Chapter 7
Double Coffee, Vuktyl, Western Siberia, Russia
Sam chewed on the end of the biro that the waitress had lent her. She read the lines of Cyrillic she’d written on the back of the postcard. It had cost her 75 kopeks – which included an internal stamp – from the kiosk in the small mall in central Vuktyl.
Dear Lucya, thank you for looking after me. I’m so sorry for your loss. Time is a good healer - I have first-hand experience of what you are going through from a long time ago. Keep the faith and thanks again. Sam - Jim’s cousin xxx
She filled in the address, a vague: Lucya, Chief’s Secretary, Oilfield Number 7, ExtraOil, North of Salekhard, Russia. Her experience of the Russian mail system was that it was efficient. The postcard would reach its intended recipient. Her thank you to Lucya, the over-pierced, purple-haired soap lover, would get there. Eventually. She had one last look at the photo on the front of the postcard: it was a babushka doll. Lucya may not notice, but what caught Sam’s eye was a strip of tartan tied around the doll’s waist. Jim would be pleased. In any case, it was either a card with the doll, or choosing one from a set which included: dull, local administrative buildings – or hunters, equipped with guns, stood with their feet on a slaughtered wildlife. No thanks.
Lucya got a thank you card with a tartan doll on the front; Sam knew she owed her a good deal more than that. She was sure the secretary had kept her pursuers at bay.
Sam had made best possible speed south from the oilfield, on the dirt and gravel ‘road’ that was the only way out. The track was raised about half a metre from the surrounding tundra, giving it some air from the ice-logged landscape. She drove quickly and competently, the Nissan expertly following her lead. If she ever needed to buy a 4x4, she had just found a new favourite in the Navara.
The track was broken in a couple of places; she had to go off-road to find favourable ground before re-joining it further south. A small bridge had been washed away, but previous trucks had left their mark, leading to a shallow ford 30 metres downstream. None of it was too much for Sam. She had driven a Land Rover in the army for five years, and the Navara displayed a level of grip and determination well above the hugely competent Land Rover. And the heater worked, unlike the Land Rover; the latter still used a system designed in the 50s – when men were men, and heaters an afterthought.
She knew she had a head start on Sokolov’s men; she was pretty sure that’s who they were. Unless she broke down or had an accident she didn’t expect to be caught on the 100-kilometre trip to Salekhard – unless one of them was Mika Häkkine.
However, they did have an Mi-8. Every moment of the two-and-a-half-hour journey, she’d expected to hear the wocker-wocker of the helicopter’s blades cutting through the cold morning air. Sam had turned her work phone off, so if it were being tracked they wouldn’t know exactly where she was. But with only one route, and driving a 4x4 in livery that shouted, ‘I’m over here!’ she would be easy pickings for anyone.
In the end, nothing happened. The journey was incident free and, after about half an hour, she really started to enjoy herself. It was like a big game of kids’ hide and seek; cat and mouse in muscular vehicles. She loved it. However, the accompanying adrenalin rush which remained topped up until she got to the outskirts of Salekhard and took some minor roads, had taken its toll. By the time she’d hit the centre of the town and found a covered carpark, she was shattered. And hungry; a coffee also high on her ‘must have’ list.
Actually, what she really needed to do was read Jim Dutton’s notebook. And then formulate a plan – much more than she needed to be fed and watered; but she was ambidextrous. She would manage both.
Walking quickly, she’d found a cafe a few blocks away, and ordered the biggest, sweetest coffee on the menu, some toast with cured meat, and a sickly-looking cake. She knew she didn’t have much time and couldn’t afford to hang about in Salekhard.
Eat and read (together) – then scat.
After ten minutes of using the cafe’s WiFi, accompanied by mouthfuls of food and slurps of coffee which somehow made it to her mouth, she had a way ahead. Jim Dutton’s notebook didn’t have any more OMG moments after the first page – but there were lots of very interesting notes, covering investigations into Sokolov’s businesses. It was nothing that any half-competent person with a computer couldn’t have unearthed, but it was a couple of weeks’ worth of really helpful and enlightening investigation that she now didn’t need to do.
The impact of Sokolov’s illegal and highly dangerous venture in the Salekhard oilfields and beyond, had wide-ranging and far-reaching impact – exactly how far, Jim hadn’t been able to fully uncover. From his notes, Sam focussed on one of Sokolov’s other oil fields, a fracking site, in the eastern Urals; near a village called Arbat. Sam had never heard of it. She Googled it and, after the usual Wikipedia and TripAdvisor entries, found a report from two days ago. It was linked to the Médecins Sans Frontières website in Moscow. The report was signed Dr Sabine Roux. Her address block tied her to Arbat at the same time as the report. Jim would have been dead before the report had been published.
Sam picked out the bones of the report which was titled: Cas médicaux insolubles – Arbat, Russie. Her French was not great, but she got the gist: MSF were working in two villages in the eastern Urals; both were crammed full of unexplained illnesses; at least three deaths had been reported; at present there was no obvious medical explanation.
Sam had one.
It was on the front page of Jim’s notebook.
She found Arbat on Google Maps and did a time and motion assessment. She couldn’t fly; well she could, but she’d expect to be met at Moscow airport by an unwelcoming party. She had a vehicle. A very good vehicle. But it was hardly inconspicuous. She could hire a car, but that would mean using one of her aliases, which she assumed were compromised. Finally, she could take a train and/or bus. But she really did want to get somewhere – soon.
Time check: it was 11.35am, Sunday morning. She’d email M later and throw a sickie for tomorrow. That gave her a day and a half to do what she had to do, and then get back to Moscow.
Moscow was 800 miles away down half-decent roads, southwest. She’d be spotted in the Nissan, unless she took a circuitous route which would add to the journey. Arbat was 500 miles due south. On less-than-promising roads. But they wouldn’t be expecting her to travel south? And there was a provincial airport at Nizhny Tagil, close enough to Arbat; they flew to Moscow twice a day. Sorted.
Oh, and she’d been using her phone. If someone in SIS were interested, they’d now know where she was. Time was therefore pressing.
And that’s how she now found herself in Vuktyl, four hours’ drive south of Salekhard. Penning a postcard to Lucya, whilst drinking her second dark, sweet espresso in the unimaginatively named Double Coffee. She was exhausted and needed sleep. The Nissan’s satnav reckoned she had another 496 kilometres of partially tarmacked road before she got to Arbat. At her current pace, she reckoned she could make that in seven hours. It was 4.35pm. There was an early morning flight from Nizhny Tagil to Moscow, which she knew she couldn’t make. Not without propping her eyelids open with matchsticks. The afternoon flight was at 3.30pm. Get to Arbat for dawn. Have a chat to the good doctor. Drive the 100 kilometres to the airport. Book in at the last minute. Back to Moscow for early evening. That might just work.
That gave her about four hours’ leeway – to get her head down. She’d do that in the Nissan, which was parked in a two-storey carpark a block away. Although, she really did need a shower. And a post box. She might not manage the shower.
Ping. It was her phone. Bugger. She’d not turned it off having just had a quick check of any messages.
It was an email.
From Vlad!?
Sam opened the secure mail, and before she read it, swiped to settings and turned data roaming off.
Hi Sam, hope all is well. Like me, you’re probably having a tough weekend.
More than yo
u could imagine…
I thought you might like to know that we are pulling together a short-notice operation for early next week. It’s concerning the movement of ammunition (will explain in more detail when I see you). And there could be a Nikolay Sokolov dimension, who I believe you are interested in?
What? What does he know? Chrissake…
We’re hoping to meet late Monday once we have further intelligence. I’m persuading the team here that we need SIS input. And they owe you.
Let me know.
Have a good Sunday.
Vlad
What the flaming hell was going on? Why would Vlad know she was interested in Sokolov? Was this why he was telling her to be careful? Did the FSB have a file on Sokolov (of course they did), and was she now on that file? Is that how he knew?
And what ammunition?
She had enough intelligence in Jim’s book to wrap Sokolov in irons and throw away the key. And Sam was convinced there was more. Much more. If this new FSB op added to the case against him, then all the better.
She turned her phone back on and selected ‘Reply’ to Vlad’s email.
Vlad, things okay here. Getting lots of fresh air to sort out my head. Definitely up for the Op. Will need to clear my lines with the boss. Have a busy day on Monday. May be late for the meeting - but will make best endeavours to get there.
Thanks for thinking of me. Sam
She pressed ‘Send’ and switched data off again. She’d make that meeting, even if it killed her. Before then she had an unscheduled meeting with a doctor, and, just now, she had to find a post box. And, if possible, some hot water.
40°44'41.9"N 28°07'59.3"E, in the Sea of Marmara, South of Istanbul
She’d never felt so lonely, so without contact. It was getting dark and she hadn’t seen that woman all day. There had been no lunch. No tea. By now she would normally have had three sumptuous meals – all served on a silver platter by that woman. Feeding her, making sure she was in good health for the daily ritual.
He’d be coming soon. Wouldn’t he? In some ways, she longed for it. For the certainty that things hadn’t changed; that they hadn’t got worse. That she wasn’t being left to wither away; or punished for having her period. Or something her mind didn’t want to comprehend. She could cope with the brute coming at her if it meant that things were as they were.
She’d even made the bed. That woman had taken away the bottom sheet, but had left her with the top one. So, she had carefully made the bed. She had also covered herself by wrapping a towel around her middle so, if she bled, it wouldn’t get on the sheets – she’d try very hard not to stain them again.
Click.
The sound of the lock in the door being turned.
It was him? It would be early for him – and initially she felt sick, her knees involuntarily pressing tightly together. But, if it were him, it would bring certainty. Which is something she longed for more than anything else.
And then the real horror started.
It wasn’t the brute; it was the two men who had picked her up from Athens in the first place. They burst into the room carrying ropes and sacking.
Are they taking me somewhere? Maybe they’re going to tie me up and put me ashore? Leave me to be found! Yes, that’s what’s going to happen.
How wrong could she have been?
They did tie her up. Roughly. The ropes on her bare skin were so tight she let out a yelp. And then they threw an old hessian sack over her head, pulling it down so it hung around her waist. They then strung a further rope around her neck.
Gasp! She struggled to breathe. The rope was so tight!
Help me! She couldn’t call out. She was fighting for air. Words were an impossibility.
Gagging, she was flung over one of the men’s shoulders and, in the partial darkness that was her world inside the hessian sack, she thought she was taken up some stairs and then outside onto the deck. She could smell the fresh sea air, a cooling wind played with the naked flesh of her legs.
Someone was fiddling with the rope at her feet. Tying something. Attaching something.
Oh God! No!
She didn’t have time to think through what was going on – it was all happening too fast.
No! Please, no!
She screamed through the throttling rope; her shallow cry lost as her body was flung overboard, the gym weights that were attached to her feet immediately followed. Then, as they both hit the water, the weights pulled her down to the bottom of the Marmara Sea.
As the foam on the water dissipated, one of the men took out some snuff from his pocket and snorted a pinch. He remained by the chrome railings of the superyacht, staring out across the water at the lights of Istanbul in the middle distance – the six, tall slim towers of the Blue Mosque lit like sandy-coloured space rockets prior to lift-off. It was an awesome sight, especially at night, looking across from the sea.
‘Bring on the next one,’ he said in perfect English.
Apartment 14B, Spiridonyevskiy Road, Moscow, Russia
Simon Page was irritated. And when he was irritated he had to do something. Share his frustrations. He’d phone Richard Warden, the ex-copper. Throw some smoke. But before he did that, he’d pour himself another scotch – it was probably one too many, but he was beyond caring. It was late, past 11pm. Too late, probably, to call one of his team – on a Sunday. But he needed to take his angst out on someone. And with his wife now back in the UK staying with her mother, he had no other targets.
It had been a fascinating, but deeply frustrating weekend. One, in the end, that he couldn’t fathom. Green had hopped onto a plane to Salekhard (of all places), taken the train north to the arse-end of the universe, and then driven due south as if her next stop was Tehran. OK, so she was static now, but her trajectory looked forever downwards.
What the fuck was she playing at? She’d got involved with that reporter, messed up a perfectly workable FSB drugs smuggling op, and was now gallivanting around the Russian hinterland as if her arse was on fire. He’d kept an eye on her because that’s what he was being paid to do. And it had been amusing to watch the fool for a while. But now, it was dull. He had no answers as to what she was up to. He really didn’t. It was all a bit of a mess. And, as the Section Head of Her Majesty’s very Secret Intelligence Service, he felt emasculated. By an ex-sergeant – from the Intelligence Corps! She didn’t even serve in a proper Regiment, like The Guards.
And she’d had the audacity to text him earlier to say that she wouldn’t be in tomorrow – as she wasn’t feeling too good. Stupid cow. What did she take him for? He’d give her what for when he next saw her. He would.
Of course, ordinarily, he’d know what she was up to. She’d be working on an op, or running an agent; there’d be an agreed plan. If things weren’t quite right, she’d be in touch. By now he, or one of his team, would have called her. They would know exactly what was happening. The fact that he didn’t know made him feel inept. Stupid. He didn’t do stupid. He couldn’t afford to do stupid. Not now. Not at this time. Not when he was getting close to finishing. Completing both his contracts.
He walked across his fine Persian rug to the beautiful mahogany drinks cabinet that was in pride of place in his sitting room. He picked up the bottle of Fortnum and Mason select, ten-year-old whiskey – one of three delivered every month from London. It was almost empty. He poured the remnants into the cut-glass Waterford crystal tumbler, the brown liquid naturally finding its place a third of the way up the glass. He raised it to eye level and studied it mindlessly. It was definitely one too many. He knew that now. That was his weekends: ones too many.
How long did he have left with SIS? Two years. Twenty-three months to be precise. He could probably get out of Moscow six months before that. In its current state, his mind struggled to do the maths. Seventeen or eighteen months? And there was the other thing. Could he really keep both going for that long? Did he have the stamina? The resolve?
He had no choice. He had nowhere to go.
He had to stay – to see it through.
And that was fine a couple of months ago. Before the lesbian Green turned up and started doing her own thing. He had to get a grip of her. He really did.
Page picked up the phone and speed-dialled Richard Warden. The man would pick up. That’s what spies did when heads of sections phoned in the dead of night.
‘Hello M. Is there a problem?’
‘What’s Green up to?’ He didn’t have the energy for pleasantries.
There was a pause on the line. In the old days, there’d be some clicking or bleeping to let the callers know the phone was, or was not, secure. That didn’t happen nowadays. It was all secure – and all perfectly natural. Not a hint of delay as the encryption algorithms did their work at lightning speed.
‘I don’t know. Having a weekend off after a pretty difficult couple of days?’
Simon scoffed, and then took a sip from his glass.
‘Well, I thought you were a close buddy of hers? Apparently, she’s not feeling so good. Probably time of the month…’ That was the whiskey talking.
There was another pause. Was the copper in cahoots with Green? Were they a team? His befuddled brain was concocting all manner of scenarios which, in a sober moment, would have been rationalised out before they surfaced.
‘Ehh… I don’t know. I did see her on Friday night. She was upset, but looked well enough. I’m not sure what’s happened over the weekend.’
You saw her Friday night – you dirty old…
He had to get a grip before he said something that he would later regret.
‘She’s called in sick. Won’t be in tomorrow. Pop round and see her first thing, would you? You know, just to make sure she’s OK. And let me know how that goes. Heh?’
The Innocence of Trust Page 13