‘Are we onto Riyadh?’ he asked.
‘Yes. Both via our Embassy and GCHQ. I think we should also press Kabul and Tehran to see if they have anything,’ Sam added.
‘Do that, Green. Do that.’
At that point M seemed to lose interest and left the room, his hands still thrust deep into his pockets. As he waltzed through the main office, Sam could hear him whistling ‘They’re changing guards at Buckingham Palace’.
Huh?
‘Thanks a lot, both of you; that really helped. I’m meeting with the FSB in…’ Sam checked her watch, ‘just under two hours. I’ll speak to Tehran and I have a pal in Kabul. Keep thinking. Debbie, can we get together at 9.45am for a quick update on where we are?’
‘Sure, Sam, sure.’
All three of them went back to their desks, Sam clutching the paper she had scribbled on.
There was no doubt that tasking whatever assets they had in Saudi Arabia was an essential slice of this. Jane should be onto Riyadh; GCHQ were on the case via Debbie. In the next half hour she’d talk to Julie in Kabul, and the appropriate desk officer in Tehran. They might have something. This was very much the British avenue – and the thing she’d been asked to pursue by the FSB.
For their bit, the FSB would be scouring their huge country for a chunk of highly radioactive fuel, small enough to fit into a large suitcase. And tracking down an errant submariner.
There was one further approach. The Saudis knew the target, and the delivery method. The Russians were searching for the material. Currently, no one was looking for the gauleiter. To Sam, Captain Mikhailov was a pawn. On the face of it, he had secured the uranium; he had the opportunity, the shipyard connections and the motive. He was also the ideal front man in Saudi. The Saudis respected military rank as much as they did money.
But he couldn’t have pulled this off without a kingpin. A puppet master. Someone with vision, reach, confidence. And political influence. Sam understood military rank. And she’d been in Russia long enough to know how much clout a Captain 1st Class had in their own country. It wasn’t much. He might just be able to secure a table at The Turandot – provided he booked early enough, and didn’t mind a spot by the kitchen. There was no way he could have pulled off the heist of the decade – not without leaving traces of radioactive material leading all the way to his dacha.
He did, however, have some nasty and expensive habits. He could be easily bought. The ideal frontman for an operation that would be worth, who knows how much money? Tens of millions. Maybe much more. And he was the perfect fall guy if things went wrong. Cut the strings of the puppet, and let it fall.
No. Sam was clear. Someone was ultimately running the show And, as Vlad had intimated – this had Sokolov’s fingerprints all over it.
So, that’s where she intended to look.
44° 58' 09"N, 31° 18' 44"E, Somewhere in the Black Sea
Holly couldn’t stop poking at her broken tooth with her tongue. It ached. She’d drunk some of the orange juice that had been brought in with breakfast on the silver tray this morning. The shock of the cold drink on the exposed nerve had made her eyes water. She hadn’t cried though. She wasn’t going to give these people the satisfaction of seeing her cry.
Last night was more horrific than she could have ever imagined. When she had come around from, she guessed, the chloroform (that’s what they used in the films?), she hadn’t been so groggy that she couldn’t lash out. By the time they’d taken the straps from around her legs, the guy who spoke perfect English had got a knee in the groin; he was bent double for a bit. The other guy, who didn’t say anything – but who looked more Turkish, or at least Balkan, than properly western – had wrestled her to the ground and tied her up again. She was gagged so couldn’t make any noise, but she certainly wasn’t going to come peacefully.
They had manhandled her onto a small rib, and the next thing she knew they were moored at the back of a superyacht out in the Bosporus; the boat must have been over 200 feet long. With her hands and legs tied, she made what protestations she could, but it wasn’t enough to prevent the Englishman from throwing her over his shoulder, carrying her on board, and then unceremoniously dumping her in one of the forward cabins, removing her constraints. It was opulent, there was no doubt about that. Her daddy knew some people with large motorboats, and she’d been lucky enough to be asked on one for lunch last summer. That was grand – but this was palatial.
After she had attempted to open the doors and the porthole (with no success), she sat on the luxurious king-sized bed and had tried to piece together what was happening. Were they after money? She thought that unlikely. The boat must be worth $100 million – her daddy might be a congressman, but he’d just struggle to find $1 million, and that’s only if they sold the small family home in Tampa. Were they hoping to pull some political lever? Unlikely. Whilst it infuriated her, Congressman Chad Mickelson stood for the middle ground. Everything from the gun laws, to abortion, and even the invasion of Iraq, Congressman Chad somehow or other managed to please both sides of the debate. She wasn’t here because her daddy might force a bill through the House.
But soon it all became clear. Crystal clear.
Not long after the men had dumped her, a woman resembling Berta from Two and a Half Men, but with a sharp, unpleasant Russian accent, came into the cabin. She ordered Holly to undress. Holly had refused. The woman had tipped her head to one side, as if to say, ‘I warned you,’ and then with strength that Holly couldn’t fathom, had stripped her of her clothes. At one point, Holly had managed to get her fingernails into the woman’s arm and drawn blood. In reaction, the woman had held her down with one hand, and swung her free hand into the area of Holly’s kidneys. The pain was excruciating. She was a flaccid doll after that.
Between then and when she had eventually fallen asleep, the ensuing horror was too acute to recall in any detail. The man who raped her was big – ugly, almost deformed-looking with bent teeth, a wonky eye and jug ears. And strong. She had fought him with all her might, but it had been hopeless. Whatever she tried to do to resist, her actions only appeared to excite him more. He wasn’t on top of her for very long, but it seemed like forever. Once finished, he picked up his clothes and walked to the door.
Holly sensed an opportunity. Even though she was naked, and devoid of strength which had been sucked out of her by the abuse, she launched herself at his back. If she could get past him, out through the door and up the stairs, she might be able to throw herself off the side? She was a strong swimmer. Even in her current state, a mile would be well within her abilities.
Smack!
He must have sensed her rushing toward him. He turned quickly for a big man, his fist finding the centre of her chest, stopping her in her tracks. She spun round, falling uncontrollably in the direction of a white and gold dressing table. Her mouth hit the corner of the furniture and she heard a crack as one of her incisors broke in half. The fist to the chest had forced the wind from her lungs and her heart went into spasm. She lay gasping for air on all fours, blood pouring from her mouth and onto the cream, deep-pile carpet.
He turned to walk out.
‘You bastard!’ It was a quiet call, between shallow breaths. Blood projecting with the words, spreading red splatters on the carpet further than the initial pool between her hands. It was all she could manage.
The man turned back and faced her. He held his clothes in front of his groin, like an embarrassed schoolkid on his first day in the boys’ communal changing rooms.
He looked confused. Exposed. Weak.
And then he turned back toward the door and left, the crunching of the tumblers in the lock a clear indication that there was no way out.
‘He’s no more than a child?’ Holly said under her breath. A pang of sympathy momentarily floated in her mind – she couldn’t stop herself. And then it was gone.
She had washed thoroughly in the huge bathtub and was presented with some biscuits and cocoa at about 10pm by Berta; the whole thi
ng was incredulous – too bizarre to contemplate. Berta, who was carrying a tray, stopped where the blood had stained the carpet. She looked across at Holly and sighed.
‘Don’t fight. You won’t win.’ The accent was horribly harsh.
After a second bath, she had slept fitfully, and woken with a clear determination to find a way out; or at least communicate with the outside world. Berta had brought in breakfast, some cleaning fluid and a cloth. She had made Holly get onto her knees (still naked) and mop up her own blood. The carpet was remarkably easy to clean. It was obviously very expensive.
While she was scrubbing the pile, Holly had tried to strike up a conversation, asking Berta simple questions like ‘what’s your name?’ and ‘who do you work for?’ Nothing was forthcoming. And then she left, leaving Holly, still naked but well fed, sat on a bed dressed with clean, satin sheets. Playing with her broken tooth.
It was strange, but the abuse, while unmentionable, didn’t register. Her brain had shut it away somewhere. She knew she hated every second of it and felt violated beyond words. But she didn’t dwell on it. And she wasn’t scared. All of it made her stronger and more determined. She was surprised at how together she felt.
She had to think of a way out. If this was going to be the way it was, then an opportunity would present itself. She was intelligent; more intelligent than the delinquent who was using her as a sex toy. And probably brighter than Berta.
All she had to do was think. And plan. And then act.
4th Floor, British Embassy, Moscow
Sam had finished the email brief on the ExtraOil op and had sent it to Frank. She added Debbie’s contribution reference CleanDrilling, and had taken a couple of photos of Jim Dutton’s notebook, showing all the key bits of info. She’d finished by asking Frank if he had any results on the two mugshots she’d sent. She pressed ‘Send’, leant back in her chair and thought for a second.
I wonder if London will do anything with this? She’d keep an eye. If they didn’t, she had a contact at Langley: a CIA pal of hers she’d met during training. Both organisations run similar agent training – and every year, one or two lucky staff attend the sister course in the other country. It helped breed cross-agency understanding and friendship. Jodie, her SIS-trained CIA mate, would be all over ExtraOil and CleanDrilling like a dose of measles if Sam asked her. That would do the trick should London decide not to pursue.
Whilst tucking into a pasta salad she’d made last night – it was only 9.05am but it felt like lunchtime – she phoned Julie in Kabul, and then the duty officer in the Tehran. Both agreed to look to their al-Qaeda agents and informants to see if they had any leads. Currently there was nothing on their radars.
She then metaphorically rolled up her sleeves and went to work on what she loved most. Image analysis. It was technically Debbie’s role, although the boundaries between the posts had blurred over time. Sam had spent eight years as a photo analyst in the army’s Intelligence Corps, and two years doing pretty much the same job in Vauxhall. Once an analyst, always an analyst; and she was pretty good at it.
It was, as it was with all intelligence, a matter of spotting the missing piece of ordinary. What should be there, but wasn’t. The trick was not to look for something that shouldn’t be there; if your enemy is good enough, you won’t see what they don’t want to show you. But they might well forget, or ignore, the everyday. In photos, don’t look for disturbed earth; look for where grass should be growing, but wasn’t. Don’t search CCTV for a missing person; look at the video footage for where the person should have been, but wasn’t – and then track down the others in the shot. And, always question a perfect set of company accounts; nobody makes that much effort.
It was all degrees of subtlety. And subtlety was what Sam did best.
How long did she have? She checked her watch again. Thirty minutes before my meet with Debbie.
She needed to order some satellite imagery.
The UK got nearly all its satellite imagery from the US. They were easily the world leaders. With over 8,000 satellites orbiting the world, and 100 more joining the throng every year, there were more than enough people taking pictures of the earth. But even with that many, it was a fallacy to believe that you could get real-time imagery of anywhere on the earth, at any time. It was also a fallacy if you believed that you could read a paperback held open in someone’s hands from space. Cameras weren’t yet that good.
However, there were cameras up there that could read the headlines on a broadsheet. Resolutions for still photos, especially after digital enhancement, were now down as low as two centimetres for monochrome shots (ten times larger if you wanted colour); about the size of a thumbnail. Civilian firms, such as GeoEye and DigitalGlobe, could get close to that granularity, but they weren’t allowed to sell images with a sharper resolution than 25 centimetres. If they did, the US government would shut them down. And their CEOs would go to jail. Without passing ‘Go’.
As for real time, you needed a good slab of luck – that is, the satellite needed to be overhead when you wanted a shot. Or you had to wait for a second or third pass (around every three to five hours, depending on the satellite), and then only after the controller had tweaked the bird’s path.
It wasn’t yet like Mission Impossible.
SIS could task the US for imagery and get ‘very recent’ photos to two-centimetre resolution within six hours; they held a 14-day old depository that could be accessed that quickly. In the vaults at Langley, they also held satellite imagery from as far back as the 60s, shot on celluloid by the first viable reconnaissance satellite, HEXAGON – or colloquially known as Big Bird; it was the size of a school bus. This satellite took outstanding photographs from 370 miles up, to resolutions in the order of 60 centimetres. The rolls of film were ejected from the satellite, and fell to earth, landing softly in the Pacific Ocean near Hawaii, via the aid of a parachute. It is said that HEXAGON’s work during the Cuban Missile Crisis had saved the planet from World War 3.
Probably in deference to its success, the US still referred to their current satellites as ‘Big Birds’.
In short, if you wanted a decent, near time overhead, the US would deliver (in SIS’s case, via Langley). It cost about $100 for one US mile square, but Sam had an op code, which meant she had a budget. With a credit limit that made her eyes water.
Of course, Op Samantha was an FSB op. And the Russians had their own reconnaissance satellites. But, as was the case with most of their high-end equipment, it was neither up-to-date, nor well maintained. They would have photos; but they wouldn’t be as good as the ones Sam could get.
When dealing with the FSB Sam was also stymied by rules. The US provided detailed imagery to the UK on an ‘EYES-ONLY’ basis. This meant that Sam couldn’t share the high-res photos with Vlad, or any member of the FSB. But she could share the intelligence she had gleaned from the images, and use less resolved photos to paint the picture. She’d procured US images for Op Michael, the drugs op. She’d found the alternative route, which the drugs had eventually followed, by initially analysing the high-res imagery from Langley. However, when she was fruitlessly explaining her findings to the FSB team, she had shown them a grainier image. She wasn’t surprised when the line, ‘Can’t you see what I’m seeing – look, here?’ got lost in the poor quality of the photographs.
She’d need to apply the same approach with the images she was just about to order. It was a cross she’d have to bear.
Sam opened the mapping app on Cynthia. She zoomed in on the Sevmash military shipyard in Severodvinsk. She acquainted herself with the layout, swiping her screen left and right so she could take in the size of the establishment. She picked out Number 2 Shed where the TK-202 was being decommissioned. She then highlighted ten grid squares and opened a drop-down box. She needed to get the timings right. She checked her notes from yesterday’s meeting. When was Captain Mikhailov declared missing? Got it – two weeks ago Monday. Now, let’s select every day, mid-afternoon, for the previous
21 days. That might throw up an anomaly.
Next, to Sokolov. She knew she couldn’t open his file – an alert would sound somewhere and she’d be on the first plane home. But, she didn’t need to open the file. She remembered it all.
Using the map app again, she found his residences in central Moscow, his dacha in Novo-Ogaryovo, his office complex in Moscow’s White Square, his Park Lane apartment in London and… – she scratched her chin as she searched her memory for the detail – the berth of his 230-foot superyacht, Cressida, in Sevastopol. It wouldn’t have surprised Sam if Russia hadn’t annexed Crimea just so Sokolov’s floating gin palace could be berthed on Russian soil. Maybe they’ll invade Latvia next? She knew he had an ocean-going mega-yacht being built in Hamburg, Germany. Every oligarch worth his salts needed a permanent Russian-owned berth on the Baltic Sea. And, as St Petersburg was so ‘last-year’ for the nouveau-riche, Vilnius might just be the next best thing.
She also had the addresses of Bogdan Kuznetsov, the Tesla hit-and-run man. He was a known Sokolov associate. She bagged an image of those as well.
Timings? When do I want these overheads?
As close to now as you could get it, would be a good place to start. And taken just before dusk (she checked dawn and dusk timings on Google); every day for the past 21 days – as per the shipyard. Perfect. Hang on. And, as for the future, every eight hours from 4pm today for the next seven days. The night-time shots would be taken with an infrared camera and the pixel resolution would be much poorer. But it would give them something.
Sam topped and tailed the e-requisition form, including adding Debbie to the distribution, and pressed ‘Send’. She received an immediate email alert from Langley telling her the photos would be with her within around six hours. Cost = $14,450.
Bargain.
She sensed Debbie at her shoulder.
‘Hi Sam, it’s 9.45. You wanted to meet?’
The Innocence of Trust Page 20