As the cogs turned and with Green continuing to stare through him, the devil on his shoulder almost got him to blurt out ‘Show us your bruise, Green.’
Thankfully order and sanity prevailed.
‘Okay. Put a report together, along with any notes and findings from the cafe job and pass it to me. I’ll look at it.’
Green checked herself.
‘Thank you, sir. I’ll get that to you by close of play.’
‘Good. How’s Op Michael looking?’
She seemed surprised by his question.
‘On for tomorrow night. I’m not altogether happy that FSB have their bases covered, but I’ve done what I can.’
Page bit his tongue and stopped himself from smirking. Who the hell do you think you are?
‘Well, I’m sure they know what they’re doing. Anything else?’
‘No, sir. Thanks.’
She turned and left the office, pulling the door to.
Page blew out and stretched in his chair. He closed his eyes and concentrated.
Of course, there was the other issue that always dogged him. He had it under control. He was confident of that. But, he’d have to continue to play his cards carefully to make sure that things remained ‘just so’.
Sam was back at her desk in no time. She wrote on her pad: brief for M by COP.
What an idiot. Simon Page was a complex and difficult character. She knew that he was from a different age, and hadn’t been able to keep up with change and progress. He was old-school; brought up in the Cold War. Blue versus red. Good versus evil. He couldn’t cope with omnidirectional threats, multi-faceted intelligence, and cross-agency cooperation and planning. It was the speed of everything nowadays. It was, to an extent, a young person’s game. Sometimes, even she struggled to keep up.
Straight out of training, Sam had kept herself to herself. But she had got to know the Moscow team very quickly, mostly by research rather than face-to-face. She’d discovered that five of the case-officers were Oxbridge grads. M, whose degree was from Bristol, treated them like royalty. Other than herself and one other, the remainder of the team had degrees from a half-decent university and were treated fairly. However, she and an ex-copper, Rich – who she was beginning to like, were graduates of nowhere. As a result, M barely gave them time of day.
The most frustrating thing was the way he treated women. His PA was a bit of a battle-axe and their relationship seemed fine. But the seven other women on the staff all got their fair share of being leered at. Except Sam. She never felt subject to his wandering eyes; she always felt fully-dressed when she was in his company. Perhaps he thought she was gay? What a laugh.
Stop!
Come on girl, work to do.
Cynthia was still looking, a little circular icon whirring away in the top-right corner of the screen. But there was an email from Frank. She opened it:
Hi Sam,
Nothing on Blue Suit, I’m afraid. I guess your next step is the FSB? I’ll keep looking. I’ve also had a dig around Moscow Talks. Again, nothing that I guess you don’t know about. We were beginning to take the website seriously here, so that may have been a good enough reason for someone to close it down. And no connection to anyone with the initials SH either.
Sorry I can’t help. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do.
Keep safe.
Frank x (Jane sends her love…)
The last line hurt. She missed her old boss, Jane, and the team back at Babylon. It reminded her of how vulnerable she felt. It was unpleasant enough working for an idiot and having no friends to speak of. The fact that she was now on someone’s hit list, having lost her only hand-picked agent, compounded the misery. Her side ached, work was dull, her Russian compadres treated her as if she were only there to make the coffee, and winter was coming. She’d caught the end of it when she’d arrived six months ago. The cold penetrated everything, and the dark evenings added to the gloom. What was she doing here?
What am I doing here?
‘Hi, Sam, everything OK?’ It was Rich, the ex-copper.
‘Ehh, sure. Thanks.’
‘I saw you hobbling about. Have you hurt yourself?’ He had a concerned look on his face. The fact that someone in the building was taking an interest in her made her momentarily well up. She coughed, to hide any embarrassment.
‘It’s a long story. I got hit by a car yesterday. I got away with bruises, thankfully.’
‘Shit. No way? Have you seen the doc?’ He was gently shaking his head.
‘No, Rich, thanks. It’s just bruising. I’ll be alright. Really.’ She smiled at him.
‘What sort of car was it?’
What? That’s an odd question?
‘Oh.’ Sam laughed. ‘A Tesla. You know, all electric. Crept up on me like a Marine. Didn’t hear it coming.’ She was about to continue with the whole story, but something stopped her. Protect your sources. ‘It’s my own fault. I’m an idiot. Should’ve paid more attention to the big green giant at school.’
‘It’s the Green Cross Code, Sam. You’re thinking of the huge smiley bloke with the sweetcorn.’
Sam laughed. ‘Yes, of course. You’d know. Ex-bobby ‘n’ all.’
It was Rich’s turn to laugh.
‘Well, let me know if there’s anything else I can do. I’m just over there.’ He needlessly threw a glance across the office. She knew where he sat.
‘Thanks Rich. Means a lot.’
Rich left for his desk just as Cynthia came up with an answer:
C 199 JK 67 – Tesla Model S – Maroon – Registered keeper: Bogdan Kuznetsov
Sam pushed back on her chair. She breathed in through pursed lips, making a whistling sound, and then exhaled, the pitch of the whistle lower as the air escaped. Deep down she hoped the keeper would be a Sacha Hagaev, or similar. SH. But, it was something; she was now considerably further ahead than she was five minutes ago.
Two leads: Professor Grigori Vasiliev, and now Bogdan Kuznetsov.
That’s enough to be getting on with. She looked at her watch. It was 10am. An hour of further research on both men, ten kilometres on the treadmill, and then off to see Professor V. Before that she’d reply to Frank’s email. Sam typed away:
Dear Frank,
Thanks. Could you be a darling and have a dig around a Bogdan Kuznetsov. It’s linked to this whole thing.
Sam xx
She didn’t want to share any more of the detail. She was already using Frank to access national and international security records, when doubtless he had plenty of work to do. But the desire to share everything she had with someone, nipped at her heels.
Farm Compound, On the Outskirts of Herat, Northwest Afghanistan
Haseeb Ahmadi wasn’t coping well. He kept feeling in the pocket of his thawb for the mobile the British had given him; just to make sure it was still there. He was fidgety and, even though the temperatures were dropping after another blistering summer, he was constantly having to wipe his brow as the sweat dripped down from underneath his soft, brown pakol. He was feeling so self-conscious that he was sure one of the other men would notice.
Was he stupid to do this? To risk everything for a colonial favour?
No, there was no other choice. The British had made him an offer he couldn’t refuse: he and his son would be out of Afghanistan by the end of winter. To set up a new life in the West. Away from the madness that was his beloved country.
It had to be worth it; had to be.
For what seemed like an eternity his life had been a sea of misery, punctuated by troughs of despair.
First, in the late 70s, were the Russians, bringing with them their tanks, their ill-discipline and their disrespectful ways. He’d lost his sister to a Russian soldier. She had been taken in the evening, dragged from their house by her hair. They hadn’t seen her again. She was just 13.
Then the civil war, north versus south, Islam versus Islam. The Taliban were the stronger – protected by the Americans! Colour had been washed from his country over th
at decade. No music, no laughter, no culture. No kites. No kites! It was the darkest of times – religious fervour stronger than any state police; intra-family fear now a new building block of their fractured history. That’s when Mohammed, his brother, was lost. Fighting for al-Qaeda against the ‘infidels’ in some far-off country.
The Americans were next. Cruise missiles, laser-guided bombs and more instant death than the country had ever experienced. The soldiers were kinder, but the devastation seemed more indiscriminate. At least the Russians had let the countryside run itself, focusing on the cities and major towns. The Americans and their allies meant well, but all they did was spread the horror. Yes, at first there was a semblance of peace, but nobody can run this lawless country. It was like pressing on a cow’s bladder. Push too hard and someone gets wet. And smelly.
And that’s when, heartbreak of heartbreaks, he’d lost his wife and daughter. It was an American or a British airstrike. They were shopping at the local market. He heard afterwards that a senior Taliban official had been killed.
They didn’t report the collateral cost. One wife and one daughter – among ten others.
It was then, three years ago, that he’d made a vow to Allah: to find a better life for his only son.
Haseeb was a qualified engineer. He’d trained at Islamabad in Pakistan. Three years of hard graft. He’d worked as a surveyor, initially in Masar-i-Sharif; he’d followed the work to the north of his country, leaving his family in Kabul. But once the Russians had invaded, work dried up and he returned to Kabul to help tend his dead brother’s land. Times were tough, but they were moderately happy. To keep his mind alive, he learnt English and Russian. He was colloquial in the former, having picked up a good deal at university; he was poor at the latter. What he didn’t know was how useful being an English speaker would be later in his life.
After the civil war, and once the Americans were ensconced in Kabul’s Green Zone, he’d applied for a job as an interpreter. What remained of his family bristled at the notion of his working for the Americans. For them it wasn’t a religious thing. They were all honest Muslims; not extremists. They had coexisted with other religions all their lives. Allah was central to their existence, but so was compassion and neighbourliness. Everyone was welcome into their house. Colour and creed were irrelevant.
What his wider family feared were the repercussions because one of theirs was working for the ‘infidels’. But they needed the money. And Haseeb had to use his brain.
In the last couple of years, whilst there remained an uneasy peace in Kabul, the Americans were drawing down and the Taliban was resurgent. The Afghan tricolour was replacing the Stars and Stripes. And with it came opportunity for the extremists.
It was about trust. Whilst you couldn’t avoid their bombs, face-to-face you could trust the Americans. And the British. But who else could you trust? The Afghan soldiers may have been American trained, but what was in their hearts? The police were the same. Money was the only thing that glued everything together.
But fear was even stronger than money. Much stronger.
And Haseeb had made a vow to Allah – he was determined to keep it.
So, here he now was. Working for the British, after being approached in the Green Zone four weeks ago.
He was in a part of the country he didn’t know. Close to the Iranian and Turkmenistan borders. And about to help deliver a group of hard-men into the hands of – he had no idea. The British didn’t tell him. All he was told was to stay with the drugs and keep the mobile with him. He knew the route to the border and he knew when they were going to set off. He didn’t know the final destination. And he didn’t know when the convoy would be intercepted.
But, should everything go well, the British had promised to help him and his son leave the country to a better life. That, surely, was worth every risk?
And he trusted the British.
His right hand fell to his pocket as he checked again that he still had the mobile phone. His left, accompanied by a handkerchief, patted the sweat from his brow.
Moscow State University. Sparrow Hills, Southwest Moscow
Sam took in the 36-storey central tower of Moscow State University. She was in the park that stretched out in front of the huge, neoclassical sandstone building. She’d never been to the university before, so had read up on it this morning. It was big. In every way. The main tower was one of seven ordered to be built by Stalin throughout Moscow at the turn of the last century. Labour was cheap – it was bussed in from the Gulags. But there was no denying the outcome: quantity having a quality all of its own. The place was massive. And attractive, in a ‘bigger-than-you’ sort of way.
Sam was just about to cross the main road that ran in front of the university when police sirens held her back.
Two blue and white Chevrolet Cruzes and a Mark 4 Ford Transit with barred windows.
She couldn’t stop herself.
Then she was over the road. She sort of knew where the Geology department was and headed in its general direction. This morning she had looked for Professor Vasiliev on the staff list of the Gubkin University, which specialised in oil and gas, but hadn’t found him. She eventually uncovered him on the staff at the main State campus, under ‘Geology’.
Inside the building, directions were as limited and confusing as in a British hospital. Eventually, after 20 minutes of semi-aimless wandering, she found a big wooden sign above a doorway on a main corridor: Geology Faculty. Just inside, on a metallicised board with heavy plastic nametags, was a list of all the senior academics – accompanied by their room numbers. Halfway down she found: Prof. Grigory Vasiliev PhD MSc BEng – Room 6157A.
Sam had another five minutes of fun down several minor corridors until she came across 6157A. Stood outside the door was a policeman. He looked about twelve; an oversized grey-topped, red-banded peaked cap plonked on the back of his head.
If he sneezes, it will fall off.
A couple of women were milling about, looking like they were busy but more probably were being nosey.
Sam walked up to the closest one and asked in Russian, ‘Is Professor Vasiliev around?’
The woman was short and matronly. She wore a black and grey tweed skirt, a white blouse (which was only just managing to contain her ample bosom) and a thick, black knitted cardigan. Sam assumed she had just fallen out of a bag of Liquorice Allsorts.
The woman blew out through her nose contemptibly and waved her arms at the policeman by the door.
‘These pigs,’ she dismissively shook her hand in the direction of the policemen, ‘have taken Professor Vasiliev. And now they are ransacking his room.’
Sam thought she spotted dampness in the woman’s eyes.
Like a caring daughter, Sam took the woman’s elbow and drew her away from the professor’s door. The woman waddled as she walked and, now with momentum, led Sam to another office. It was small and looked secretarial.
Sam spotted a kettle in the corner by the window.
‘Can I make you some coffee?’
The woman plumped herself down in an office chair with a sigh, next to an ageing VDU computer screen. She replied, ‘Yes please.’
Sam wasted no time.
‘Why have they taken the professor away?’
The woman paused for a second. ‘Who knows? Who ever knows? They took away the vice-chancellor last month without a by-your-leave. The State has gone mad. It’s going backwards, into the dark ages.’
The woman’s view surprised Sam. She was probably mid-40s. In Sam’s experience, middle-aged Russians seemed to long for the stability and order of the communist era – a time where Russia was an international power, everyone had a job, and a blind eye was turned to a heavy-handed State that dealt swiftly with dissent.
Either this woman was unusual, or the arrest of the Professor had flicked a switch.
‘Have you no idea? Was he working on something?’ Sam checked herself. ‘Sorry, are you his secretary?’
The woman took out
a handkerchief and blew her nose. The noise filled the room.
‘Yes, I am.’ She dabbed her eyes. ‘He was lovely. Kind, intelligent, normal. And very generous.’
Sam placed a black coffee in front of the woman, and sat on the only other chair in the room. She looked around for clues. What she got was an overriding sense of order and cleanliness, with files and books lined up smartly, like a company of soldiers. And, to the right of the woman, was a small area of personal effects placed on a couple of shelves. Photographs, neatly arranged postcards and a set of babushka dolls – Sam counted ten, small to large, left to right. There was a small vase of wild flowers, and some pink ribbon hanging loosely from the top shelf. And then the veil lifted. The area was a shrine. The photos were all of the professor, or the woman with the professor. In the centre, pride-of-place, was an elaborate gold-framed photo. It was of the pair of them stood side by side, outside of the main university entrance.
Sam pointed to it.
‘That’s a nice photo.’ She let the comment hang.
The woman looked at it wistfully.
‘Yes, it was our 10th anniversary.’
That set too many cogs whirring for Sam.
‘Of what?’ Her enquiry was soft.
‘Of me becoming his secretary.’
Sam could sense that the professor’s secretary was on the edge of tears. She glanced at her watch. She had to get back to the office tonight. Tomorrow was Op Michael, she had a brief to write for M, and she had several other things on her list. She placed her hand on the woman’s shoulder. With the professor locked away, she needed an ally in the building.
‘I’m so sorry. The State can be very heavy-handed.’
The woman turned to Sam, a fire burning behind the damp eyes.
‘They’re all bastards. From the top down. We had a chance when Mikhail was in charge, but the money has spoilt everything. Get rich quick and blow the consequences! And now, with that thug on the throne, what chance do we have?’
The Innocence of Trust Page 6