THE INNOCENCE OF TRUST
The third of the Sam Green novels
By
Roland Ladley
Copyright © Roland Ladley 2017
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher.
The moral right of Roland Ladley has been asserted.
ISBN-13: 978-1548227357
ISBN-10: 1548227358
To Ned, who started all of this…
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
‘Power corrupts, absolute power corrupts absolutely.’
- Lord Acton, 1887
Prologue
Inner German Border Crossing Point, 20 Kilometres East of Osterode, West Germany
18 November 1983
Major Peter Brown’s warm breath met the forest air and immediately condensed into a fine cloud of water vapour. It was cold. Not yet proper, mid-European winter cold. The sort where snow lies six feet deep and hangs perilously from the tall, straight firs, falling with a clump on anything unsuspecting below when the branches give way. And not so cold that, whilst you’d never mention it, you wear your wife’s tights under the trousers of your blue woollen uniform; and two vests to protect against the penetrating temperatures. But cold enough. Today it was accompanied by that horrible wetness lingering from previously heavy rain. Everything Peter touched was damp. The sleeves and shoulders of his blue naval jacket were covered in a sheen of dew that sparkled under the glare of an arc light that had been especially illuminated for the evening’s exchange.
His issue black leather gloves were soaking. They had got wet as he unlocked the massive padlock that secured the single red and white-striped gate pole that lay suspended horizontally between two posts. An obstruction that barred access to a road that, until the Inner German Border was fortified, connected two villages previously part of the same district – families torn apart by the enforced segregation. His gloves had taken on more water as he had assisted his East German Grenztruppen counterpart to open the tall, concertina-wire topped gate which straddled the road. The gate, along with the fence that ran hundreds of kilometres north to the Baltic and south to Czechoslovakia, was the last line of security preventing those in the East heading west to freedom.
He had counted six ‘Grenzers’ at the border point. They wore much more sensible khaki fatigues and warm berets. He had exchanged a few words in German with the man on the opposite side of the gate. There had been no smiles. No handshakes.
Once the crossing was open, Peter moved back from the road to the treeline. His other two colleagues, dressed similarly to him in their issued naval-styled uniform, including an incongruous white-banded peaked cap, were standing by a hard-topped, Series 3 Land Rover. One was taking a swig from a silver hip-flask.
Their job was done.
The border was open. And it was secure.
Peter squeezed his hands together. His black gloves dripped water into the puddle between his feet. Superstitiously he reached behind his back and felt for his Belgian FN Self-Loading Rifle. He knew it was there, its weight pulling on the sling that gently dug into his shoulder. But he had to check. Fidgeting further, he looked at his watch: 10.21pm. The exchange was due in 19 minutes.
Other than his team of three members of the British Frontier Service (BFS), and a captain from the Household Cavalry (who was sitting in the front seat of the Land Rover), there was no one else on their side of the crossing point. He knew the captain’s troop of lightweight Scimitar tanks were in a holding area, half a mile back down the road. Every so often the officer’s radio burst into life with a ‘radio-check’ call from, he guessed, a nervous NCO making sure he could still contact his boss. There was no radio silence for this exchange. The other side needed to know that they weren’t alone.
The dark and dank sky to his left lit up as a distant searchlight patrolled the border zone. He knew if he moved back out of the treeline and glanced to his right, he would see the same effect from another concrete tower in the distance. There was no escaping the watchful eye of the Grenzers.
He reminded himself of the defences that had been put in place by the government of the GDR (G for German, R for Republic and D, inappropriately, for Democratic), to prevent its citizens from escaping to the West. The 400-yard, manmade gap in the forest was known as the ‘Zone Area’. Would-be escapees had to cross three high metal fences – one of which was electrified. Interspersed among the fences was a minefield, an anti-tank ditch, two sets of barbed wire, a dog-run, and an illuminated vehicle path, which was patrolled regularly by armed members of the Grenztruppen. Every couple of hundred yards was a manned watchtower. Added to this, the Grenzers had authority to shoot first and ask questions later. It didn’t surprise Peter that only a few East Germans had been brave enough to attempt to cross the border.
Today, if everything went well, some people would be crossing without being shot. As just a mere major in the BFS, he didn’t know of details of the exchange; who the British were handing over to the East and whom they were getting back in return. As far as he was aware prisoner swaps normally took place on Berlin’s Gleinicke Bridge, over the River Havel. The Bridge of Spies, as it was known. That was where all high-profile exchanges took place: Berlin.
Normally.
But not today.
MI6 were the ones running the show. He’d spoken on the phone to a man in London named Derek, who insisted on calling his BFS team ‘you chaps’. They were the ones who had chosen this little-used border crossing. And that crossing happened to be in his patch.
He and the Grenzer had had such difficulty opening the gate on his side of the ‘Zone’, he wouldn’t have been surprised if it had never been used before. He assumed the powers-that-be knew what they were up to.
There was commotion on the far side of the Zone Area. Lit by arc lights, Peter picked out a couple of military trucks and a black car. He lifted his binoculars to his eyes, but dropped them quickly. He reached into his pocket for a handkerchief and wiped away condensation from the eye-pieces. Looking again, he saw two Zittau Robor LO 4x4 military trucks. The car was a Zil 4104, a prestigious limousine used by the great and the good from Moscow. His vehicle recognition was pretty sharp.
‘Blimey,’ Peter whispered under his breath.
What’s the Zil doing here? Who exactly do they have on board?
‘Sir!’ It was a call from one of his team. ‘Car coming, sir.’
Peter looked to his left, back down the road into the dark of the forest. The headlights of a car flashed and dimmed as the vehicle bounced down the potholed road in their direction. He walked out onto the tarmac, reaching for his military-issue, right-angled torch which was clipped to his belt. He stood in the middle of the road and turned the torch on, pointing it at the oncoming car. He swung the torch from side to side, the beam following.
Slow down!
The car came to a halt in front of him. The passenger door opened. A mid-sized man in an untidy tweed overcoat got out.
‘Hello, old chap. Are you Major Brown?’
Peter turned off his torch and stepped forward.
‘Yes. I’m Major Brown.’ He offered his gloved hand. The man, whose face was now illuminated by the lights of the Zone Area, took it limply and shook it. He looked pale and
deskbound. But didn’t seem unduly concerned to be out in the forest near midnight, opposite the not inconsiderable firepower and minefields of the Grenztruppen.
‘I’m Derek. Good to meet you.’ He looked around, picking out Peter’s team and the Army captain, who waved at him nonchalantly from the driver’s window. He then looked through Peter and across at the entourage on the far side of the Zone Area.
‘Binos?’ He pointed at Peter’s binos whilst continuing to look across the 400-hundred-yard gap to the far side of the Zone. His eyes closed slightly as if picking out something in particular.
Peter, a little frustrated by the man’s directness, took the binos from around his neck and thrust them into the other man’s hands.
‘Derek’ spent some time looking at the other side, fiddling with the focus on one of the eyepieces.
‘Mmm. Perfect. Two Robors and a 4104. Good. Just as expected.’ He was having a conversation with himself. The man then lowered the binos and gave them back to Peter. ‘We’ll take it from here. You chaps just do what you do. I’m sure everything will be fine.’
And with that he turned around and got back in the car.
What the…?
Peter moved quickly to one side as the car’s engine revved. It then took off in the direction of the open crossing. The car shot past the black, red, and yellow border post which supported the white-metalled sign displaying, ‘Halt! Hier Grenze!’ It was now in the Zone Area.
He had been surprised by the speed of it all. No paperwork. No detailed explanation. No nothing.
The border was open. MI6 were now heading on through. He was a bystander.
‘Oh well…’ He shrugged.
He watched the British car, a dark brown Ford Granada, make its way into the Zone Area. It slowed as it crossed the makeshift wooden bridge that the Grenztruppen had laid earlier in the afternoon, allowing vehicles to cross the anti-tank ditch. And then it stopped about halfway between both sides of the Zone. One of the street lights from the patrol road picked out the car’s brown vinyl roof.
Peter raised his binos, adjusting the eyepiece. From the far side, the Zil had also taken off, leaving the two trucks behind. It moved forward slowly. After about a minute it stopped ten yards short of the Granada.
Then nothing happened. Both vehicles were stationary, all doors remaining firmly closed.
Still, nothing happened.
What if the shit hits the fan? What if somebody starts shooting?
In that instance, it occurred to him that they had nothing planned. There was no contingency. This was his first ever exchange. If this didn’t go well, he had no idea what to do. Yes, he had a troop of the Army’s best on call. But, if they were needed, wouldn’t that be a precursor to World War Three? Could this evening turn out to be the equivalent of the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand? Was Osterode the present-day Sarajevo? As his mind whirled through all the possibilities, his back became drenched with sweat.
What have I got myself involved in?
After 25 years’ loyal service in the Army, Peter had only made it to the rank of major. Realising that he was going no further, and having married a local German girl, he’d applied for, and was accepted into, the BFS – an organisation where little of consequence happened. You patrolled the border, took photographs of installations, and accompanied senior people on visits. The latter was a sort of military tourism. And then you went home in time for crumpets and medals. It was a retired officer’s dream.
I didn’t expect this!
He shivered as the cold finally caught up with the sweat that clung to his back.
He had to concentrate.
Blinking, he focused back on the two cars.
Still nothing. No one had moved.
Then one of the Zil doors opened; a man got out. Immediately the passenger door of the Granada did the same. Derek got out. Both men walked forward, meeting in the gap between the cars. Peter had a good view. They appeared to be having a fairly relaxed exchange. But there was no shaking of hands. The talking finished, Peter saw Derek nod his head, and both men returned to their cars.
Derek opened the rear door of the Granada. A big man, who had to stoop to get out of the back seat, stood up and looked east. Peter guessed he was staring toward his homeland. He wore a long, dark coat. His hands were tied in front of him.
A second man got out of the Zil. He was smaller and dressed in a jacket, a light-coloured shirt and a tie. His hands weren’t tied.
He must be cold.
All four men walked back to the centre. They stopped a few yards short of each other. Peter kept the binos firmly pressed against his eyes.
The tall prisoner (or spy?) with Derek stood impassively. He towered above the other three men, nonchalantly looking around, taking in the scene.
He slowly turned his head to his right, glancing back over his shoulder. He seemed to be looking directly at Peter.
‘Shit!’ Peter exclaimed under his breath.
He didn’t recognise the tall man. But he would never forget him: a square face, a crew cut, and a thin mouth. Even at this distance, you couldn’t miss the man’s eyes; they were penetrating. And then Peter saw the scar on the right side of his face. A deep line from his forehead to his cheek. With the horizontal shadow of his brow, it created a cross on his face – like an aiming mark. Add that to his size, Peter knew that he was looking at a man who he wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley.
It was a fleeting exchange. The man wasn’t really looking at him – he was too far away to make a connection. But the experience unnerved him to his core.
Peter shivered.
And then it was over. The tall man and the cold man changed places; the latter shuffling – the former crossing the gap in a couple of strides. The cold man shook hands with Derek, and the tall man embraced the passenger from the Zil, almost smothering him.
Then they all got into their cars. The Zil started to reverse along the track and the Granada did a three-point turn using the vehicle patrol lane. As the Zil continued its slow reverse, the Granada gingerly crossed the makeshift bridge, and then picked up speed as it left the Zone Area. It didn’t stop at his checkpoint, but drove unceremoniously through a muddy puddle a few feet from Peter. Dirty water splashed his trousers and covered his boots.
‘You bastard.’ Peter spat out the words as his eyes followed the Granada into the darkness of the forest.
He looked back to the Zone Area. The Zil’s rear tail lights were flickering in the distance, soon to be extinguished by the brow of a hill. The two Robors were manoeuvring themselves so they could also drive away.
It was over. Mission accomplished.
That’s that then?
DECEPTION
Chapter 1
Komsomolskiy Road, Moscow, Russia
Present Day
Sam spotted Alexei across the busy road, standing at the Frunzenskaya 3-ya bus stop. He was dressed casually: blue jeans, grey sneakers, a cream shirt and a light blue sweat top. He was carrying a black neoprene, laptop-sized case. He wasn’t looking in her direction, instead he was staring intently at, what Sam guessed was, the bus timetable. There were four other people with him. They looked like strangers.
Good.
That was the first signal: him, unflustered at the bus stop, checking the timetable. Once he had caught sight of her, he would take the next bus heading northwest, and travel just two stops. He would alight at the 1-ya stop and go into a cafe, The Karsotty, just off the Komsomolskiy Road to the south. He’d find a booth in the corner where his back could be against the wall. There would be at least one spare seat at the booth, and one of the seats would have a view of the main door. He’d order a drink, recce the toilets to see if there was a rear entrance/exit, and then he’d retake his seat. If he was uncomfortable with the meet he would abandon the cafe and make his way home. If that were the case, Sam would arrive, sit on her own, drink something – taking her time – and then go home. They’d arrange a new meet later.
The fact that he was at the bus stop, reading the timetable, was the first indication that all was well and their planned meet could go ahead.
Sam bent down to tie a shoelace. Not only were Doc Martens a very comfortable boot for field work, they had the advantage of having shoelaces that could be tightened when you wanted to pause without drawing unnecessary attention to yourself.
She glanced back across the road. A white single-storey LiAZ bus with green livery had pulled up. It obscured her view. A few seconds later it pulled away leaving an empty bus stop. Alexei was on the bus.
Sam stood up and nodded gently to herself.
So far so good.
If she dawdled it would take her 20 minutes to get to the cafe. By which time Alexei would hopefully be sitting comfortably, halfway down a latte and ready for their meet. It was standard Secret Intelligence Service (SIS) practice for low-level ‘collaborations’ – the 5 Cs: Contact, Check, Carry, Connect, Communicate. They’d done Contact and Check. They were now onto the Carry. She was surprised that couples having affairs didn’t approach liaisons with the same level of furtiveness.
Sam checked her watch. It was 6.45pm and, after a warmish day in Moscow, it was starting to get dark. Crossing the Moskva River on the way here, she’d noticed a thick band of clouds heading in from the east. With it would come colder temperatures, heavy rain, and, after a few days of unbroken sunshine, probably some thunder. The kitchen window in her flat would leak all over the worktop. She was glad she had remembered to move the breadbasket this morning.
Sam was halfway to the cafe. Using the organisation’s excellent IT system (colloquially named ‘Cynthia’), she had recced the route using their souped-up version of Google Street View. It was indelibly etched onto her memory. She knew where all the building fronts started and finished. She picked out trees she recognised from the clip, signposts and pedestrian crossings. The only unfamiliar things were the vehicles and the people. And a hole in the pavement where some workers looked like they were digging in a new pipe. When she was training in Portsmouth, she would test herself. And the colour of the main door into the second building is? Is it the next lamp post that has a ‘Residents Only’ parking sign on it? Or the one after? She had always answered her own questions correctly. She never missed a thing. It was a gift that had served her well, both as an analyst in the Army, and latterly with SIS. She didn’t mean to be boastful, but she knew she had an extraordinary eye for detail, and a retentive memory that appeared to be boundless.
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