The Innocence of Trust

by Roland Ladley

  They agreed to keep in touch and meet again in 24 hours.

  Finally, Matvei announced the op was to be called Op Samantha. Initially he’d kept a straight face, but a smile cracked open on his lips when Sam stared him out with a ‘what the blazes…?’ look.

  ‘Think of it as an apology, Miss Green.’

  That had made her feel better.

  At the end of the meeting Vlad showed her to the main entrance. Just as she was about to leave, she turned to him and asked, ‘In your email you mentioned Sokolov. But his name wasn’t part of our discussions upstairs?’

  Vlad smiled.

  ‘Between you and me?’ He used a finger, pointing at both of their chests in turn. ‘Absolutely close hold? No one else – spies’ honour?’

  Sam smiled and nodded at the same time.

  ‘The head of the FSB thinks Sokolov is bankrolling the exchange for a heavy slice of the profit. The problem is, Sokolov and the Premier are very close and, before anyone casts any aspersions, we need to be absolutely certain of his involvement. To be clear, no one else other than the director has this piece of intelligence, apart from me.’ He stopped and then added, ‘And now you.’

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  He almost said something, but stopped himself.

  ‘Just be careful, Sam. Please.’

  And with that, he turned on his heel and walked back toward the lift.

  The Grand Bazaar, Istanbul, Turkey

  Holly Mickelson was in her element. She loved the Grand Bazaar. It was everything she had imagined. A spider’s web of tall, tunnel-shaped avenues, the gothic-arched ceiling a decoration of peeling yellow paint, dark blue tiles, small arched windows and mosaic-styled friezes. The walls were shop after shop, squeezed side by side, their wares bursting out onto the tiled floor from within brick-arched vaults: the gold quarter; the leather quarter; the spice quarter. There were plenty of touristy stalls selling bangles, necklaces and other holiday wares. But, intermingled with these, were serious boutiques offering fine handbags, exquisite porcelain, beautiful jewellery and fabulous, multi-coloured glass lampshades. The colours were all primary; the smells all entrancing; the noise, at times, deafening. Tourists may have been put off by the earlier carnage of the Daesh terrorist attack at the city’s airport, and deadened further by the coup with its ensuing ‘Westerners are no longer welcome in Turkey’ feel, but the Bazaar was still crammed full of people.

  It wasn’t just the colour, the smell, the energy, the tactility of the whole place – it was its furtiveness, its exoticism, the ever-present element of danger. And that wasn’t just because Turkey was in the throes of the greatest change to its geopolitical landscape for over a century – whilst outwardly secular, it was turning inwardly Islamic. Neither was it because nearly all the shopkeepers were men – their dark, oily skin, even when dressed in western shirts and slacks, setting them apart from their American equivalents. It was what all bazaars had been for millennia. A battle; a tussle – even today. Trader versus purchaser. The language was uncompromising, but laced with charm. The shopkeepers forcing themselves on the innocent browser, sometimes grabbing their arm and tugging them gently into their stalls.

  It was alive. Tempting. It wasn’t the front line of one of the many broken countries in the world, but it was as close as Holly was going to get at this moment. She had her Lumix on hand and was taking picture after picture.

  Holly was out with a new friend of hers, one of the junior liaison staff in the Consulate; a ‘buddy’ assigned to her by the protocol officer (with whom they had cleared their evening itinerary). They would start with a meat kebab and chips at a small, inexpensive restaurant in the student quarter up from the Bazaar. Then, they would take in the Grand Bazaar, and finish with a drink on the Galata Bridge, spanning the Golden Horn, looking out across the Bosporus. It was Holly’s first night of freedom after her induction, and she was loving it.

  After the coup, all US staff had been warned only to go out at night in pairs. It wasn’t a rule the Consulate enforced rigidly; the staff were adults and could do as they wished. However, it was mandatory for new single staff and interns; essentially, anyone under 25. In addition, Holly guessed that the protocol officer was probably under strict instructions from the Ambassador in Ankara to ensure her safety. It wouldn’t do for the daughter of one of the Democrats’ future presidential hopes, to be let out into ‘dangerous’ Istanbul on her own. If any harm came to her, the poop would hit the fan.

  ‘Hello, miss! Gorgeous, miss. Your boyfriend is the luckiest man in the world!’ The call, similar to so many she’d received so far, was accompanied by a smile that would melt the hearts of the prudest of women. The man, probably in his early 30s, was gorgeous. The drop-dead variety.

  Until now Holly and her companion had resisted the hard sell, but this tradesman had a gift.

  ‘Ehh,’ Holly could feel herself blushing; she blamed the heat of the night which, inside the Bazaar, was close to 30 degrees, ‘I don’t have a boyfriend, actually.’

  It was the lamest of retorts. She could have kicked herself.

  ‘I cannot believe that.’ It was that smile again. She felt her knees give a little.

  ‘Where are you from? England? Australia?’

  In the noise of the Bazaar it had been difficult to hear some traders as they trotted out the clichéd, ‘I have the best price, just for you’, line. This time it was different. Holly could pick out every word from the latest salesman. It was as though they were the only two people in Istanbul.

  She flinched an answer. ‘The US, actually.’

  His face lit up; his good looks amplified by its openness.

  ‘I love the US! I spent some time in Washington with my father. He was a diplomat, working for the Turkish government. Now he owns this shop – quite simply the best rugs in Istanbul.’ He gracefully swivelled around, using his extended arms to highlight a window full of Turkish hand-woven rugs. ‘You see? Aren’t they beautiful.’

  Holly was being drawn closer, managing to switch her gaze from the man’s gorgeous features to the window and then back again. He was right – the rugs looked fabulous.

  ‘Would you like to come inside and have a look? I’m not good at the hard sell – I prefer to let the rugs do their own talking.’

  Holly quickly glanced over her shoulder and found the back of her companion, who was over the other side of the tunnel, fingering some coloured, scented soap.

  ‘Jaz!’ Her friend didn’t reply. ‘Jaz! I’m going in here.’ Her words lost against the background hum of the Bazaar.

  The man had her hand, holding it gently, his hands soft, his gravity unforgiving. With one last glance back to her friend, Holly entered the shop.

  Inside it was smaller than she expected. There were beautiful carpets everywhere: hanging from the walls, on the floor, slung over the counter. The colours were vibrant, but subdued. Dark reds and browns; blues and mild creams. She touched one of the carpets. It felt like silk.

  ‘Do you like them?’

  The man was inside her personal space. So close she could smell his expensive aftershave. He was taller than her, piercing green eyes, fuller than average lips, high cheekbones and dark, glossy, but beautifully-styled hair. He wore a very expensive light woollen suit and an open-necked, brilliant white, collarless shirt. He was looking down on her, but she didn’t sense power. She sensed passion. It wasn’t overtly sexual (although she couldn’t persuade her libido of the case), it was sensuous. It was as if the man was plugged into the mains – he was electric, and her body tingled in response. This man could do what he wanted to her. When he wanted. She knew it wouldn’t last; that men like him took women like her, used them and moved on. Their charm was a weapon; a hugely powerful one. It was entrancing, hypnotic.

  But who cares? This was her new life, her free life. She was in control, and out of control, all at the same time. And she wanted this man more than she ever wanted anything else in her life.

  ‘Yes, t
hey’re, wonderful.’ She caressed one of the rugs whilst looking directly into his eyes. It was hopeless. She was lost.

  ‘I have some more out the back. They are better still. For special customers. Discerning customers. Would you like to see them?’

  Holly didn’t answer. He was already leading her through a door in the far wall. She was simply an unwitting follower.

  The chloroform-soaked rag was a surprise, but such was her bewitched state, Holly didn’t fight. Just before she passed out, she thought that maybe this was all part of the act; he was a drug – like the Turkish shisha, hubbly-bubbly pipe, which she and Jaz had agreed to try later when having a drink on the bridge. It was a precursor to something special?

  She was out like a light in a couple of seconds.

  ‘Get her out the back quickly.’ The man’s tone had changed markedly. He was no longer charming. Now he was ruthless – efficiently so.

  ‘Yeah, all right mate.’ A non-Turkish, hard, London accent. ‘We’ve got her now. You go back out front and make sure when she’s missed, her friend thinks she’s moved on.’

  As the Turk moved back into the shop he hissed in his native tongue, ‘Fucking infidels.’

  4th floor, British Embassy, Moscow, Russia

  Sam had taken Vlad at his word when leaving the Lubyanka building. It was way past 7pm and dark. She had walked in the direction of the Metro, only to pick a taxi at random to drive her to the Embassy. When she was on her feet she had used all the skills taught during training: altering her pace; doubling back; surprising herself with her route choices; and keeping a close watch for the enemy. She was good at that. It helped having 20:20 vision, but in particular she had that sixth sense when it came to people who weren’t doing things they suggested, when what they were really doing was tailing her. Folk dawdling when walking home; or not looking in shop windows when buying stuff; or not sweating when jogging.

  Sam could spot them, provided she could see them.

  As a result, she’d beaten the tail at every session during training at Portsmouth. That had frustrated and surprised her instructors; it was as though she had some inner track to the Main Events List (MEL) – the detail of the day’s exercises, which wasn’t to be shared with students. She hadn’t; she was just very good at it.

  Walking was a safe way to get about the place – provided you followed the rules. Using the Metro, however, could be more problematic. It channels and restricts, and there are plenty of dark spaces to get lost in – and not resurface.

  Hailing a taxi, on the other hand, was OK. Pick a random one, ideally one travelling in the opposite direction to your intended movement, and the outcome for the tailer can be catastrophic. You have gained time, speed and given the wrong indication as to which way you’re heading. So, this evening, Sam had walked the ‘SIS walk’, and then hailed a taxi. If she were being pursued, she had lost her stalker.

  The office was empty except for Rich and two other case-officers. Sam was glad to see that M’s office door was shut and that his PA had gone home. She would catch up with the inevitable bollocking tomorrow.

  She waved at Rich, who swivelled his chair and waved back.

  ‘Hi Sam. Have you been to your apartment?’

  ‘Ehh, no.’ Another odd question? ‘No. I did as we discussed on Friday and only got back into Moscow earlier this evening. I’ve been to the FSB this evening. Another op has come in. Looks like it’s going to be interesting.’ She let the conversation trail off having made her way to her desk. She sat down and started to boot up her desktop. It required fingerprint unlocking via a separate pad.

  She opened her mail. She knew there was an email from Frank; it had arrived during her briefing at the Lubyanka. The UK was three hours behind them, so Frank’s mail had been sent late afternoon. I wonder what he wants?

  It read:

  Hi Sam,

  I hope everything is OK. I took the liberty of keeping an eye on your trace (the SIS’s colloquialism for the track of a mobile signal of one of its case-officers) over the weekend. Unless you’d leant your phone to an Inuit, it seems like you’ve had one hell of a journey.

  Whatever. Jane asked to see me today - her call. We discussed you and Sokolov. I told her what you had given me: Bogdan Kuznetsov and the Tesla. And Iosif Ergorov aka Blue Suit. I also told her I was worried about you. And that was before you buggered off to the Arctic Circle for the weekend. I remain worried.

  She was circumspect. But, wants to know everything you have. And has instructed that you leave Sokolov well alone until you have spoken to her. His file’s orange marker is a clue. In short, you do not have authorisation to continue to investigate - not without further clearance. I said I would pass that message to you.

  She did say that you and she could discuss the access issue when you talk - if you had a problem with it.

  That’s all. Good to see your ‘ping’ back in Moscow this evening. I guess it was the Inuit returning your phone.

  Keep in touch. And be safe.

  Frank xx

  Sam leant back in her chair, her hands resting behind her head. Her mind spinning with all manner of theories. Jane doesn’t know about ExtraOil. No one does apart from Rich. And now Op Samantha? How can I possibly give Sokolov a wide berth? She’d speak to Jane tomorrow.

  She checked her watch. It was 9.35pm. She had so much to do and was so tired. Her body would give up soon. Thankfully she wasn’t driving.

  ‘Hi Sam.’

  It was Rich.

  ‘Hi Rich. Look, I’ve got a mountain of stuff to do before I pass out at my keyboard. If it’s a “how are you?”, then the answer is “I’m fine”. Can we talk tomorrow?’

  If Rich was offended, he didn’t show it.

  ‘Sure. Just be aware that M asked me to pop round to see you today; to make sure you were OK. He was poking at something, which I couldn’t put my finger on. It was an unusually generous gesture from him. Mind you, he did ask me late last night when he was obviously pissed.’

  ‘What the hell does he want to know about me for, on a Sunday night?’ Sam’s tone was uncompromising.

  ‘Dunno. He may have been checking on your trace, for some reason? Saw that you weren’t sick, but gallivanting around the Arctic Circle? Or maybe he has a soft spot for you?’ Rich smiled.

  That wasn’t funny.

  ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘Pretty much the truth. That I couldn’t raise you. That you were probably at the doctors. But, that I wasn’t worried.’

  ‘Do you think he looked at my trace?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I think I would have done. But, you just don’t know with him. Anyhow, I’ll leave you to it. It would be good to have a gas about the weekend, you know, if you wanted to unburden yourself.’

  ‘Thanks Rich. Maybe tomorrow. And thanks for looking out for me.’ She smiled again and touched his arm. He smiled back.

  She turned her attention back to her machine. She had four things to do: use Cynthia to photofit the two thugs who got out of the helicopter – that would take about half an hour; knock up a briefing note to M about Op Samantha (but not mention the Sokolov connection?); email Frank with a bit of an update; and arrange a call to Jane tomorrow.

  It took Sam 25 minutes to get exact likenesses of the two men she had seen in Salekhard. She started the run of their ugly mugs through Cynthia’s database; it would take an hour before she had any results. She would probably have to leave the search running overnight, otherwise she might be sleeping (involuntarily) in the office with her face plastered to the keyboard.

  She had just enough energy to reply to Frank:

  Hi Frank,

  Thanks ref Sokolov. Could you let me know first thing when it’s best to call Jane?

  I’m fine. Probably best that we talk through the weekend rather than me spend too long typing stuff. It’s a Sokolov connection to do with one of his companies called ExtraOil. Mostly, it’s about radioactive pollutants which, after today, I think I might have sorted (as far as
I can) here in Russia. I’m going to abuse an analyst here tomorrow to consider ExtraOil’s reach outside of Russia. I think they operate in Alaska and possibly mainland US - but this is internet search stuff only. If I don’t get anywhere here, I might have to come back to you.

  In addition, I’ve attached 2 photofits of 2 more thugs who I came across at the weekend. I’m working the machines hard here, but could you spread the net wider and see what you get?

  There is also something cooking here with the FSB about a major international terror plot that’s going to keep me busy for a while.

  It’s all go.

  Hope all is well with you.

  Sam xxx

  She decided not to expand on the detail of the terror plot, and certainly not to mention Sokolov. Vlad was clear (why her?): Sokolov’s involvement in Op Samantha was on the closest of holds.

  And for some reason she trusted Vlad more than anyone else at the moment. He seemed to deserve her trust, so she wouldn’t undermine it.

  Shit! Briefing note for M.

  Sam glanced at the digital clock on her screen: 10.45pm.

  She needed to get home. M would have to make do with a verbal brief tomorrow morning. Why was he interested in her? Was he watching her trace? Did he know that she was away from Moscow at the weekend? If he did, would tomorrow be her last day in the office?

  What the hell? If so, so be it. At least she had unpicked why Alexei had been killed. She had kept her promise to the beautiful reporter. And that made her feel half good.

  Flat 17, 3125, Prechistenskiy Road, Moscow

  It was 11.50pm by the time Sam got back to her apartment. She’d taken a taxi after following the usual protocols, and fallen asleep in the back. If someone had been tailing her with a view to abduction, she’d now be in a cellar somewhere, wrapped up in chains with her fingernails being yanked out with a pair of pliers.

  The taxi driver had woken her with the retort, ‘You’re home, Tchaikovsky girl.’ She was flattered. She assumed it was reference to Sleeping Beauty. But equally it could have been a poke at his 1812 Overture; she being a very tired French girl accompanying Napoleon’s long march. She hoped the former.