The assaulters had no flame-proof clothing like our black gear, only standard DPMs and as the day warmed up I saw several guys remove the heavy Kevlar plates from the fronts and backs of their flak-jackets. Without the plates the jackets would stop secondary impacts like ricochets, but not live rounds. And whereas at home we always have a fully equipped ambulance standing by, manned by two paramedics, the Russians had nothing but an ancient meat-wagon, with jack-shit kit on board and only two squad dies in control.
Sasha seemed amazed when I told him that the SAS had only ever lost one man in the Killing House. Plenty of guys had broken arms and legs when they fell off buildings while abseiling, but in the Killing House itself only one man had died; he'd been shot in the femoral artery and had bled to death in seconds.
"Reelly!" Sasha seemed impressed.
"We lose one or two men a year.
I almost said, "I'm not surprised," but bit it back and made a mental note that safety instruction was going to be at the top of our agenda when the team came out.
Another fundamental decision was about food. For lunch, we were taken to a canteen and ate with the rank and file. The menu was exactly as Sasha had described it in the pub in England: shchi, cabbage soup with lumps of gristle floating in it, black and white bread. The soup was OK if you avoided the gristle, but I could see Whinger's eyeballs rotating.
As soon as we were on our own outside, I said, "We're going to get fucking hungry here."
My spirits sank even lower when we saw what we were being offered for accommodation: the ground floor of a three-storey block which was standing empty and looked as if it hadn't been used in years. There was no shortage of space a dozen rooms of reasonable size led off either side of a central corridor but the building itself was in a disgusting state, with plaster coming away from the concrete-block walls, dirty cream paint flaking off, and yellowing newspapers strewn about the bare cement floors. The security was shite, as welclass="underline" no locks on the doors, and several window panes broken.
Sasha saw the way my mind was working and said, "We get it cleaned up. No bother."
"Yes, please and some means of securing the doors. We're going to want beds, too."
"How many?"
"Eight no, better make it ten." I adjusted my estimate as I counted in the scalies.
As we left to return to the city, we took a short drive round the town of Balashika and that depressed us even more. The road verges were sheets of dried mud, flanked by blocks of flats made from hideous yellow brick, with badly fitting windows and cracks gaping in the walls. We looked in vain for shops — and as for a pub, the idea that one might exist in such a place seemed like a bad joke.
We were driving against the tide of traffic once more, and in less than an hour we were alongside the river, passing the spot where the knife had gone over the wall and pulling up outside the gates of the British Embassy.
Sasha, who had changed back into his civvies, glanced at his watch and announced with satisfaction, "Three hours fifty eight
The security guards had been briefed to expect us. The first two Russians checked our documents. The inner post was manned by a Brit, as I'd predicted. He spoke a few words into his radio, then directed Sasha to drive on across the courtyard and round the left-hand side of the main building. Behind the inner post was another open space with an attractive garden, a hard tennis court and, across the back, a low two-storey building which had obviously once been the stable block belonging to the main house. A forest-green Range Rover was parked in one corner with a small, shiny blue Fiat beside it.
By the time we arrived at the front door a man was already standing outside a tall guy, probably in his early forties, with a shock of thick, grey hair springing forward over his forehead and a bushy moustache to match. He was wearing a white shirt and a navy tie with diagonal stripes that no doubt indicated some fancy school or regiment.
"Sergeant Major Sharp?" He came over and shook hands with a firm grip.
"Pleased to meet you. I'm David Allway, Charge d'Affaires."
"Hello," I said.
"This is Major Ivanov Sasha who's looking after us."
Sasha shook hands and gave a deferential nod in place of a salute. Then I introduced Whinger and Rick.
Allway swept a hand at his forelock, which instantly flopped back into its former position, smiled at everyone and said, "Your liaison officer's here already."
"Great," I said.
"What's his name?"
"Her name…" he paused, smiling again, 'is Colonel Gerasimova. She's waiting in the office. Let's go in."
"Just a second," I said.
"A colonel.. Is she army?"
"No she's from the FSB, a section of the former KGB. On formal occasions they still like to use KGB ranks."
Ah, Jesus, I thought. This is all we need.
If I don't remember much about Allway's office, it's because I was so startled by the appearance and manner of our interpreter. She was dark, with short, straight hair, and very slim — 'lithe' would be a better word, because her movements were quick and elegant. She was wearing a smart suit of cornflower blue linen with a cream-coloured shirt underneath. After so much squalor outside, she was like a vision. When we entered the room she was sitting down, talking to a red-headed secretary, but when she stood up to greet us, I saw she was nearly as tall as me. Her face caught everyone's eyes as we came in: it was a bit too long and narrow to be classically beautiful, but there was something striking about it, especially her big, dark eyes.
"Sergeant Major Sharp? I'm Anna Nikolayevna. Welcome to Moscow!"
"Thanks." I took her hand gently. Her English pronunciation was perfect no trace of an accent and it was refreshing to hear her sound British, rather than American, as most Russians do when speaking English. She smelled pretty good, too: I was getting traces of some scent that I knew but couldn't quite place.
In a few moments we were all sitting at a rectangular table and the secretary was getting a brew on. Aliway sat at one end, on my left, Anna opposite me. She sat back in her chair with her arms folded, very composed, very still, as she listened.
Allway was courteous, brisk and efficient: without any faffing about, he went straight into confirming the details of our schedule.
"You arrive all together next Saturday… the eighth," he said, checking a sheet of notes.
"That's right."
"Transport is by R.A.F C-130, which will fly direct into the strip at Balashika. Arrival at 0030 local time."
"Correct."
"The aircraft will depart as soon as unloading's finished."
"Correct. It's going to refuel in Berlin on the way here, so that it can turn straight round and be gone in the dark."
"Good. Now your personnel."
He began to run through the list of names he had them all correct and at the end I said, "I take it you have secure satellite com ms with the
UK?"
"Of course. I'll give you a list of numbers in a minute. You can call me direct from Hereford and from Balashika, when you get there."
I looked across the table.
"Colonel?"
"Please call me Anna."
"Anna, then. Can you explain what our official status is going to be? I mean, what basis will we be here on?"
Her face, which had been set rather hard, softened into a smile.
"Don't worry. It's all above board. You'll be here as guests of the Ministry of Defence and the Ministry of the Interior, jointly."
"Does anyone outside the armed forces know we're coming?"
"No. There has been no official announcement. Our aim is to protect you from possible interference by criminal elements."
"You mean the Mafia?"
She nodded.