Juggernaut

I was anxious to see the plane. If it was an Iraqi military flight, one of Saddam’s ageing Ilyushins, then it had probably flown from Baghdad and I might still, at some level, be answerable to Saddam’s command apparatus. If the plane was a modern, Western aircraft, then it would likely have originated from one of the Persian Gulf Emirates, south-west of Dubai. Clandestine hubs favoured by NSA and CIA black ops. Proof I had ceased to work for the Iraqi government and had a new paymaster, an intelligence entity that regarded this regional war as a trivial distraction from the pursuit of its own dark purpose.

It came from the east. The plane flew low. A dot that slowly resolved into the bulky silhouette of a turboprop freighter. A Fairchild Provider. Silver, with Red Cross markings. A CIA work-horse. The type of cargo-lift that flew resupply missions and defoliation runs in Vietnam.

The plane circled and swooped to land.

I crouched behind the Jeep alongside my driver and covered my ears. The back-wash of the plane threw out tornadoes of sand and grit.

Engine noise diminished to a drone. I stood and shook sand from my hair, slapped dust from my clothes. The plane taxied and came to a standstill.

A whine of hydraulics as the loading ramp descended, folded down like a castle drawbridge. Aircrew got out and checked tyres.

Two Land Rovers rolled out of the ribbed cargo bay. Brand new, fully equipped, sprayed desert drab.

The Land Rovers drew up to our Jeep. A man got out. I felt a cool wash of air-conditioning as he opened the door. He wore expensive hiking gear. I didn’t recognise brand names but his boots and sunglasses were fresh out of the box.

He shook my hand.

‘Koell.’

‘Jabril.’

Cheerful, but distant. The kind of man that would maintain a pleasant smile as he drove a knife into your belly.

‘Care to lead the way?’

We climbed in our Jeep and retraced our tyre tracks back towards the ravine.

I turned in my seat. Koell’s Land Rover behind us. He smiled. He waved. His driver chewed gum and blanked us with wraparound shades.

Our little convoy kicked up a dust storm as it lurched across the dunes.

We drove into the rail tunnel. Engine roar amplified by tight tunnel walls. Bright lights behind us. Halogens mounted on the Land Rover grille, trained on our backs like searchlights.

We emerged into the valley. We shielded our eyes from sudden sun. We drove past the citadel and parked in front of our camp.

Koell and his men climbed from their Land Rovers. His team lit cigarettes. They talked among themselves. They spoke Russian.

‘Who are these men?’ I asked. ‘I assumed you would bring Americans.’

He grinned.

‘The nation-state is a rather antique concept, don’t you think? These days we outsource our killing.’

Koell paid no attention to the extraordinary ruins on the other side of the valley floor.

‘Show me Spektr.’

I led him through the narrow ravine. We walked beside the railroad. He didn’t talk. He didn’t look around. He strode towards the mine tunnel with unwavering focus.

We entered the mine. We walked the length of the wide passageway, past carriages and wagons, until we reached the cavern.

‘Good God.’

Koell walked a full circuit of the Spektr craft. He was enraptured. He reached up and stroked heat tiles.

‘Pilotitruemyy Korabl-Perekhvatchik,’ he murmured.

‘What does that mean?’ I asked.

‘The Manned Interceptor Spacecraft. A crude space fighter. The US had similar plans during the eighties, but they didn’t progress further than a few balsa models.

‘Spektr was just a rumour. A daydream. Brain-child of a few old Soviet hard-liners who want to recapture the glory days of the Sputnik era and restore national pride. Nobody believed the Spektr project progressed further than a blueprint. Certainly never flew. But here she is.’

Koell unzipped his backpack and handed me a file. A heavy document bundle with a classified stamp on the cover. A grave miscalculation on his part. It didn’t matter that I could speak three languages. He looked at a man like me, a bearded Iraqi in ill-fitting fatigues, and saw an ignorant camel-jockey. But I had worked for intelligence agencies my entire life. I knew, the moment he handed me confidential material, that I and my men would be killed once Koell no longer had a use for us. His thugs were outnumbered but they were hardened killers and I suspected they would prevail in a fire-fight.

I would be ready to flee at a moment’s notice.

I spread my jacket, sat cross-legged on the cavern floor and thumbed through the dossier. Koell stood over me.

‘What’s this?’

A blurred monochrome shot. A gargantuan cylindrical object, like a grain silo, on a shrouded rail car.