Idly, she took the lift and, at her front door, she stretched before reaching into her pocket for her keys. The door was triple-locked and had a biometric entry system using her iris. The kitchen window might let in a gale, but the security was good.
The door clicked open.
Straight away Sam was on her guard. She didn’t know why. She couldn’t understand what had set her on edge. But something was different. She didn’t turn on the hall light.
Any tiredness had evaporated. Her pupils dilated to let in the correct amount of light. Her pulse quickened, but not so it ran out of control. And her breathing was shallow – allowing her ears to work without interference.
She stood perfectly still and listened.
Nothing.
A minute passed.
Still nothing.
She knew every inch of her flat. It was both the burden and the beauty of being wired up the way she was. She saw; she registered; she remembered.
It was very dark in the hall, but not pitch black. She’d left the lounge door slightly ajar and a sheath of yellowy grey light peeked in, its origin probably an outside street light making its way through a gap in the curtains.
Sam reached for a bookend which was on top of the shelf in the hall. She gathered it using one hand, arming herself, whilst pulling the bottom of the end book toward her, ensuring the line of books stayed upright.
On her left was a door into her bedroom. It was windowless – it would be devoid of light. She opened the door, it pushed inward. But she didn’t enter. She let the door hang open and waited for a reaction from inside the room.
Nothing.
She walked four paces forward, her steps as soft as a ballet dancer’s – her breathing easily the loudest thing in the flat. On her left was the door to the bathroom. It would also be dark, but the dull light from the lounge door would provide some illumination.
She opened the bathroom door. It creaked. Grrr.
Sam didn’t go in. She waited.
Nothing.
Now the lounge door. If pushed, it would swing open until stopped by a fake fireplace.
Standing as far back as she could, she kicked it with her foot. A sharp kick, aimed at sending the door swinging into the fireplace. If there wasn’t anyone behind it, it would clatter, wood against fake marble. If it had a soft landing… she’d need the bookend.
Clunk!
Nothing.
She waited.
Was she mad? What was it that had set her off? Was it the tumultuous weekend: the taxi chase; the train journey; the purple-haired secretary and her woeful tale; Sokolov’s two thugs (their images still running with Cynthia); the escape, the crash into the ditch, and then her emotional meeting with Dr Sabine Roux? Or was it Frank’s email and the fact that she had made her mind up to lie to Jane tomorrow about Sokolov’s involvement in the dirty bomb? That was hers and Vlad’s secret.
She held her breath.
Nothing.
She stepped into the lounge. From what she could see in the low light, everything was as she had left it. As she expected it to be.
She turned on the light.
Nothing. Everything normal.
She breathed out and, at that point, tiredness almost overcame her. Her knees gave a little shake and she almost collapsed onto the floor.
Come on!
Sustenance. That’s what I need.
She’d have a glass of milk and get to bed. If she were lucky she’d make four hours before her alarm went off. That would be enough for today.
Still holding the bookend, Sam dropped her rucksack on the sofa and made her way into the kitchen. She switched on the light.
And what she saw stopped her dead.
It was a small thing. Probably, to begin with at any rate, unnoticeable to a casual observer.
But Sam spotted it straight away.
Her fridge door. Two postcards from her huge selection of friends.
And her letter magnets – not quite a set, the number of letters had dwindled over the years. Normally arranged haphazardly, or displaying an expletive which she had picked out to express what she thought of Moscow.
Not now.
Now they read:
carful wot you wish 4 samanthe
Sam closed her eyes. And then opened them, hoping that what she had just seen was an apparition – a joke played on her by her dulled senses.
No, the words were still there. Careful what you wish for, Samantha. Who calls her Samantha? The FSB? Oh God! Or someone else throwing a different scent?
The writer had used most of the letters on the fridge door. Hence, she guessed, the lack of spelling. Whatever, her heart rate was now out of control. The red mist was back. Strike and flight was the overriding sensation. Hit out. And get out.
She reached for her knife block and drew one with a six-inch blade. She gripped it tightly. She now had knife in one hand; bookend in the other.
She had already turned and was facing the lounge door.
Who’s first? Come on, you bastards!
She stomped around her flat. Noise wasn’t an issue for her now. She wanted whoever was there, whoever had been there, to come out so she could release her pent-up energy. Strike and then run.
Blood pumped round her head, which darted left then right. Searching. Looking for an enemy. The thing that had broken into her flat. Violated her space. Messed with her fridge alphabet.
The bastards!
How could they have broken in? With biometric entry? It didn’t make any sense.
What did Rich say? ‘Have you been to your apartment yet?’ What was that all about?
She couldn’t keep this up for much longer. The surging adrenalin was running its course. The spike of alertness was blunting. She knew she would come down soon. She had used all her spare capacity. Her batteries were flat. If she didn’t sleep soon, her body would do it for her.
Think! Could she stay here? Could she? Where else would she go? Rich was the only friend she had – but was he her friend? Go back to the office? No. She had to get some sleep. In a bed. Be prepared for tomorrow. For the next assault.
Stay here. But better armed.
She walked back into the kitchen. She took all the knives from the block and two more from a drawer. She then systematically walked around the apartment placing weapons at key points. If she had another visitor, they would never be more than four feet away from a knife in the chest. Along with marksmanship, that was another facet of hers that she’d displayed during training that had surprised her instructors. For a mid-sized woman, she had proven to be effective at close combat. Red mist and good reflexes: worked a treat.
Last of all, she made it into her bedroom and put the last knife on her bedside table.
Then she fell on the bed, fully clothed, and slept like a baby.
Chapter 9
Basement Gym, British Embassy, Moscow
The sweat was stinging Sam’s eyes. She glanced down at the running machine’s display. It read: 5.22km; 14.2km/hr. That was close to ten miles an hour; as fast as she had ever run on a machine. She couldn’t keep it going for much longer.
The beauty of running on a treadmill was that you could fight it. It wanted you to press the ‘stop’ button, or fiddle with the speed toggle and reduce the running rate. Its job was to break you. There were little men inside the apparatus who were programmed to mess with your head. Sam knew they were there and she was determined not to slow; determined to beat the machine. Blow one of its fuses if necessary. It struggled at over 16km/hr, most half-decent running machines did. And, whilst she couldn’t run at that speed for any sensible period, she was determined to run 7km at over 14km/hr. She wanted to hear the little men ask for forgiveness. For the machine to beg to be shut down.
Come on! You can do this.
It was either her or the machine.
It was going to be her.
Think of something else – let the rubber belt do the work; you just keep up.
Her mind wandered
as the pain receptors in her legs, and the alveoli in her lungs, reminded her that she was very close to overdoing it.
It had been a remarkable morning, one which didn’t include her getting the sack – which was a surprise and, on the face of it, a good thing. She had a plateful of work that needed her attention.
Before M had made it to the office, she had tasked Debbie (one of a pool of SIS analysts on the fourth floor) to look into ExtraOil’s conventional drilling and fracking business. She hadn’t mentioned her trip at the weekend, but had given Debbie all she needed to explore as to whether the oil company was removing ‘produced water’ from vertical wells and using it as ‘fracking fluid’ at fracking sites. Sam gave Debbie Jim Dutton’s notebook as a guide. He’d already made loose references to a conventional site in Alaska and a planned fracking site in California. There were probably others.
Sam didn’t have the authority to directly task analysts without an operational code, which M would assign. As things stood, even after the briefing note that she’d prepared for M at the end of last week, no code had been allocated. It was all very tiresome.
‘Do you need an op code from me, Debbie?’ Sam had asked.
Debbie smiled, a warm smile. ‘No Sam, don’t worry. When you have one I’ll put my hours against it. In the meantime, this looks like a lot of fun. Anything to have a go at big business.’
Sam got on well with all the junior staff on the fourth floor. And that was the norm nowadays. Not many years ago, case-officers would look down on analysts; sort of an ‘officer versus an other-ranks’ division, as was the case with the Army in the olden days. Sam got the impression that in Moscow there was still a bit of that, probably not helped by the fact that M seemed to encourage it. She’d been an analyst. She knew what it was like at the end of the food chain.
‘I’ll have something by the end of the day. And then we can talk some more about where else you’d like me to “drill down”.’ Debbie had made a turning motion with a finger, pointing to the ground. She giggled at her pun.
Sam nodded and smiled.
‘Thanks Debbie.’
That had been one job. Next was her meeting with M. His PA had come across to Sam’s desk as soon as she had delivered her first cup of coffee to the boss. She looked flustered, as if she’d run to work and not had chance to have a shower. Bless her. It must be tough working for the idiot.
‘M would like to see you straight away, Sam.’
‘Sure, I’ll be right there.’ Sam picked up her notebook and pen and followed the PA back to the door of M’s office.
‘Go right in.’ The PA motioned.
‘Thanks.’
Sam had decided to be combative. She had helped solve an insoluble medical issue in the eastern Urals, and was now central to a joint FSB/SIS op to track down a dirty bomb. M should be pleased with her – rather than scolding her.
‘You wanted to see me, M?’
‘Yes, Green. How are you feeling after your day off?’
Was that laced with sarcasm?
‘Fine, sir, thanks. And you?’
Confusion spread across M’s face. He quickly dismissed her question, waving his hands about.
‘Look, what’s on your plate at the moment?’
Does he know about the weekend? I am going to have to tell him.
‘Two things. First, I have established why Alexei Orlov was murdered. And second, the FSB has included me in an operational planning team looking at, possibly, a dirty bomb destined for a European city.’
M looked confused and surprised at the same time.
‘A dirty bomb? And who’s Alexei Orlov? No… got it. He’s the reporter fella you thought was taken out by the Chechen bomb. I read your brief.’
Bravo.
‘Yes, sir. That’s correct.’
Sam went on to tell M about the weekend, including last night’s episode with someone entering her apartment and leaving a threatening message.
At the end of her diatribe, M said, ‘Sit down, Green.’
And continued. ‘Okay. I hear you with the Sokolov oil thing. And you may be right. But, I think that’s unlikely. MSF have left-wing tendencies…’
That was too much. His patronising tone; his lack of respect for her work. Something snapped. The red mist was on its way. Sam lifted her bum off the seat as she spurted out, ‘You don’t believe me? Do you have a problem with my work? My role as a case-officer here? Do you trust any of your staff?’ She’d lost it and stepped over a line. The end was near.
‘Stay in your chair, Green, and listen to me.’ M was firm, but not angry. In fact, he was remarkably controlled, which was equally frustrating. ‘You have been here for 20 minutes, with little to show for your efforts thus far. I have seen the likes of you come and go over the decades and I am telling you – and you need to listen – that organisations like Médecins Sans Frontières have agendas. They are anti-capitalist; and, here in Russia, they are anti-regime.’
Sam went to contradict M, but he put up his hand.
‘Your problem is that you’re bright. And quick. And I take my hat off to you for following up on this Alexei whatshisname issue – although I am placing you on a six-month disciplinary report for operating without authority, and for travelling away from Moscow without permission and necessary cover. You put your life and the reputation of SIS in jeopardy. Capisce?’
Sam nodded as she gritted her teeth. This was not going to plan.
‘Your problem is that you think in black and white, when you should be looking at the greys. You want to sort everything out, now. When, actually, the best plan is often to let things find their own way; keeping an eye and reacting to developments. In short: you are naïve, Green. And impetuous. And, with your energy, I can’t see that changing anytime soon. So, along with your disciplinary six-monther, I’m putting you on a competence six-monther. My PA will sort out the paperwork, and I suggest you read the fine print. Now, what about this dirty bomb?’
Flabbergasted was an understatement. Not that she had been put on a dual report – after her outburst she expected worse. But that the man had done all of it without batting an eyelid. He’d shown none of his usual agitation. He was too calm. He wasn’t clever enough to be this calm. That really riled her.
Sam hadn’t finished. She slowed her speech and forced her bum into the seat. M had taught her a lesson on winning by not reacting.
‘I’m sorry, but I don’t take your line about the MSF. I discovered the radioactive water connection. MSF are just working with it. I’m confident that this is wider than a Russian operation. This morning I tasked Debbie to look into ExtraOil’s overseas subsidiaries to see if they were using the same processes in, say, the US.’
M put his hand up again, taking a resigned deep breath as he did.
‘What is it with you, Green?’
Sam thought she saw a spark of anger behind M’s composed demeanour. That’s more like it. ‘You know you can’t task analysts without an op code. So, why do it?’ He shook his head. ‘No, don’t bother answering the question. Just get Debbie off the case. And note that this sort of indiscretion would lead to immediate dismissal under the rules of both six-monthers. I’m prepared to ignore this one, this time. But leave the whole thing well alone. Do we understand each other?’
What could she do? Poke at him – cleverly.
‘Do you want a brief from the weekend? My notes on Sokolov, ExtraOil, Dr Sabine Roux – all of it?’
M thought for a moment. He wasn’t fazed.
‘No. Don’t worry. I won’t read it. Just let this thing run for a while. If you believe the whole radioactive water theory, then any report from the MSF will reach the authorities and they will deal with it.’
Yeah, like that’s going to happen, with Sokolov’s friends in the Russian government.
‘Now, tell me about the FSB op and the dirty bomb.’
Initially fuming, but eventually calming down, Sam spent a further 15 minutes talking through what had been discussed at t
he Lubyanka the previous evening. She purposefully didn’t mention the Sokolov link. And she purposefully failed to mention that the op was titled ‘Op Samantha’. She knew she’d be laughed out of the office by the idiot if she had. And, the way she felt at the moment, that might elicit one of two reactions: uncontrolled anger, or tears. She really didn’t want either of those to surface in such a confined space.
‘That’s interesting,’ M said at the end of her brief. ‘Okay. I’ll email an operational code for you. You can certainly task Debbie on this. And deal with London. Should you need any more horsepower, then let me know. This could be your redemption, Green.’
Sam ought to say ‘thanks’, as that would have been polite. But she didn’t want to give the idiot any sense of reconciliation.
‘By the way…’ M was on his feet. The meeting was over. ‘What have the FSB named the op?’
Sam hesitated. ‘Ehh. They haven’t given it a name yet. I’ll let you know when we have one.’
M scratched his chin. ‘That’s odd. Okay, drop me an e-brief by the end of the day. Good luck, Green.’
That had been the second part of her morning; that, and briefing Debbie on Op Samantha (at least she’d smiled at the name). Debbie had wanted to continue to look into Sokolov’s oil business, despite M’s ‘stop’ order. ‘I’m interested in it.’ Sam didn’t dissuade her.
In addition, she would engage GCHQ and ask around the building to see if there was any emerging int. on Osama bin Fahd. Sam would talk to Jane later, who would inevitably then brief the staff at Vauxhall to see what London had. She and Debbie would touch base again at 3pm and compare notes. The next FSB meeting was at 4.30pm; that would work.
Her third job had been a confusing conversation with Jane. Sam had given her the same brief she had provided to M, including the earlier stuff about Alexei’s murder and the hit and run. She got a diametrically opposed reaction.
The Innocence of Trust Page 17