The first rays of sunrise licked the roofs of the grey buildings in the large industrial complex on the outskirts of St Petersburg as the dark helicopter broke the silence with a roar. The sound of the rotor blades was amplified between the tall factory buildings as it momentarily hovered like a Colibri before dropping between two large warehouses. Its large brown and green camouflaged carcass was, for a moment, completely shrouded in a cloud of earth and grit whipped up by its powerful blades. Under cover of the dust cloud, the crew lowered the loading ramp at the back, and stooped figures poured from its body like spawn from some trout. Drowned out by the noise from the helicopter, three armoured personnel carriers from the Interior Ministry’s OMON-special unit sped around the helicopter and up to the building surrounded by the soldiers. As the pilot closed the ramp, he lifted the helicopter back into the air and banked the large bird sharply into a steep turn over the rooftops of the adjacent factory buildings.
Inside, in the offices of Mother Russia, the deafening noise from the large military helicopter rendered any form of communication impossible. The sound of the rotors was thrown around between the buildings, making it hard to determine its location. 460But this, too, was the intention of the Interior Ministry’s three hundred-strong elite anti-terror unit, the SOBR, or Rapid Reaction Unit, that had used the confusion to cover their surprise attack. The noise had suppressed the sounds of the camouflaged soldiers wearing black ski masks who, in the next second, blasted the door’s hinges off with pump-action shotguns, then the anti-terrorist unit and the OMON troops stormed into the building. No one inside was in doubt that they were being attacked. Least of all, Andrej Nitchenko and the two Chechen brothers who, at the back of the building, were cramming documents into a shredder when a heavily armed trooper kicked the door down and levelled his AKS-74U sub-machine gun at them.
‘Easy… easy. We’ll do you as you say,’ Nitchenko stammered.
His stare caught the coal-black, resolute eyes behind the ski mask, then darted to the cloth patch on the masked man’s upper arm: a shield on top of an upright sword and a band with the Russian flag’s white, blue and red colours. A snarling wolf’s head was on the shield and below the letters OMON. Andrej Nitchenko knew too well that one wrong move would result in immediate death. His death. OMON – Otrjad Milizii Osobowo Nasnatschenija, or Special Operations State Militia – had been established for the 1980 Moscow Olympiad to counter terrorism and to ensure that there would be no repeat of the 1972 Munich tragedy. The unit had later been spun off from the armed forces to come under the direct command of the Interior Ministry. It handled all operations of a security-based nature, from drug wars and the fight against organised crime to anti-terror assignments. Today’s raid was another futile mission in the endless war against what the men of power saw as subversive forces. In a country still struggling with a market 461economy where the order of the society was ruled by individual interests – unless free initiative was kept on a tight leash. So all the soldiers were trained in using brute force. Questions could always be fielded later should those in power find that relevant.
Unfortunately, the two Chechen brothers’ knowledge of OMON was scant at best, and in a desperate attempt to escape, one tried to overturn a large desk into the soldier’s path. The characteristic scratching sound of automatic fire from the AKS-74U sub-machine gun immediately ended the attempted escape. Andrej Nitchenko did not need to turn his head to see the outcome. Like a bee swarm shot at the two Chechens, the precise, short burst had left them on the floor, blood streaming from their heads. The effect of the ‘Okurok’, the cigarette butt, as the soldiers in the Special Forces had dubbed the AKS-74U, was always reliable. They didn’t have a chance to realise their stupidity before the projectiles bored into their heads, thought Nitchenko, positioning himself against the wall, his arms and legs spread, ready for the OMON soldiers to cuff his hands.
‘Make sure you don’t touch anything in here. My people will clear things up once we have secured the evidence,’ a calm voice behind Andrej Nitchenko said.
The words were those of an older, cigarette-smoking man with sunken cheeks and deep wrinkles around his eyes. He was dressed in a worn trench coat and stood out amongst the camouflaged soldiers like a fox in a chicken coop. Apart from looking knackered, he seemed unfazed by it all. As only someone who had planned the entire operation could be.
‘Yes sir, Chief Inspector!’ the OMON-soldiers responded firmly.462
The Detective Chief Inspector from the local St Petersburg police department had been working closely with the men from Interior Ministry for the past few days. His invaluable, exhaustive knowledge of the region and the locals that were the target of the operation had been crucial. He sighed deeply as he bent down and carefully frisked the two dead Chechens.
‘This needs to go for ballistics examinations. I wouldn’t be surprised if it turns out to match the projectiles we found in the woman on the harbour the other day,’ he said calmly, lifting the pistol with a pencil and cautiously passing it to an assistant.
The detective rose and walked past his assistant, who was already depositing the pistol into a zip-fastened plastic bag. As he emerged into the daylight, he pulled a crumpled cigarette pack from his tatty coat and tapped one into his fingers. St Petersburg is one big sewer where the rats are thriving, he thought, but instantly dismissed the negative thoughts from his head. It was not his problem; he had done his duty today. Now evidence had to be assembled so that not even the prosecution could screw up the case. No matter how much Mother Russia tried to bribe the officials. When you kill one rat, you only make room for another to reproduce, he thought, disillusioned. He looked ahead as he drew the cheap tobacco down through the airways to the bottom of his lungs. Maybe, I’ll have time to go fishing at the weekend after all.