Being of a particular gender wasn’t on that list. Indeed, nor was transgender. SIS didn’t care what your sexual orientation was, unless your preferences made you susceptible to blackmail. So, you were encouraged to come out – leave nothing in the locker, so to speak. Recent history showed that more members of SIS were asked to leave the Service for financial impropriety above any other indiscretion. Insurmountable debt was easily the most effective way to turn an agent. She should know, SIS played that card all the time when recruiting informants.
She had a mountain of a day ahead: back briefs from three teams; a meeting with the Chief concerning the clearing of the deployment of another operational team to Syria; and a session across the Thames with Joint Intelligence Committee (JIC). Her in-tray was overflowing.
And, on top of that, she had a thick, ‘pink’ (designated SECRET) file on the corner of her desk. It had been there since she had called for it on Thursday. All its contents, some of it going back to the 70s, had been scanned and were available on the SIS secure cloud. But, Jane found it so much easier fingering through a wodge of paper, rather than scrolling down document after document on her LED screen. And, when there were this many papers and folios dating back 40 years, holding all that history in a single file added further weight and context to the subject matter.
The file was titled ‘PIERROT’, the single word typed on a white sticky label. It was held together by a thick, red elastic band. Hanging from the band was a piece of scarlet card, about four inches wide by two inches deep; a marker. Typed on the card were the words: Very limited Signatories: Special Handling Required. A secret file with a secret marker. Red: the highest level of classification within SIS’s security hierarchy.
Jane was the custodian of the file. That responsibility weighed as heavily on her as the safety of all of her in-country teams in the Middle East. It was a responsibility that had been passed to her by her previous boss, David Jennings, just before he retired – he could have given it to anyone, but for some reason had chosen her. And it was one of the nation’s most closely-held secrets. The full file was only available to four people: the chief, the prime minister, the permanent secretary and her. A thinner file, without the Pierrot title and with chunks of vital intelligence expurgated, could be accessed by appropriately authorised SIS staff. But even that file, which was only available in e-form, was ‘marked’ with an orange label: Special Care – Authorisation Required.
She’d called for the file on Thursday because an alarm algorithm had alerted her to the fact that someone had accessed the lesser e-file earlier in the day. She was always alerted when a member of staff opened the e-file; or contributed to it. And, last Thursday, that someone was Sam Green. Sam had not added to the file, she’d just read it. And knowing Sam Green as Jane did, she would have read it from cover to cover, memorising it all.
What was Sam up to? She was a case-officer in Moscow (and not a very effective one, if you listened to her boss). And whilst the Russian connection was clear, what was Sam’s interest in Nikolay Sokolov?
Jane could pick up the phone and speak to Sam direct, or get Simon Page to back brief her on what was going on. Neither of those really suited – the last thing she wanted to do was to set some hares running; not all over the Pierrot file.
What to do?
She thought for a second.
That’s it, I’ll get Frank to chat to Sam.
‘Claire!’ Jane raised her voice so that her PA would hear her.
Claire poked her head round the door.
‘You could always use the intercom.’ There was a hint of a smile.
‘I know. Sorry. Look, could you ask Frank to come and see me before close of play today?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Preferably before I walk over to the JIC. And, could you be a darling and make us some coffee?’ Jane grimaced – she hated asking Claire to run domestic errands for her. She waved her hands at the mountain of work on her desk.
‘Us being you and me?’
‘Indeed.’
‘OK.’
As Claire walked out, Jane reached for the pink file and started to remove the red elastic band.
DISINTEGRATION
Chapter 8
Outside the Lubyanka Building, Moscow
OK – let’s do this. Sam strode purposefully toward the main entrance of the Lubyanka. She and Vlad had exchanged texts earlier in the afternoon; they’d arranged to meet at the front desk. The meeting was due to start at 5.15pm and she was already 30 minutes late. In her defence, it had been a very long day – and it wasn’t over yet.
Since lunchtime she had been dressed like a lumberjack’s daughter, having discarded her oily clothes at Nizhny Tagil airport. She replaced them with some ‘too big for me’ jeans, a light brown, heavy cotton shirt with more button-up pockets than was necessary, and a red and black-checked padded jacket – all of which she had bought in the airport lounge. The shop was called ‘Hunting Attire’, or the Cyrillic version of the same. It was the only clothes shop in the building. The upside of wearing this lot was that she looked somewhat in disguise – if Sokolov’s men were waiting for her at Moscow, they wouldn’t be looking for an undernourished wild boar stalker.
She’d spent another 15 minutes with Sabine, looking over patients’ notes, before having a strip wash in the surgery’s bathroom and then heading straight to the airport. Sabine had agreed not to mention Sam’s visit, but to let MSF know that she had come to the radioactive water solution herself – by process of elimination. Sam had assured her that she would follow up on the oil company (and she would). All MSF needed to do was to come to the right medical conclusion, make some noise, and then let the authorities follow the logic.
Hopefully ExtraOil would come a cropper. But Sam had a feeling that Sokolov’s influence was stronger than some minor MSF protestations; there would probably be a cover-up.
At least the villagers would now be safer than they had been. Although, as Sabine had pointed out, radiation poisoning was difficult to reverse in some, impossible in many.
So, Sam needed to follow through with the ExtraOil investigation. She knew that the company had global operations that might be using the same processes. If they were, then more people would become sick and some would die. She had to put a stop to that.
She jogged up the ten or so steps to the main entrance of the building. Vlad was waiting for her at Reception on the other side of the metal and substance detector. When Sam passed through without a beep, he looked at her as though he was seeing her for the first time.
‘Did you bag any?’ Vlad asked.
‘What?’
‘Any deer. Or bears?’
Very funny.
‘Very funny, Vlad. No, and it’s a long story. Which, at some point in the future, I might share with you.’
‘OK.’ He smiled. ‘We’d better get going.’
Vlad led them upstairs to the fourth floor, but to a different operations room. The team was the same, but had expanded. There were two more Russians in the room. They all acknowledged each other – the Russians seemed cautious, as though having a member of SIS in the same room cramped their style. After the pleasantries, Sam sat down on a spare chair facing a screen. The slide displayed was a bunch of photos of Arab-looking men, all but one taken at odd angles, clearly without their permission. Only one, a ‘red-carpet’ shot, had an accompanying name: Prince Khalid bin Fahd. Next to the screen was a large-scale map showing most of middle-Asia and the Saudi peninsula. The map was devoid of supplementary markings.
‘Welcome, Miss Green.’ It was the usual Russian lead, Matvei Popov. If he felt any contrition for the recent failed drugs op, he didn’t show it.
He pressed a button on the remote a couple of times; the slides flew backwards. The resulting image was of a Russian naval captain (Sam recognised the badges immediately).
‘Captain 1st Rank Mikhailov,’ Matvei started. ‘He’s an ex-submariner. Commanded the nuclear-powered TK-202, a boat wh
ich has recently been decommissioned.’ Popov was looking directly at Sam. She was having her own catch-up slide show.
The Russian pressed his remote and an image of the submarine appeared on the screen. He paused, letting the information sink in.
Sam decided to show off, just to make a point.
‘It’s a Typhoon-class, or Akula using your terminology; a ballistic missile boat. Commissioned in 1981, laid down at the Sevmash military shipyard in Severodvinsk, probably, in 1983. They carry 20 SLBN ballistic missiles, each with ten multi-launch nuclear warheads. They are powered by two nuclear OK-650 pressurized water reactors. Your navy built six of them. This is the last boat to be decommissioned, I think, in the same shipyard.’
Take that, you arrogant bugger.
There was a pause.
‘Very good, Miss Green.’ The congratulations came from one of the new men. He leant forward and introduced himself.
‘My name is Nestor Abrahamov. I am a Captain 3rd Rank in the Russian navy, also a submariner. Captain Mikhailov was my boss. I was his warfare officer. My colleague here,’ he gestured to the second new Russian to his right, ‘is from the Rosatom, the Russian State Atomic Energy Corporation, based in Moscow.’
He sat back his chair, making himself more comfortable.
Still facing Sam, he asked, ‘How come you know so much about our submarines?’ It didn’t come across as a pointed question.
‘It’s my job, I guess. I’m ex-army. But you all know that – it’s in my file. Anyway, that led to me having a particular interest in military equipment from around the world. And I have a good memory. No more than that.’
‘I see.’
Matvei brought them to order.
‘We need to move on. For you Miss Green, some further background. Captain Mikhailov went missing two weeks ago. He has not been found. The initial assumption was that he had taken himself into the woods and decided not to come back. Submariners are a particular breed. Hard-working, intense, loners, who are often uncomfortable in the wider world – later in life they have a propensity to “disappear”.’
‘Do you mean suicide?’ Sam asked.
‘Yes, and no. Once they’ve commanded a boat, the pinnacle of any submariner’s career, a few feel there is nothing left for them. Apart from, maybe, a crate of vodka and a long stay in the forest. We did expect the captain to surface at some point, maybe with an excruciating hangover. Or, someone would find him whilst walking their dog, with a shotgun in his mouth and missing the back of his head.’
Sam glanced to her right. Captain Abrahamov was slowly nodding his head. He knew how the captain might be feeling.
‘Except, we now believe that he is not in the woods.’ Matvei pressed his remote. A map of the Saudi peninsula appeared. ‘We understand that he’s currently in Saudi Arabia. Exactly where, we’re not sure. We had the briefest of tails on him. Unfortunately, after he attended a party led by Osama bin Fahd, the third son of the Saudi Prince Khalid bin Fahd, we lost him. And he hasn’t surfaced. Yet.’
Sam was slowly putting the picnic together. But she was short of some chicken legs.
‘So, he’s having a knees-up with the unacknowledged fundraiser and quartermaster of al-Qaeda, who’s based in Riyadh. I’m guessing you people know that?’
‘You’re very well-informed, Miss Green. Yes, we did know that. But we don’t know much more than that. That’s why we’ve asked you here today. The British have very close links with the Saudi government and, as I understand it, your network is strong in the country. We are better placed in Iran and Syria – as you know. But if Saudi Arabia is central to this operation, as we think it is, we all need to pool our resources.’
That’s an admission. Although, Matvei, I wouldn’t discount our reach in both Iran and Syria.
‘Go on,’ Sam pressed.
‘Ordinarily, a rogue naval captain rubbing shoulders with a lesser member of the Saudi royal family would be interesting, but not critical to the FSB. However…’
Matvei pressed his remote again.
The new slide was of the shipbuilder’s yard at Severodvinsk.
‘This image just paints a picture. As you may be able to tell, it’s the yard at Severodvinsk, in Arkhangelsk. They have the responsibility for decommissioning the TK-202. A job they were doing adequately until Pavel here,’ Matvei acknowledged the Russian from Rosatom, ‘carried out a periodic inspection last Monday. Pavel.’
Pavel leant forward so he could see Sam.
‘One of my jobs is to check the dismantling and decommissioning of the reactor – the nuclear reactor that powers the boat. There are hundreds of checks that must be carried out, one of which is measuring the weight of the 32 spent fuel rods – to ensure that all of the radioactive material has been accounted for.’
Sam now had the whole picnic; including a gingham rug.
She didn’t mean to be a smartarse, but couldn’t stop herself.
‘And, when you weighed the rods, even after you discounted minor mass loss due to thirty years of nuclear fission, you found that some of the highly radioactive Uranium 235 and other isotopes were unaccounted for.’
‘Exactly. And I checked the fuel rods three times. And had a second inspector flown in from St Petersburg to redo my calculations.’
‘How much is missing?’
‘Thirty kilograms.’ Pavel opened his eyes wide and tipped his head, feigning his own surprise.
‘Almost not enough to notice, if you were casual with your inspection.’
‘Exactly.’
‘And nowhere near enough to make a nuclear device.’
‘No.’
Sam was on a roll.
‘But more than enough to make a dirty bomb.’
‘Precisely.’
Sam leant back in her chair. There was constant discussion in the office concerning the movement and loss of Russian nuclear fissile material from weapons silos, and even power stations. But no one had ever been able to verify a lead.
Until now.
‘Our view is that Captain Mikhailov has created an opportunity for the uranium to “disappear”. And that he has established contact with al-Qaeda in Saudi Arabia, with the intention of selling the material for subsequent use. After some pressing, naval intelligence has informed us that Captain Mikhailov has a penchant for small boys and cocaine. It’s an expensive habit which exceeds his meagre salary. He has to pay for it somehow.’
Sam raised her hand to her head. She was so tired, and the heavy cotton of her new hunting shirt was rubbing under her arms. It was going to make a very fine duster.
Pushing her weariness to the back of her mind, she ignored the naval officer’s disgusting habits, but focused, instead, on the theft of the radioactive material.
‘Thirty kilograms of radioactive uranium wrapped in, let’s say, low-grade, mining-quality, PE 4 – which you can pretty much buy off the shelf. Apply a detonator. Load it into the boot of a car, and you have the third-worst imaginable terrorist weapon,’ Sam said.
‘What are the other two, Sam?’ It was Vlad.
She turned to him.
‘A nuclear device, first. A biological suitcase, second.’
Sam knew all about the second one. She and Henry Middleton had prevented an Ebola attack on central London five years ago. If the Ebola had been released, initially thousands, and then thousands more, would have been infected.
She turned back to face Matvei.
‘Do we know the intended target?’
‘No. Pick any major European city. Park up, and then explode the device, showering everything within half a mile with nuclear debris: shrapnel with a radioactive half-life of 700 million years. Leave aside the initial casualties, the lasting effect would be to close a significant portion of a major city for years. Maybe decades. Pick Frankfurt’s Bankenviertel. And then “Boom!”’ Matvei used his hands to demonstrate an explosion. ‘The whole of the European mainland’s financial sector goes into meltdown, if you’ll excuse the pun.’
&n
bsp; It was one of the most terrifying opportunities for any terrorist. And much easier to pull off than Sam’s first two scenarios. There was no known terror cell anywhere that had the wherewithal to build a nuclear bomb. If it were that simple, Iran and North Korea would both have one by now. And, whilst it had been attempted in London, keeping a biological agent alive prior to release was incredibly difficult to do.
However, blowing up some nuclear fissile material was easy – if you could get your hands on a small amount of used nuclear fuel, and you could find someone who was prepared to work with it. Anyone spending more than ten minutes near the uranium would be sick for a week. Half an hour and they would likely die a premature death. But, as suicide bombers were two-a-penny on streets of Kabul, Damascus and Baghdad, finding a volunteer for this sort of work would be easy.
‘Where do we think the missing pieces of fuel rods are at the moment?’ Sam asked.
‘In Russia, we believe. But we don’t know where,’ Matvei answered.
That’s a pretty big place to start looking.
Over the next two hours they discussed opportunities and responsibilities. Sam was tasked with engaging with SIS in Riyadh, to see if they could piece together any of the jigsaw. London would also get involved, and that would mean speaking to Jane. Finally, they all agreed that, for the moment, this would be a two-country op. No other nation would be involved. Sam didn’t need to press on why the FSB hadn’t involved the CIA at this point. It was a pride thing. The US-Russian relationship was in a bad way. And whilst the Europeans were hardly flavour of the month, the FSB were prepared to deal with countries like the Brits when there was an overwhelming need to share intelligence.
The Innocence of Trust Page 15