The Innocence of Trust

by Roland Ladley

  She and Vlad sat back in their chairs. Sam sipped her coffee while focusing on the screen. It displayed a map of about 500 square kilometres. At the bottom was Herat, Afghanistan. At the top was the southern tip of Turkmenistan, showing the border town of Serhetabat. There was a single road joining the two; north-south. Or in the case of the smugglers, south-north. The display gave little indication of the terrain, although they could switch on the satellite overlay if they wanted. On the FSB system, this slowed the updates to a frequency that was not helpful – so they kept it clean.

  What was important was the flashing blue dot. That was the SIS mobile, pinging a satellite fix every three or four seconds. Assuming it was working, the team knew exactly where the phone was. Which was hopefully where the agent was. Which was hopefully where the drugs were.

  Hopefully.

  Sam had spoken with Julia earlier. The agent had been in touch with Kabul that afternoon. All was well. There were no changes to plan.

  It was now 5.45pm; 8.15pm in Afghanistan. The flashing blue dot was three quarters of the way to the border following the main route, which on the map looked like an A-road; in reality it was an untarmacked sand and rock track, just wide enough for two trucks to pass – if they did so carefully. The dot was moving at about ten kilometres per hour, the average speed for a jingly truck on the back roads of Afghanistan.

  Sam had come across jingly trucks on her tour in Helmand five years ago. In Afghanistan they were as notorious as yellow cabs were in New York. Old Mercedes, GMs and other trucks, vans and buses, painted in outrageous colours and then highly decorated with flowers, icons, ribbons and metal streamers. The streamers were made from painted chains that hung from the bumpers. It was the chains that ‘jingled’, hence the name. The problem with the ornate decoration was that it made old, slow trucks even slower and unstable to the extra weight. And, with most of the windows also painted, drivers had more blind spots than a blinkered horse. They were fun to look at, but were to be avoided at all costs. Julia had told Sam that the convoy consisted of two jingly trucks: a Merc and a Datsun.

  At this rate the convoy would be at the border in 40 minutes. And, Sam reckoned, at the earlier junction in 30. She sincerely hoped the flashing blue dot blinked its way past the junction without pausing.

  They’d know soon enough.

  35° 3' 55'' N 62° 15' 25'' E, On the A77 Heading North to the Turkmenistan Border, Afghanistan

  Haseeb was woken from his fitful sleep by the sudden stopping of the truck. He checked his watch. It was 8.45pm. They should be at the border shortly. He stuck his head out of the back, pushing aside a tarpaulin which hung down to prevent dust from settling in the load bay.

  It was pitch black, except for where the headlights of the lorries lit up some of the potholed road, the ditches either side and the rising banks which faded into darkness after a few yards. Both engines were still running, but above that sound he heard men talking. He recognised a couple: the leader and the driver of the front truck; but there was a new voice which was unfamiliar to him. High pitched and agitated. He tried to listen for some words, but at this distance it was a blur.

  He sat back in the truck, his backside on a sack of nuts which was part of the dummy cargo: around 150 hides and pelts, 10 bags of walnuts and 50 Afghan carpets and rugs.

  And 250 bricks of congealed opium sap.

  He knew how to make exportable opium. His brother’s farm had a single field hidden in among other rudimentary crops, such as wheat. He’d helped slit the poppy seed pods, burnt black by the sun, and collected the browny gum in crude pottery bowls. And he’d seen his brother meld the thickening gum into a brick and cover it with leaves, further wrapping it in paper, and then tying the bundle with string. One brick weighed about a kilogram.

  And one brick was worth $100 under the counter on a good day at the Kabul bazaar – a tenth of its worth outside of the country. Haseeb could do the maths. In the back of his truck they had $250,000’s worth of pure opium gum. The very best Afghan rug would sell in Islamabad for 10,000 rupees to a willing tourist; that’s about $600. If you ignored trader mark-up, they’d need to be carrying ten times as many rugs as they currently were to get the equivalent value of their opium stash. And he knew the rugs they had were not good quality and worth a fraction of a decent one. Opium was considerably better value than carpets.

  He’d read somewhere that Afghanistan produces around 2,500 fine rugs a year. Against that, the US illegally imports half a million kilograms of Afghan heroin.

  Do the maths.

  Anyone who thought poppy fields could be eradicated from his country without replacing the income with something sustainable was out of their minds.

  He stared through the gap between the tarp and side of the truck. As he did, he checked the phone again, pressing a button – watching to see if the screen lit up to show that it was working. It was.

  Relief.

  His was in the rear of the two trucks; all he could see through the gap was a cloak of black, except for the shards of stars which lay like broken glass on the sky’s dark coat. Twinkling. There was no one else on the road, not at this time of night. It was all blackness.

  It was in that one moment of calm, the one time in the last couple of days when he actually felt some peace, that his world began to unravel.

  ‘Haseeb! Out, now! We must move the cargo. Quickly.’ The leader was unhooking the chain that held the large tailgate in place. It pivoted and fell with a loud, uncomfortable clunk, metal against metal, onto the bottom steel of the truck.

  ‘Come, quickly – I will show you.’

  Haseeb’s mind was spinning. What is happening? Where is the cargo moving to?

  He scrambled after the leader as the man strode to the front of the lead jingly truck. Where all became clear.

  The headlights of the lead truck illuminated a branch in the road. The main road bore left slightly. To the right, a lesser track headed off into the blackness. There was no signpost; no indication of where it was heading. On the new track, with its back to them, was a dark-coloured pick-up truck. And a man – someone Haseeb had not seen before.

  ‘Here – you and Mohammed,’ the leader gesticulated to another man who was travelling with the convoy and was now at Haseeb’s side, ‘put all of the cargo in the back of the Toyota. Understand?’

  Haseeb nodded. He understood exactly. The drugs and the convoy were parting company; here at this junction. That was not good news for the British – nor him. Not good news at all.

  Twenty minutes later he and Mohammed were close to finishing the transfer of the opium to the pick-up. The work had made him hot and sweaty, but what he was now about to do would raise his temperature further. He needed to use the phone. He needed to let the lady in Kabul know what was happening. And he needed to do that now.

  As he finished putting the last three bricks into the back of the pick-up, he turned to the leader. ‘I must go for pee.’ Haseeb nodded his head in the direction of the back of the trucks, indicating where he would relieve himself.

  And find somewhere to send an SMS. Somewhere safe.

  ‘Go quickly. The convoy must move on. We are expected.’ The leader unnecessarily tapped his wrist.

  As Haseeb walked between the two trucks he raised his hand to acknowledge the driver of his truck. The man ignored him, as he had done throughout the journey. The side window was open. Haseeb was sure he smelt burning opium.

  He walked a few metres past the truck and stopped by the edge of a ditch.

  With his hands shaking, he lifted the hem of his thawb and went through the motions of going for a pee. At the same time, he used his spare hand to retrieve the mobile from his pocket. He tried to text with his free hand, but poor dexterity beat him. He couldn’t even get his address book to open.

  He looked over his shoulder. Nothing. Just two trucks with their headlights on and their engines running.

  He used both hands. Within 15 seconds he had written:

  At junc
tion short of border. Drugs transferred to another truck. Looks likely to go in another direction.

  He pressed ‘Send’.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  Haseeb almost dropped the phone. He turned quickly and saw the driver of his vehicle standing menacingly behind him.

  ‘Give that to me!’ The man, who stank of opiate, grabbed Haseeb’s hand.

  ‘No, it’s mine!’ They wrestled for a few seconds.

  Their short squabble was interrupted by another man’s voice. The voice of someone who Haseeb knew would be the end of it all.

  ‘Haseeb. What are you doing? What have you got there? Show it to me!’

  It was the leader.

  He wasn’t high. He wasn’t drunk.

  He was a single-minded, ruthless smuggler. And most likely Taliban. He would get what he wanted. By whatever means. And Haseeb knew that, when asked, he would answer all his questions. What courage he had was gone. There would be no escape. There would be no future in the West for him and his son.

  It was over.

  Flat 17, 3125, Prechistenskiy Road, Moscow

  It was 2.15am. Sam was feeling light headed. She was halfway down a bottle of the Embassy’s reasonably quaffable Malbec. It had been a helluva day and now, drowning her sorrows with a bottle of red, she was finishing off her letter of resignation. The cursor on her secure Chromebook blinked at the end of the sentence, ‘I understand that SIS expect all of their new case-officers to serve for at least three years; I am happy to pay back any monies owed to allow for my departure as soon as practical.’

  She had £45,000 in savings, the product of a life devoted to work and not much else. She wasn’t sure if that would be enough, but she didn’t care. She would find the money somehow. She certainly couldn’t go on like this.

  Sam was surprised at how sanguine she was about it all. How calculating; unemotional. She wasn’t tearful. She wasn’t about to break down, to reach for a bottle of pills, or, as was normally the case when she felt this low, hit out at something. Last time she’d been this down – really down – was when she’d discovered that her only surviving relative, Uncle Pete, was dead. Then, she punched in a toilet door at SIS headquarters in London, breaking a finger in the process. Her frustration normally spat itself out as rage.

  Now, after the loss of the Afghan agent (that was Julie’s supposition when the phone stopped blinking), the failure of the op, and the humiliating SMS she’d received just after midnight from M:

  You’d better have a good reason as to why Op Michael has catastrophically failed. I expect a full report on my desk on Monday morning. We have some explaining to do to London.

  …She felt detached. As if all of this was happening to someone else.

  Add this to Alexei’s death, and maybe M was right? Maybe she wasn’t cut out to be a case-officer? Maybe her approach with Alexei had been naive. She’d been too keen, too quick. Cut too many corners? And Op Michael. Why hadn’t she been persuasive enough to get the second crossing covered?

  I am rubbish at this.

  The Russians had been very quiet after she’d read out the text from Julie.

  Just got an SMS from our agent. Drugs have been cross-loaded to another vehicle and are heading in a different direction. The Op is compromised. I don’t hold out much hope for our man on the ground.

  The Russians hadn’t acknowledged her previous protestations; that she’d made the point twice before to cover the second crossing. Instead, they had needlessly seen the operation through, even after the blue dot had paused for 20 minutes at the junction, and then headed off in a different direction. Spetsnaz had stopped the convoy an hour later; finding nothing – just carpets, hides and nuts. Then, the Lubyanka team had passed around a bottle of vodka. Ten minutes later, just as Sam was leaving, they had opened a second. Vlad, who hadn’t been drinking, had followed Sam out. He’d said something along the lines of, ‘You were right. All along. I’m sorry we didn’t listen to you.’ He’d then touched her shoulder and repeated the previous warning. ‘Be careful, Sam. Be careful.’ She’d tried to get him to explain what he meant, but he’d shuffled her out of the front door of the Lubyanka building into the darkness.

  What had he meant, ‘be careful’?

  Sam, unnerved a little by his concern and still edgy after the attempt on her life by Kuznetsov in the Tesla, took every precaution heading back to her flat. She hailed the second taxi – never the first (it might have been waiting for her) – straight home. And, on the way back, with so many conflicting thoughts in her mind, she decided that she would get out of Moscow. And out of SIS. Altogether. She knew she’d promised the beautiful reporter that she would find Alexei’s killer. And she reminded herself that she’d said ‘damn the consequences’ only a couple of days ago to following that route.

  But… it was hopeless. She was hopeless.

  I am hopeless.

  Sorry, but I am. Read the stats.

  Her Chromebook pinged. A message? At this time of night, it was probably an advert. Earlier in the week, when she still assumed that she had a future in Russia, she’d been looking at downhill skis – winter was on its way and Sochi was a half-decent resort. Doubtless this was Amazon reminding her that she’d yet to order some poles, boots, salopettes, jacket. And Colin Firth.

  Sam was a good skier, but she always skied at the very edge of her ability. As a result, she was only ever one misjudged turn away from skiing through the resort and into the pharmacy. She was a Bridget Jones fan, so could recall the imagery.

  Colin Firth. Mmmm.

  Sam topped up her glass. She was going to have a headache in the morning.

  Except the email wasn’t from Amazon. It was from Frank. Secure. She checked her watch. 2.30am. Half-past midnight in the UK.

  What the hell was he doing in work at this time on a Friday night?

  The fog cleared; sobriety returned, just.

  The title of the email was: Blue Suit. It read:

  Hi Sam,

  CIA have eventually come back to me. They have an 85% prob on Blue Suit. His name is Iosif Ergorov. An ex-East German, and Stasi member. He’s on the US’s most wanted list. He’s a pro, with several confirmed hits. Works to the highest bidder. They think it’s unlikely he’s linked to Russian state, but can’t rule it out.

  I’ve asked around the office here (I’ve yet to speak to Jane, but will do on Monday when we’re both back in Babylon - she’s currently in Tel Aviv), and the view is, if you mix Ergorov and Sokolov together, you get a highly explosive, ruthless and very thorough team. Everyone thinks you are poking at a wasps’ nest with a very short stick.

  Have you shared the case? If not, do so. This is bigger than you are, even if you do have the German Order of Merit!

  Get real and be safe.

  And you know where I am.

  Finally, sorry about Op Michael. Julie has been in touch. Bad news all round. Poor man.

  Frank

  Sam’s fingers hovered over the keys piecing together a reply. She thought better of it – for now. She reduced the email tab and stared at her letter of resignation. She read it. And then read it again. A tear formed in the corner of her left eye. It trickled down her cheek and fell onto her nightie, leaving a grey stain on the white cotton cloth. She reached for a tissue from the pack on the kitchen table.

  Not tears again?

  She sat there drying her eyes. For some reason, her mother came to mind. ‘Now, pet. There, there, cheer up. It’s not as bad as all that? You must do the right thing. Forget yourself. Help others. And they will help you. It all comes around.’

  She leant back on her stool and stared at the ceiling. Tears welling up in her eyes with nowhere to go. Two small reservoirs on her face. Pathetic.

  She was facing the same two choices. Fight or flight. What had she to lose? She had no friends in Moscow. She had few friends back home. And she’d made a promise to a beautiful stranger.

  I made a promise.

  It was Friday… Doh! Wrong!
Saturday morning. She had a free weekend.

  She looked back down at the kitchen table, drying her eyes as she did. She reached for a pen and pad and scribbled down a daisy-chain of connections: Her to Alexei. Alexei to Professor Vasiliev with some unknown communication which likely caused Alexei’s death. The arrest of the prof. Alexei murdered by Blue Suit, aka Iosif Ergorov – an ex-Stasi pro. Me knocked down by Bogdan Kuznetsov. Bogdan Kuznetsov linked to oligarch Nikolay Sokolov, who had a case file that she had only had a chance to flick through. A case file with an orange marker: Special Care – Authorisation Required.

  She stared at the paper. She drew a line through Alexei’s name – God, that hurt. She then drew prison bars around the prof. She tapped her pen on the table. A repetitive sound. Tap, tap, tap, tap. Something was gnawing at her. Think, girl, think! She vowed never to drink again. Yeah, like that’s going to happen.

  At the bottom of the page she wrote down Alexei’s message: ‘We need to talk about SH and his work down south.’

  Nothing.

  Tap, tap, tap, tap.

  Still nothing.

  Tears again now. Not of sadness, but of frustration. She scrunched her fists up in a ball and gritted her teeth; tense as an overwound spring. She closed her eyes, a single tear rolling off her right cheek.

  Come on!

  Nothing. Then…

  Shit, that’s it! The final link. Squaring the circle! From yesterday afternoon at the university with Mrs Liquorice Allsorts – Professor Vasiliev’s likely stalker (Get a grip, girl, this is no time to be flippant).

  Professor Vasiliev’s work email had a single exchange between himself and… (she scrunched her eyes together again, trying to remember the name – the wine still playing with her synapses). Jim Dutton, a QA at ExtraOil.