Sokolov was everything she detested about the current state of the Russian system. Power and money. And men.
The previous communist system had always been morally bankrupt. It showered a lavish lifestyle on those at the top of the tree, and incarcerated and murdered those who stood in its way. But, and it was a huge but, it also provided something for ordinary people: a job; some regular cash; a bit of dignity; self-respect. And that just about worked.
The problem with today’s Russian elite was that they didn’t give a shit about the proletariat. They were too busy buying up London’s most expensive properties; allowing their wives to fly first-class to Shanghai once a month, to be detoxed with tiger bone. And paying for their children’s uber-expensive British public school fees with gold bars.
Sam thought that today’s Russian politics redefined the adage that ‘absolute power corrupts absolutely’. That was written when people aspired to become part of a defined political elite, and when they got there, the smell of power perverted even the most resolute of men. The problem in Moscow today was that power could be easily bought; there was so much money sloshing about, it was swapping hands like cigarette cards. For these people, new to riches beyond their dreams, they were surprised by their new-found influence. Money could buy you a Bugatti Veyron in any first-world country. Here, in Moscow, it could buy you a seat at the top table. No matter who you were.
You didn’t need to be a politician to yield power. You just had to buy one.
Sokolov was one such man. And his influence was at the highest table. He was bright – Cambridge educated, and then back to Russia to join the KGB where he befriended the current premier. Rising quickly through the ranks, he was in a position of considerable influence when the Iron Curtain fell. And with a degree in economics, he had seized failing Russian industries that had come to the market cheaply as the country denationalised its precious assets. Like most oligarchs, he dismantled what he had bought, keeping the prizes, depleting and discarding its loyal workforce, and then selling what was left. Commodities were his thing: gold, precious stones, oil and gas, bauxite, iron and coal. His file gave a conservative view of his wealth at $25.9 billion. He had property in London, Berlin, Shanghai, New York and Aspen. And a superyacht berthed at Sevastopol. He was on his third wife, who was a 29-year-old Slovakian supermodel. It was all in his file.
And now he was attempting to shake Sam’s hand.
She stared impassively at him. Nonplussed. The alcohol had deadened her senses. She felt safe here. On British soil. Stood next to, probably, the second or third most important man in Russia. The man who, via some thugs, had pursued her. And, at least once, had tried to kill her.
No, she wasn’t going to shake his hand.
He withdrew it, but didn’t show any sign of being put out.
‘Well, that’s not very friendly, Samantha Green.’
Why has he got to keep using my full name?
He continued. ‘Look, I’m busy at the moment.’ He glanced over his shoulder. ‘I have to get back to your Foreign Secretary. He’s a nice man, if easily charmed by younger women – maybe you and he should get together?’
Sam stared at him. Not a word.
‘Sorry, how rude of me. That wasn’t called for. I should get back. My friends and colleagues may think it strange that I am spending so much time with you; a simple case-officer with Secret Intelligence Service.’
Still nothing. Impassiveness was currently Sam’s middle name.
Sokolov sighed.
‘Well, I know you’ve had a busy weekend, visiting here and there. And I know that you think you’ve done some good.’ He let that hang for a split second. ‘If I might offer some advice.’ Sokolov’s face changed at that point. The charming, if slightly lop-sided, facade broke. All his features hardened. His lips became so tight that Sam thought they might crack. His teeth were clenched, which made his cheekbones lift.
He’s on the edge?
‘You don’t understand what you are messing with, Samantha Green.’ He lowered his voice and brought his mouth close to her ear. Her head moved slightly away in protest, but she didn’t flinch. He smelt of expensive cologne; his breath mint fresh.
With one hand in front of her face he whispered. ‘You have this one chance to pull back. Any more interference and I will snap you in two.’ He clicked his fingers – easy as that. ‘And don’t flatter yourself that anyone would care. You are worth nothing.’
Sokolov pulled back.
He was smiling again now. Composure regained.
‘Be careful what you wish for, Samantha …’
And then he was gone.
Sam stayed calm. She watched Sokolov make his way through the double doors on her left, in the direction of the bar. She looked across to where he had started his journey – to the small group, which included the Foreign Secretary. M was staring at her, a look of consternation on his face.
Sam didn’t alter her flat expression. She closed both eyes in a slow blink, as if to wake herself up from a dream. And then she quickly made her way to the ladies’ loos.
She picked the first available cubicle, went in, closed the door, and threw up in the bowl; then she retched again.
She reached for some tissue, wiped her mouth, opened the door and found a basin. A woman she didn’t recognise looked at her sympathetically.
‘Bad prawn,’ Sam uttered as she patted her stomach.
She gargled some water to get the taste of vomit from her mouth. It was hardly ladylike, but she was beyond caring.
She took out her work mobile and opened her secure mail. She pressed ‘Compose’, and typed ‘Vlad’ into the ‘To’ box. Vladislav Mikhailov’s email address filled the space. She typed:
Vlad. Can we meet first thing tomorrow? After today’s meeting I don’t think we’re being proactive enough with regard to Op S. I’ve had nothing positive back from London, but I do have some thoughts on how to proceed. Let me know. I can be with you by 8am. Sam
She pressed ‘Send’.
Chapter 10
4th Floor, British Embassy, Moscow
Sam was back in the office by 6.30am. She’d agreed to meet with Vlad at the Lubyanka at 10.30. And she had a lot to do before then.
The rest of the evening had been a blur. Regardless of M’s edict that all his staff should stay until the final whistle, her one-sided exchange with Sokolov had done it for her. She had walked out of the front door of the Embassy, taken the first taxi she had come across, waltzed into her apartment, and then had thrown up again when she reread the threat on her fridge door. Thankfully the kitchen sink was close by.
Feeling slightly better, she had put a cheese sandwich together, made a promise to herself that she wouldn’t drink again (until the next time), showered, brought her alarm clock forward to 5.30am, and slept soundly until it woke her.
No one was in the office this early. That was good. She needed some time to bring everything together. She had to meet Vlad with a plan. Her text to him last night said that she had some thoughts about how to proceed. She hadn’t; she needed a deadline to provide focus to the whole project. Vlad had replied in the early hours of the morning (she was flat out; what was he doing up at that time?) – he’d be free at 10.30. And, yes please, they really needed some inspiration.
Sam collected a pad of A2 paper from the stationery cupboard and laid it out on a large table in one of the organisation’s meeting rooms. She started to sketch out in big writing what she had:
- Fracking.
● MSF report yet to be seen. Must look out for it. Action: Me and Debbie.
● Debbie chasing ExtraOil’s non-Russian businesses. Looking primarily at Alaska and California. Action. Debbie.
● Frank waiting for ExtraOil brief from me. Jane promises London will look into detail. Action: pen brief for Frank today.
- Sokolov.
● Orange marker on file. Operates with impunity. Both Jane and M instruct layoff. (These two are not in cahoots. Their ambitions are different? Jane p
rotecting Orange maker? M and Sokolov close after scene last night?)
● Threat widespread. Bogdan Kuznetsov works for Sokolov - Tesla hit and run? Iosif Ergorov (US most-wanted list) aka Blue Suit. Murdered Alexei Orlov over ExtraOil connection. Me too?
● Two thugs in Salekhard. Nothing from Cynthia. Nothing yet back from US/Interpol via Frank. Has he let up after direction from Jane? Action: Must check with Frank.
Sam drew a goose egg around the word ExtraOil.
She continued.
● Who has the capability to track SIS case-officers and enter their apartments. SIS link? Rich?
At that point she realised she was casting aspersions in the very offices where she thought there might be illicit support. She dashed back out to the stationery cupboard and grabbed herself a black whiteboard marker. In no time at all ‘SIS link? and ‘Rich?’ had been expurgated by its thick ink.
It was a good thing that she had. At that point, Rich stuck his head round the door.
‘Hi, Sam. Early doors?’
‘Yes, Rich, you know how it is. Still buzzing from last night’s fabulous party.’
‘How’s your head?’ he asked playfully.
‘It would be better if you happened to be making some coffee.’
He took the hint and disappeared.
She had a quick glance down at what she had so far. Nothing inspiring. Just as she was about to continue, Debbie came in.
‘Hi Sam. Is this something I can help with?’
Sam didn’t need to think for long.
‘Of course, Debbie. Come in and take a seat. Let me explain what we have so far.’
She talked Debbie through the diagram.
‘Happy?’
‘Yes. And I have something from the US on ExtraOil. Do you want to hear it now?’
‘Sure. I’ll scribe on the paper – here.’ Sam pointed to a space right of the Fracking title. As Debbie briefed Sam, she summarised:
● ExtraOil owns US start-up CleanDrilling (CD). CD has rights to drill in Beethal, W Alaska.
● CD also has secured rights to frack in Crestline, NE of Los Angeles. Preliminary bores have been sunk. Federal Energy Regulatory Commission (FERC) due to inspect sight later this month. Industrial fracking could begin as early as three weeks.
‘And there are no other equivalent projects in the US?’ Sam asked.
‘No, I don’t think so. I’ve had this checked out by a senior oil exploration engineer at Imperial College, London. It’s where the best of the best in the UK go to study. He reckons that CleanDrilling were lucky to get the authority to frack that close to the major conurbation of San Bernardino, a suburb of LA.’
‘So, we have about a month before a good chunk of the LA watercourse could be polluted with radium?’ Sam asked.
‘Possibly. I asked the chap in Imperial if he would expect higher levels of radium, and similar, to be a by-product of drilling in Alaska. Like they have at Salekhard. He phoned me back late yesterday afternoon. He wasn’t conclusive, but it seems likely that the geology of Arctic Alaska is equivalent to that in northern Siberia.’
‘Wow. Great work, Debbie. Thanks. We need to decide what to do with this.’
Sam scribed a huge ‘?’ next to Fracking.
Rich came in with Sam’s coffee. He stopped and looked at the A2 sheet.
‘Coffee for Debbie as well, please, Rich. Thanks.’
He raised his eyes to the ceiling and wandered out again.
Surely, he’s not the one dobbing in on me?
‘Now the big one.’
On a new sheet of A2, Sam scribed again.
- Op Samantha.
● 30 kg of Ur 235 etc missing, stolen under the orders of Capt Mikhailov. Whereabouts unknown.
● Mikhailov in likely deal with Osama bin Fahd, 3rd son of the Saudi Prince Khalid bin Fahd.
● Target - European city?
● …
Sam stopped herself. Without comment to Debbie, she folded the original paper and placed it on a chair.
Rich came back in with two cups of coffee.
‘One for you, Debbie. And one for me. Carry on, Sam.’
She continued.
● Nothing from London on Saudi connection. Action. Check with Frank first thing.
Sam checked her watch. It was 7.25am. Frank was unlikely to be in for another hour and a half.
‘Debbie, did you get anything yesterday from GCHQ?’
‘No, nothing of use. They tell me that “listening in” on the Saudi Royal family is very sensitive. I’ve tasked them using the op code you gave me. My pal there has said that he would need further clearance either from M, or Jane Baker, before he went to work. I spoke to M yesterday evening, just before you lot went off gallivanting; he gave me his signature for this. We might have something back later today.’
‘Brilliant work, Debbie.’
Sam looked across at Rich, who was sipping his coffee. She paused, her pen wavering above the paper.
She left a gap and started scribing again. As she did, she said, ‘Let’s put ourselves in the minds of the terrorist.’
Target - Maximum Impact.
● Germany: Berlin, Frankfurt, Bonn.
Rich spoke. ‘Stick down Hamburg and Köln.’
Sam did as he asked.
● France: Paris, Marseilles, Toulouse, Nice, Lyon.
● Poland: Warsaw.
‘Why Poland?’ Debbie asked.
‘Because, if the bomb is being moved by vehicle, they’d want to carry it as short a distance as possible. Less chance of detection at borders.’ Sam raised the top of her pen to her mouth and chewed on it absently. ‘That’s a point. Let’s have another go at this.’
Sam pushed the piece of paper to one side and took out another. From memory she quickly drew a pretty accurate map of Europe and western Russia. She marked in the capital cities of the major countries. She, again freehand, drew five concentric arcs from Moscow, spreading out across Europe. Warsaw was easily the closest capital. Next were: Berlin, Prague, Vienna, Budapest and Bucharest.
‘Which one of those would you hit?’
‘Berlin. An obvious choice,’ was Rich’s reply. ‘The centre of the European project, with a Chancellor who is struggling to maintain unity in her country. Bomb Berlin and the far right in every country in Europe would take to the streets. The EU would collapse. It’s one helluva target. And, by the way, you’ve forgotten Helsinki and Stockholm. They’re within the first arc.’
Sam let Rich’s point sink in.
‘I’m not convinced by a Scandinavian target. But I take your point about Berlin.’ She underlined it twice. ‘What about the next closest bunch: Amsterdam, Brussels, Bern and Sofia?’
Debbie raised her hand by way of interruption.
‘Go on, Debbie.’
‘If they’re going to go for a European capital, then Berlin is the only choice. It ticks impact and distance. If we have limited resources, we should focus on Berlin. However, I like a previous comment from you, Sam, about Frankfurt: the Bankenviertel. Irradiate Europe’s banking hub and the fallout, excuse my pun, would be huge. That’s close enough, and a second choice. But if we’re after maximum impact, let’s think global, rather than European. Shouldn’t we be looking at religious targets?’
Sam breathed out. Rich scratched his head.
‘You mean Jerusalem?’ Sam said.
‘What about the Vatican?’ Rich added.
Sam tapped her pen on the paper in thought.
‘OK, both good choices, although both would be a struggle to reach by vehicle – especially Jerusalem – there are too many borders, fences, and men with guns… They’d have to get through Turkey, Syria and Lebanon.’ She loosely pointed at the route with her pen. ‘But, of course, if 9/11 is anything to go by they could just fly it in – crash the plane on a site of their choosing.’
‘Although,’ Rich added, ‘if you wanted to guarantee success, I’m not convinced you’d risk an air assault. This is easily the biggest at
tack since 9/11, the event which prised open this holy war. Crashing planes into cities isn’t as straightforward as it used to be.’
Sam interrupted. ‘Not in a commercial airliner. But maybe a Lear? The Saudis have squadrons of those?’
‘Still not guaranteed,’ Rich added. ‘And an aircraft leaves a trace, no matter how disintegrated it is. If I were the terrorist, I’d want a cast-iron target with a cast-iron approach. And if there is a Saudi connection, I’d be very keen not to leave my fingerprints on it. A truck or car is best for that.’
‘OK.’ She’d got enough for now. She then scribbled down:
- How to steal and transport some Ur235.
‘How did they do it; and where would you keep it?’
They spent the next 15 minutes talking through the opportunities and possibilities. It felt good to have Debbie and Rich working, literally, off the same sheet of paper. She was just about to bring the whole thing to a close when M walked in.
They all went silent.
‘Don’t stop for me, you lot. Carry on.’
Sam summed up where they’d got to.
M took the stage.
‘Good work. As you say, key to this is establishing and then exploiting the Saudi connection. That includes finding the submariner – as, according to you, Green, they were the last people to see him. He may lead you to the bomb. And, second, getting close to the Fahds – and the al Qaeda connection. Someone there knows the intended target. Conventionally, you and the FSB have little chance of finding the uranium in Russia. Or catching it as it crosses the border. Unless you are very lucky. Chase the Saudis. They’re the key.’
Sam couldn’t fault M’s logic (although she was put off by him playing with something in his trouser pockets. Yuck.). She supposed that you didn’t get to become head of section without knowing a thing or two about intelligence gathering and how terrorists operate.
The Innocence of Trust Page 19