central Asia and send to Europe."

"What about the army?" I asked.

"How's morale?"

"The army? The Russian army?" He looked round wildly.

"Zheordie if I am to speak of army, I need vodka."

"Is it that bad?"

He nodded.

"Vodka, then. Anything with it?"

"No thank you. Just vodka."

When I handed him a double, neat, he raised the gla.s.s in my direction, smiled, called out, "Vzdrognem!" and tipped it straight down. I'd got myself the same amount of water in another gla.s.s, and tipped that down with an answering "Cheers!"

"Good vodka," he said.

"No samogon.

"What's that?"

"Vodka made at home, from potatoes, wood even. What the soldiers get. It is very dangerous."

"Don't they drink beer?"

"Beer too expensive. And anyway, drinking in barracks is strictly forbidden. So the soldiers go out at night and buy secretly from babushkas, old women. Then one junior soldier stands in the pa.s.sage' guarding, you say? while the others drink themselves crazy.

"But morale you say it's bad?"

"Zheordie, you must understand. There are too many armies.

For example, Ministry of Interior has own army, one and half million men Kulikov's men, we say, from General Kulikov, Interior Minister. That is more than the regular army. Then Ministry of Defence has own army. Special forces for this, special forces for that. You know, there is even special force for underground?"

"You're joking."

"Konechno nyet! It is called GRU. Special troops trained to live in tunnels and work in missile silos. Altogether too many armies, no money. Food is very bad. Soldiers eat s.h.i.+t on starvation rations all the time.

"Like what?"

"According to the law, it is such kind of menu. For the morning, it is tea, two pieces bread one white, one black. Fifty grams b.u.t.ter, but only once a day. b.u.t.ter only once. And kasha, of course. Porridge. Always porridge.

"For dinner, they could get meat in their soup, but very small pieces. Usually young soldiers, for their first half-year, get no meat, because the cherpaks, the second-years, grab it. In the evening dishes, every day it is potatoes with piece of socalled fish, bread black and white, tea, and three pieces of sugar.

"For celebration on important days, state holidays they have special menu. What does it mean? It means, two biscuits per man, and maka roni poflotski macaroni naval style, with very small meats, like the s.h.i.+p's rat chopped up. Maybe piece of water melon, and one grape per man.

"That's what soldiers eat. That's why they are ready to rob, do anything."

As I fetched another round of vodkas from the bar with a double for myself this time I wondered what the h.e.l.l we'd do about our own food once we got over there. None of our cooks had high enough security clearance to come on an operation as sensitive as this one, so we'd either have to eat with our hosts or fend for ourselves.

Again Sasha knocked his spirit straight down, with another cry of "Vzdrognem!"

"Also," he went on, 'there is much torture of recruits."

"Bullying, you mean.

"Torture also. Many beatings. If sergeant does not like junior soldier, he drags him out of bed and makes him stand on one leg half the night. You have heard of velociped, the bicycle? No? It is what they do to young recruit. They come to him while he is sleeping, lift up bottom of bed, and put between the fingers on the feet-' "His toes?"

"Yes between his toes they put paper or cotton wool, then set it on fire. When flames reach him, he does the bicycle."

Sasha whirled his hands round in imitation, and I couldn't help but laugh.

"No laughing!" he said indignantly.

"It is very bad. Officers terrorise soldiers beat them, shoot them-' "Not really shoot them?"

"Certainly! Many men are shot dead by own officers.

Absolutely incredible."

"Do people get fined?" I asked.

"Fined?" Sasha seemed astonished.

"How can they be fined?

They have no so big money. And in any case, it would be very dangerous for commander to punish kontraktnik, a prafessional soldier, in this way. Such persons do not like to pay. Easier just to kill officer with shooting."

"What about special forces? They must be better."

"Many, many special forces. Every ministry has special force.

Ministry of Defence, Ministry of Interior, Ministry of Federal Security... "So who's taking on the Mafia?"

"Good question. Under whose jurisdiction is situation going?

These too many bodies in the past they have no joint policy.

But now we have new initiative result of your Prime Minister's visit to President Yeltsin last year. From this has come new agreement. Yeltsin has persuaded Ministry of Defence and Ministry of Interior to create Tiger Force, specially to combat Mafia operations."

"So who are the guys we'll be training?"

"All kontraktniks. That means prafessional soldiers with contracts not conscripts. At least two years in the army. All officers, from junior lieutenant to captain. Good types, I hope."

"Where do they come from?"

"From all different special forces. From Spetznaz, from Omon, from Alpha, from Vympel..."

I saw him stifle a yawn.

"Come on," I told him.

"Time you got your head down.

Tomorrow's a full training day. You can meet the guys and tell us what to do."

"Khorosho! Zheordie let me say thank you for very kind reception. Also for clothings."

"It's a pleasure."

One amusing twist that I didn't yet explain to Sasha was that our own headquarters were known in the Regiment as the Kremlin. Valentina had impressed on us that the word simply means 'citadel', but we were chuffed to think that, for the first time in history, our own little Kremlin was about to join forces with its Big Brother in Moscow.

THREE.

For the next few days my most important task was to keep up the momentum of our countdown to departure; but at the same time I had to show Sasha round the base and give him an idea of how we did things. Certain areas of camp were out of bounds to him, notably the SAW and the ops room, but there was plenty else for him to see, not least the Killing House, where the CT team laid on a demonstration of hostage-lifting. At first he was cautious about expressing opinions, but the more time I spent with him the more he became prepared to criticise or compare our methods with his.

For us, Killing House demos were routine, but for Sasha they were an eye-opener. The guys put him and me into the left-hand corner of a special room, corralled with two other visitors behind white tape. As usual, the live hostage-figure was sitting on a chair in the middle of the room, with his two guards, in the form of figure-targets, on either side of him. Behind the hostage stood the sergeant in charge, commentating on events.

Just as he seemed to be in the middle of his spiel, giving the principles of close-quarter battle: "Speed, aggression, surpr-' BANG! Loud explosion. Door blown off Two a.s.saulters running in. Ba-ba-born! Ba-ba-born! Short bursts from MP5s. Targets riddled, hostage lifted and gone before anyone else could react.

Nothing left but smoke and dust.

As our ears recovered, Sasha turned to me, beaming, and said, "Vairy good! Vairy prafyessional!"

Before we went out he took a close look at the construction of the building, pulling back the metre-wide sheets of thick red rubber, which overlapped each other by nearly half their width, so that he could inspect the steel-plated wall some three inches behind them. Seeing all the crumpled bullets lying on the floor, he understood at once how the rubber caught anything which flew back off the wall, killing its energy.

"This we would like," he said wistfully, looking round.

"You don't have it?"

He shook his head.

"Only rubber wheels."

"Tyre houses?" He nodded.

I knew what he meant, because I'd seen them in the States: skeleton buildings with walls made of piled-up motor-tyres filled with concrete, which, in a crude way, performed the same function as the rubber sheets.

In another room a young a.s.saulter dressed in full black kit had his equipment spread out on two tables for Sasha to look at.

The Russian carefully inspected the guy's primary weapon an MP5 with laser marker and torch attached and some of his EMOE devices. His close interest offered an unwelcome opening to the range warden, a retired RSM who'd been given a kind of grace-and-favour job keeping the place tidy and sweeping up empty cartridge cases. The old guy could be a pain in the a.r.s.e, as he always tried to latch on to our guests, and now I had to prise Sasha away from him before we got any awkward questions about where he came from.

From Sasha I gained a more precise idea of our task. He had already explained that the personnel of the new Tiger Force were being drawn from various sources. Most were from Spetznaz, the elite military special force, controlled by the Ministry of Defence, or from Omon, the civilian militia, which came under the jurisdiction of the Ministry of the Interior.

Normally, Sasha told me, Omon dealt with problems inside Russia while Spetznaz worked in foreign countries; but the point of Tiger Force was that it should be a highly trained and highly mobile unit, ready to tackle emergencies either at home or abroad. When I remarked that this made it rather like the SAS, Sasha seemed surprised: he had always supposed that we only operated overseas.

He told me that Tiger Force would be directed by the Federal Security Bureau, the FSB, the largest remaining const.i.tuent of the old KGB, which had now been broken up into several parts; the bureau was in charge of security and counter-intelligence.

The person in charge of our tour, our liaison officer and interpreter, would be an FSB officer.

"And who will that be?" I asked.

He spread his hands.

"So far, no information. I find out when I am back in Moscow."

As I guided Sasha round camp, his meetings with the CO, the ops officer and the rest of the team all went fine; but where he came into his own was in polis.h.i.+ng up the diagrams we were preparing for the course. Technically he was way behind because we were working on computers, aiming to project three dimensional diagrams from our laptops, whereas the Russians apparently were still using blackboards and overhead projectors but he was very quick on the uptake.

Among the diagrams Sasha had brought with him were two of the weapons that Tiger Force personnel would be using: the Stechkin Mark 5 9mm automatic pistol, and the latest creation of the Rex Firearm Company in St. Petersburg, the 9mm Gepard, a modular weapon which can be instantly adapted for use as rifle, sub-machine gun or pistol. I thanked Sasha as gently as possible for bringing them, then let him know that, as well as better diagrams, we had an actual example of the Gepard which we'd acquired via another channel. In fact I'd arranged that Johnny would give the rest of the team a lesson on stripping down and rea.s.sembling the weapon, with Sasha present.

This demo proved a big success. For one thing it gave Sasha a chance to start getting to know our guys, and for another, he hit top form during the talk, acting up and joining in Johnny's commentary.

"Gepard is Russian for cheetah," he told the team.

"Very fast, very light." He made springing, bounding movements with his hands.

"It was developed from the Ryss, which is lynx. Lynx is OK, but cheetah is faster and lighter."

"That's right." Johnny took him up, holding the weapon across his knees as he sat at the front of the cla.s.sroom.

"It's a beaut. It's got everything bar the spots." He hefted it in one hand.