The Innocence of Trust

by Roland Ladley

  Sam assumed the Mikhail she was referring to was Mikhail Gorbachev. The president who allowed the Iron Curtain to fall.

  ‘I know. I know. It’s all very sad.’ Sam now purposefully looked at her watch. ‘Look, Miss…?’

  ‘Mrs Popov.’ The woman smiled, her mascara now beginning to show signs of moving south.

  ‘I’m from Moscow Talks, the web-magazine. Did the professor ever mention it?’

  The woman thought for a second. ‘No, not that I remember.’

  ‘One of my colleagues was in communication with the professor. His name was Alexei Sokolov. Unfortunately, he was killed in the cafe explosion the other day.’ Sam let the woman think for a second and then continued. ‘I wonder if you have any recollection of my colleague; any emails, anything that might help me piece together what the pair of them had been discussing. I think it’s quite important.’

  The woman bristled and pulled away from Sam.

  ‘I couldn’t possibly. I don’t even know who you are.’ She looked over her shoulder as if searching for one of the policemen. ‘You could be one of them!’

  Calm down.

  ‘I’m not. Trust me. Please. The professor and my friend were discussing something which I think may have led to his arrest. If I can get to the bottom of it, I may be able to help him. And get revenge for my friend.’ Sam thought she saw some cogs turning.

  ‘Please.’

  The woman turned to face her computer screen and with a deftness that belied her size, she expertly started working the keyboard and mouse.

  ‘Let’s beat these bastards!’

  Sam left the university only slightly better informed than when she had arrived. The secretary had scoured the professor’s calendar, his recent files and his work emails. Sam had helped her unearth double-deleted mail, a simple enough trick she’d been taught in training, but there wasn’t a great deal to go on.

  There was nothing in his diary that had Alexei’s name on it. Nothing for Moscow Talks. And there was nothing unusual in his mail except a single exchange from an ExtraOil email address; a chap called Dutton, ExtraOil’s QA. What was interesting was that the email was in English. It read:

  Hi Dimitri! It’s been a while…

  All’s well here. Same old shit, different uniform.

  I have something interesting to talk to you about that I don’t want to share on company time. Do you have a personal email that we can use?

  Thanks.

  Next time I’m in Moscow we’ll share a bottle. My shout.

  Jim

  The professor had replied and had copied into the reply his personal Gmail address, which Sam clocked. The secretary didn’t have access to this new account. There may have been a trail on the professor’s own machine, but with the Russian police currently all over it like a rash, there was little Sam could do at the moment.

  Thinking ahead, the problem Sam had was that she’d need M’s authority to hack the Gmail account – that was SIS protocol. Currently she had no authority at all. She’d add it to her brief. And if nothing was forthcoming, she could always rely on Frank. Bless him.

  As she strode purposefully for the metro she checked her secure mail. There was something from Frank.

  Sam,

  Checked out Bogdan Kuznetsov. He’s in the oligarch, Nikolay Sokolov’s, inner circle. You may know him: owns a rugby Super-League club in the UK; made his money in Russian commodities; multiple businesses all over the world; has a huge superyacht. Important: he has the ear of the Russian premier. They served as KGB agents together in the early days.

  We have a huge file on him in the cloud - but you have access to that. Cursory check is clean, but only just. Interestingly there is an orange marker on the file.

  Seems to me that you have crossed a line. I obviously don’t have the whole story, but you need to be careful.

  Nothing else on Blue Suit. Sorry.

  Be safe.

  Frank x

  Sam looked up from her phone and came to an abrupt halt.

  Shit!

  What was going on? She looked around. The entrance to the metro was a few hundred metres away across the park. There were a handful of people in the same space. A woman pushing a pram. A man sat on a bench. A jogger. Some others. Which one was keeping an eye on her? Whose sights was she in? She instinctively set off again, turning randomly left and right across the grass – like a rabbit with myxomatosis.

  Stop! Stop it!

  She checked herself again.

  Come on! Get a grip!

  She walked normally. Direction: the metro.

  No one was going to take out an SIS case-officer in broad daylight? It was a question, not a statement.

  She ran through what she knew: Alexei; Moscow Talks getting braver; a surprise call to meet Alexei to discuss ‘SH’ and his activities ‘down south’; the explosion; Blue Suit; the beautiful and very scared reporter; Professor Grigory Vasiliev, who has been arrested for…?; the Tesla attack, C 199 JK 67, which was registered to Bogdan Kuznetsov – who works for Nikolay Sokolov, oligarch and ex-KGB agent – ear of the premier; and Jim Dutton – a QA for ExtraOil – probably of no relevance whatsoever.

  And Nikolay Sokolov’s SIS file has an orange marker on it. A very clear edict from someone at the top: Special Care – Authorisation Required.

  She had two questions. Who knew about her relationship with Alexei? And what were Alexei and the professor discussing? And a third one just came to her: does Nikolay Sokolov, the oligarch, own ExtraOil?

  Bugger.

  She’d put all of this in her report to M this evening. And then focus on Op Michael – which, just now, definitely required her best attention.

  Chapter 4

  34°08'15.1"N 29°33'14.9"E, Somewhere in the Eastern Mediterranean

  She was sore. The brute had hurt her last night. He always hurt her, but last night her body hadn’t automatically responded to him. He had come at her regardless. He didn’t seem to notice. He clearly didn’t care. As a result, this morning she hurt. And, she knew if she checked, her inner thighs would be red and raw. She was probably bruised as well.

  It was over quickly. That was a small relief. He smothered her. Not with a pillow. He just smothered her. He was big, over 1.90m tall and at least 230/240 pounds. Possibly more. Ugly. Something wasn’t right with his face. And she was petite: 1.55m and now about 110 pounds. Her target weight was 130 – otherwise she knew she looked anorexic. But she’d lost 20 pounds since…

  She couldn’t complete the sentence in her head. Her thoughts were random. Skittish. It was too horrific to think about.

  She hated herself. She hated the fact that her body responded to his assault. Even last night. Eventually. Even though she was crying throughout the ordeal.

  Sobbing.

  As she was now. Lying on the huge bed, wrapped in light grey, silk sheets. Surrounded by opulence, the water slapping up against the side of the boat. Gently rocking. Rocking and sobbing. There was no end to her tears.

  She missed her mom. God, how she missed her mom. And she missed her brother. She struggled with the time difference, especially as she had no idea where she was. But she guessed she was still in Europe, and that he was six or seven hours behind. She opened her eyes and turned her head. The cool dampness of the tear-stained pillow on her cheek was a reminder of how she felt. Ragged. Spent.

  Abused.

  The gold-coloured clock on the bedside table read 6.45am. It would be close to midnight in Detroit. Would he be asleep? Would he be awake thinking about her? Where was she? Why hadn’t she been in touch? It had been at least two weeks.

  Two weeks.

  Although, through the horror, she had to think hard about how long she’d been in this place.

  She normally spoke to her brother every other day; WhatsApp or Skype. Checking in. Just passing time of day. Making sure she was OK.

  She used to. Two weeks ago.

  She let out a sob. A pathetic, frightened sob. More tears ran off her cheeks and
dropped onto the pillow.

  Surely someone would be looking for her? The US was a big country. An important country. It had embassies all over the world. It had the CIA. The FBI. The Army. Special soldiers that came in the night to rescue people. Men with guns that would land on the boat and kill the brute. And that woman. And everyone else on board. All of them.

  She could feel herself smiling. Inwardly.

  She had changed. She never used to think that way. About murder. And killing.

  But now, between sleeping, overwhelming self-pity and uncontrollable crying, emerged revenge. Kill them all. All of them. One by one. Someone like Bruce Willis. Or even Arnold Schwarzenegger. Armed to the teeth. Guns and rockets. Death and destruction. No mercy.

  Her brother liked the older films. She thought Bruce Willis was his fave. Or was it Tom Cruise? Cruise was more furtive with his killing. More discreet. Willis was up front. Shoot first, ask questions later. Mission Impossible versus Die Hard. Her brother had made his little sister watch the films. She’d have rather been watching The Princess Diaries. But now she understood the reality of the world, the real world, she knew it had been a good lesson. A lesson in life.

  She heard the door to the vast cabin being unlocked and in came that woman.

  She hated her. Did she hate her more than the brute? It wasn’t possible. But that woman would be dead in her new world. The new world order. A world subsumed by the worst emotions possible. Fear, loathing, wretchedness, hate. That woman would be second in line. Back against the wall. After the brute. No mercy.

  Just death.

  Death? Now there’s a thought.

  Last night she had scoured the white-faced, gold-edged cupboards and drawers in the cabin for a sharp object. She’d turned the en-suite bathroom, with its immaculate white porcelain tub and basin, upside down for a razor. Nothing.

  She may have wanted everyone on board dead, but last night she needed to hurt herself. She wanted to feel her own pain, generated by her own hand. She’d had plenty of someone else’s enforced pain. That came regularly. Most evenings; sometimes twice. For the last two weeks.

  Last night she’d wanted to inflict some of her own.

  To have control.

  To take out her feelings on herself. Feelings so acute, so deep that, if she could lay them on the dressing table they, themselves, would be sharp enough to cut. She wanted to slice. To see her blood. To feel the relief. To translate some of her grief into something else. Into a physical reality.

  But she didn’t want to die. Did she?

  And she didn’t want to smash one of the many mirrors to find a weapon; the two on the dressing table, the one in the bathroom. The large set on the ceiling above the bed. She could have smashed them easily with one of the three ornate chairs that were placed about the cabin. With the glass splinters she could cut herself so deep she wouldn’t wake up. She’d seen it in the films. Fill the bath with warm water. Get in. Cut. Sleep. Die.

  She didn’t want to do that. Couldn’t do that. She didn’t want to break the place. Not yet, anyway. She wasn’t quite there yet.

  That woman was carrying breakfast as usual. A huge tray of the finest food. Buttered croissants, rich jam in silver bowls, grilled bacon, cured meats, toast, butter, fresh orange juice. All served on bone china. She wasn’t an expert, but she thought the cutlery was heavy enough to be solid silver. The napkins were thick cotton, and the pepper and salt was served in an ornate, silver condiment set. It was like no other hotel she’d ever stayed in before. But it wasn’t a hotel. It was a cell. On water.

  That woman placed the tray down on a small table at the end of the bed. She went over to an electronic box on the wall by the entrance to the bathroom and fiddled with the dial. The A/C kicked in.

  She then came over to the side of the bed and, as per her daily ritual, spoke.

  ‘Please move.’ The accent was strong, but she had no idea where it came from. This was her first time abroad anywhere, away from the States – she wouldn’t recognise a German accent over a Romanian one. She would probably guess correctly if it were French/Italian. She thought she’d be able to pick out the lightness; the lyricism. But this was a heavier accent. Guttural. Strong. Horrid.

  Eastern European? No idea.

  She moved gingerly off the bed, taking the top sheet with her. She was naked. She’d been naked since she’d first been put in the cabin. The only way to cover her modesty was with a bed sheet, or a towel. She staggered over in the direction of the bathroom, holding onto the doorframe to steady herself. She was weak.

  She sat on the loo and peed. With the door open she could see that woman making the bed with, as usual, freshly clean sheets. Smelling of lavender; or roses. No expense spared. And then, as she always did, she seemed to check the bottom sheet for marks. It was an intense check. Looking for something that really mattered. Searching.

  She knew there’d be some staining. Some of the brute’s semen would have leaked from her during the night. She couldn’t prevent that from happening. There would be a mark.

  She cried again. Fitfully, her whole body shaking. The rise and fall of her shoulders sending tears in all directions. The crying an immediate reaction to the reminders.

  Precautions hadn’t been taken. Couldn’t be taken. That woman, whose English was adequate, had spoken to her on her arrival. It was the first sign of the horror to come.

  ‘You on the pill?’

  What? OMG! No! She had cried at that point.

  Until then, she had fought back. Two men had taken her and stuck a gag in her mouth. Eventually her arms and legs had been tied together as they threw her in the small rubber boat on the harbour side in Athens. Throughout she had thrashed about, trying to make contact. Protesting. She hadn’t cried.

  But she had cried then. In the cabin. When that woman had asked her about contraception. Cried at the enormity of what she was likely to face.

  ‘No.’ She’d blurted it out between sobs.

  ‘Any contraception?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good.’ At that point that woman had undressed her. Her protestations had been mild. Resigned. She was made to get in the warm bath – that woman had then disappeared. She had quickly got out, dripping on the lush cream carpet as she made her way to check the door. She gave it a good shake – it was locked. The single porthole was just above the waterline, but it was dark. She hadn’t been able to see anything at all.

  Then that woman had come back in with a tray of food. She left a short while later.

  To be followed by the horror.

  Two hours later, naked, sore, bereft and dumbstruck, she tried to take in the enormity of where she found herself.

  But only tears came. Tears accompanied by a longing to be home. To be safe.

  Now, sitting on the loo looking at that woman, the monster who prepared her for her daily ordeal, tears continued to fall. Torrents of them.

  As she sobbed, that woman came to the bathroom door. She was holding a sheet and pillowcases. She bent down and picked up the sheet that was on the bathroom floor.

  ‘Eat.’ It was accompanied by a point in the direction of the breakfast tray.

  And with that order that woman left, the noise of the door bolting only just registering above the light drone of the A/C.

  The Lubyanka Building, HQ of the Border Guard Service of Russia, Moscow

  ‘Anyone like a coffee?’ Sam stood up, moving away from the 32-inch screen they were all looking at. She headed toward the door.

  There was a general murmuring of ‘no thanks’ from the Russian team, except Vlad who replied, ‘I’d like one. I’ll come with you.’

  They both made their way down the corridor into the small kitchen. Sam filled the kettle while Vlad sorted out a couple of mugs.

  ‘Do you still think the second border crossing is a problem?’ Vlad was leaning against the worktop, his arms crossed.

  Sam absently held the handle of the kettle and stared out of the window. It was just after 5pm a
nd starting to get dark. It would be pitch black in Afghanistan now. She thought about their informant. She wondered what he might be doing. How he felt to be working for the British, now undercover with a bunch of militant drug smugglers. Whether he was frightened. Or shit scared. How he was coping. She was amazed at what some locals would do for a safe trip out of their country.

  ‘I’m not sure. It looks like an oversight if you ask me. If I were them, I would tell my close team one thing – knowing that every group will leak the information if the price is right, and then do something else at the last minute. I don’t know how the FSB train, but we work exclusively from the enemy’s perspective. Get in their mind…’

  Vlad interrupted her. ‘Put yourselves in their shoes and wargame the operation. React as they would react. It’s FSB teaching too, but it’s not always followed. Tonight it will probably not matter. The Taliban are arrogant enough to think they know everything. But I can see that it’s an opportunity for them. If they do take the drugs up the second route, we will have lost them.’

  The kettle was boiling. Sam poured and Vlad offered some milk.

  ‘Yes please.’ She nodded. ‘It’s probably nothing, but this operation has been three months in the planning and, between us, it’s costing in the order of 20 million roubles. That seems like a lot of money to be associated with a plan that’s not bomb-proof.’

  ‘You’re right.’ Vlad let Sam go through the door first. She led them back to the operations room. Just before they entered, Vlad stopped Sam by holding onto her elbow. She turned to face him, absently slopping coffee on the floor.

  ‘Be careful, Sam.’

  Sam had that really unattractive look of consternation on her face, all scrunched up.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Nothing. Just be careful.’ He let her elbow go, and motioned to go into the operations room. The conversation was over.

  What was that about?

  The three other Russian officers were still sitting staring at the small screen. Sam had offered to bring over an SIS Beemer to throw the image onto one of the walls. It would have been better for everyone’s eyes. But, as per most of her suggestions, it was declined.