‘Yes, thanks Debbie, pull up a chair. What have you got?’
She opened her notebook.
‘Nothing on ExtraOil and CleanDrilling. I’m assuming you’re leaving that to London now?’
Sam nodded.
‘GCHQ have come back. They have a team of three SIGINT analysts looking over all the recent tapes they have from the section of the Saudi royal family that we’re interested in. They have also managed to put an intercept bubble on Prince Khalid bin Fahd’s estate, in a suburb of Riyadh – where Capt Mikhailov was last spotted. As at 7am this morning, there were 397 separate mobile traces in the space the size of half a football pitch. They’re monitoring those. They don’t think they can do any better than that, unless you have a specific number.’
‘No, but that’s a point. I wonder if the FSB have Mikhailov’s mobile number, although he’d be an idiot if he’s using it. I’ll check with Vlad when I see him. Anything else?’
‘No. You?’
‘No. Since I sent the ExtraOil brief to Frank, I’ve spoken to Kabul and Tehran. They’re on the case. And I’ve ordered some imagery, actually $15,000 worth of imagery – from Langley. I’ve granted you access to the lot. Now…’ Sam drew her breath. ‘I’ve got some photos coming of the estates/residences of Nikolay Sokolov and a man called Bogdan Kuznetsov. The latter works for the former. You’ve heard of Sokolov?’
‘Yes, of course! Rumour has it, that Robbie William’s track Party Like A Russian was inspired by him. Doesn’t everyone know that?’
‘Oh dear…’ Sam raised her eyes to the ceiling. She was feeling old, even at 34.
She continued. ‘Don’t ask any questions. Just trust me when I tell you that there might be a linkage here to the op. And, please don’t have this discussion with anyone else; nor analyse the images when someone might be looking over your shoulder. Are you happy with that? If not, I can take you off the distribution.’
Debbie looked perplexed.
‘Am I going to be breaking any rules by looking at the photos?’
Sam thought for a second.
‘No more than you were when you continued to investigate ExtraOil, when I had been pulled off the case.’
Debbie smiled.
‘I like you, Sam. You’re easily one of the best case-officers in the building. And one of the nicest. If you think this is important, then I’ll do it. What am I looking for?’
‘30kg of Uranium 235.’
Sam slapped her forehead with her hand.
Bugger! We missed that off the list this morning.
‘Actually, that’s a point. Get in touch with Porton Down. Get one of their boffins on the case. What would a dirty bomb look like if you had that amount of spent fuel rod to detonate? How would you mask it? How much explosive do you need…?’ Sam stopped talking. Debbie had the ‘do you think I’m an idiot?’ expression on her face. ‘Sorry Debbie. You know what we need. But let’s get them to prepare some images. And if PD don’t play the game quickly, and I’m not in the building, get into M’s office and ask him to press them hard. We need to know what we’re looking for by close of play today. And keep Frank in the loop.’
Debbie was taking notes again.
Sam looked up at the clock on the wall. It was 10.05. She needed to shoot.
‘Got to go. Sorry. Keep in touch, please.’
Debbie stood to get out of her way as Sam picked up her rucksack and made a dash for the door.
Chapter 11
The Lubyanka Building, Moscow, Russia
Sam kept an eye on possible tails as she weaved her way to the Lubyanka. Walk-taxi-walk. She knew this was the way it was going to be until, either, she was tied up in a cellar somewhere, or Sokolov was behind bars.
So be it.
Vlad was waiting for her at reception. It took a minute or so to book in. They then made their way up to the fifth floor to a pokey office; it had room for just a desk, which was placed against the far wall, a filing cabinet and a couple of chairs. If there were a view from the only window, you wouldn’t know; it needed a good clean.
‘Coffee?’ Vlad asked.
‘Yes, please.’
Behind the door there was a small fridge, a kettle and some containers. The fridge, the kettle and, what looked like Vlad’s computer and screen, were all powered by the same socket. Sam looked for smoke detectors. There were none. It was a catastrophic fire waiting to happen. Such was her attention to detail, that if she wasn’t a spy, she’d make a great health and safety inspector. No wonder she didn’t have many friends.
They made small talk as the kettle boiled, and then they both sat down, their knees almost touching as the chairs struggled to find appropriate space. Vlad’s desk was small and covered in paperwork. But it was tidy. The screensaver was a selfie of him, Sam guessed his wife, and two children. There was sea in the background.
‘The Black Sea?’ Sam pointed at the screen.
Vlad lowered his mug and turned to look at what Sam was pointing at.
‘Yes. Last year. That’s my wife, Alyona, and our two kids. It’s Volkonka – on the coast. A great holiday – nowhere near long enough. It’s always the case, don’t you find?’
That wasn’t a great question. Sam didn’t do time off well. In the short break between finishing her language training in Lithuania and her arrival in Moscow, she’d revisited the island of Mull in Scotland; and, in particular, the island of Iona. There, five years ago, two ex-CIA thugs had set fire to her campervan and what remained of her meagre existence. Since that point, her life had been a rollercoaster – with many more downs than there had been ups. Actually, a rollercoaster was an inadequate metaphor. More like a game of snakes and ladders, with a handful of three-rung ladders, and a vipers’ nest full of genetically enhanced snakes.
Mull had been a mistake. She was hoping to find some final closure to the death of Chris, the only man she had ever loved; stolen from her by a Taliban mortar round what seemed like an eternity ago. There was no closure. Just a load of recurring, rubbish memories: Sierra Leone; the Ebola incident; Uncle Pete’s death in the Alps; and she and her German colleague, Wolfgang, being chased around Europe like a pair of pheasants on a Sunday morning shoot in the Cotswolds.
She hadn’t stayed long in Scotland.
Instead, she’d spent the rest of that break in London with an old Army pal of hers, Linda, watching far too many West End musicals and drinking a bit too much red wine. But, she had kept herself fit. Running across Clapham Common every day, purging the alcohol, and some of the memories. By the time she got on the plane to Moscow she was level again. Just.
She envied Vlad. Probably more than anyone else she knew. He had a decent job. He seemed happily married, and had kids. He even went on holidays to the seaside. What was wrong with her? Why wasn’t she married with kids? When was the last time she went to the beach and ate an ice cream?
Vlad seemed to sense that, albeit briefly, Sam was a bit lost.
‘You OK?’
Sam looked at him.
At that point, more than anything, she wanted to open up to this kind Russian. A man, who, on more than one occasion, had told her to ‘be careful’. Was he the only person she knew who was looking out for her?
Then Sokolov’s face burst into her psyche. She smelt him again; that cologne – the mouthwash. Clean – but filthy at the same time. Her stomach gave an involuntary lurch and then it settled.
Sam touched Vlad’s knee.
‘I’m fine. Thanks Vlad. There’s a lot going on up here…’ She pointed to her head. ‘Not all of it is a great deal of fun.’
‘You should take a break?’
Sam smiled.
‘No, Vlad. We have 30kg of uranium to find. And, if I get my way, an oligarch to depose.’
It was his turn to smile.
‘OK, Sam, what have you got?’
She explained what she, Rich and Debbie had spent the first part of the morning pulling together. She was waiting for potential SIGINT from GCHQ looking into
Saudi connections. And that SIS were squeezing their agents in the same country, as well as Iran and Afghanistan.
After his previous suggestion that Sokolov might be part of this, she outlined her theory of Sokolov’s involvement. And then expanded on Captain 1st Rank Mikhailov’s role as his aide to procuring the spent nuclear fuel. Of the captain being the frontman in Saudi, and the fall guy if things went wrong. And, on the back of those presumptions, that she had ordered some imagery of Sokolov and Bogdan Kuznetsov’s premises, as well as multiple shots of the shipyard.
‘We think the likely targets are Berlin, Frankfurt and, if you use a Lear Jet, Jerusalem and the Vatican.’
Vlad thought for a second. He looked at Sam over the rim of his coffee mug.
‘Good work. But strike off Jerusalem. The Al-Aqsa mosque in the city is the third holiest Sunni site after the al-Haram in Mecca and the al-Nabawi in Medina. It’s a stone’s throw from Temple Mount, which I’m guessing you might think is a target. The terrorists couldn’t afford that sort of collateral. In any case, Al-Qaeda wouldn’t risk an attack on Temple Mount, because, whilst it’s the centre of Judaism, and thus a spectacular target, it is also a celebrated Muslim mosque. Sorry, I’m just not convinced. But, I do agree with your choices of Berlin and Frankfurt. Our list also included Vienna. It’s a tourist hub, and the right wing are very strong in Austria. It wouldn’t take much to set them off.
‘Also, we’ve found Mikhailov’s mobile. It had been retrieved from a ditch at Moscow airport by a passer-by, who thought all his Christmases had come at once – it was an iPhone 6. They had started to use it. Unfortunately for them, they got a visitation from friends of ours at the SVR, who tell me that they won’t be paying for his new front door. Anyway, it seems likely that the phone had been discarded by Mikhailov before he got on a plane to Riyadh. So, we are no further forward in tracing him.’
‘Are you covering your borders?’
‘Yes. We have the major ones alerted and our border guards have Geiger counters on hand that should pick up stray radiation. Their instructions are to check every fifth car and every second truck. It’s a long shot, made longer by the fact that any self-respecting terrorist would use a lead car and alert the carrier to any checks at the border. If I were them, I’d keep probing crossings until I found an open one. We also can’t discount the bribing of border guards, nor high-level political influence – allowing packages to cross unchecked. It is the way it is here, I’m afraid.’
Vlad had a resigned look on his face.
Sam helped. ‘By close of play I should have a mock-up of a potential bomb; images, the lot. At least then your people will have a better idea of what they are looking for.’
‘Do you think the device will be assembled in country?’
‘Likely, don’t you think? If it’s a Russian-based op, the expertise and infrastructure would be in-country. If I were the Saudis, I wouldn’t buy a bomb that was in multiple parts. I’m guessing we’re talking a price tag of $10-15 million. I’d put my best man on the inspection, to make sure I was getting what I was paying for. To me, that smacks of a job that needs to be done here.’ Sam pointed to the ground to make a point.
‘What’s the timeframe?’ Vlad asked.
‘I’m not sure. Let’s see what our people in the UK come back with, as to how they would make it. We’ve lost at least a week already. It may take a further week to build the device; a week to ship it? We have a couple of weeks, probably less – if they work to a tight schedule. If not, who knows?’
‘OK, thanks. My team have already got pretty decent satellite imagery of Number 2 shed over the past 14 days. It’s periodic, not complete. But it’s something. We have analysts looking at that now to see if we can pick up any clues. And, yesterday, our small detachment in Severodvinsk interviewed most of the staff that were involved with the decommissioning – so far there’s nothing in the transcripts that gives us anything to work with.’
‘Do you have the question set?’ Sam asked.
Vlad turned to his keyboard and, after a couple of keystrokes, what looked like interview transcripts appeared on the screen.
‘Help yourself.’
Sam moved the keyboard so that she could use it.
With a speed that seemed to alarm Vlad, she scrolled quickly through the first set of interview notes. Then the second.
She stopped.
‘How can you do that?’ Vlad asked, the incredulity undisguised in his voice.
‘What?’ Sam was confused.
‘Look at, maybe, 40 sheets of notes in less than a minute and expect to make sense of it all?’
Sam smiled. ‘It’s a knack.’ She didn’t elaborate. ‘Look, Vlad. These are the wrong questions.’ She paused. ‘Sorry. These aren’t all the right questions.’
‘What?’
‘Sure. You have to press the people on the ground for any accounting discrepancy during the decommissioning process. Look for links and fissures between the staff and Mikhailov. Accomplices. But, having read two sets of interviews, there is nothing here to go on. Either: they know nothing; or, the few that are involved are well rehearsed and covering each other’s backs.’
Her assertions had knocked Vlad back. He didn’t look overly happy.
‘So, what questions would SIS ask?’ He spat it out.
Sam realised that she had been too pushy. Too forthright. She’d have to work harder with her one key ally.
‘We’re focusing too much effort here on the wrong man – Mikhailov. This isn’t a bank robbery. It’s not been undertaken by a bunch of gangsters, who broke in in the middle of the night and stole some gold bars. If it was, your people would have found something already. This is top-down fraud. Organised and affected by people, or someone, with the highest authority. Mikhailov is key because he knows his ship inside out. He’s lived in it for…?’
‘Five years.’ Vlad completed Sam’s sentence.
‘But, authority to release the fuel has come from outside the organisation via the very top of the shipyard. From Sokolov, or someone on his bankroll. Of course, the interviewers need to ask if anyone has seen some furtive folk wandering around, slipping uranium into their coat pockets. But, we need to put pressure on the top men – the ones who have the real authority and reach. The shipyard’s director – and his second-in-command. Establish a link to Sokolov. Check bank accounts; look for family connections; find which ones of them go to the same parties. Belong to the same club. Which member of the senior team in the shipyard has been on the Cressida?’
Vlad looked confused.
‘Sokolov’s superyacht. Berthed in Sevastopol.’
Sam stopped and let Vlad’s cogs turn. She knew she was right. Pressing the decommissioning team hard may throw up a clue as to how the uranium had been stolen – but it was gone now. Establishing the hierarchy behind the crime, and following that route, would give them so much more that was current.
‘OK, Sam. That makes some sense. I can get some people onto that now. But I must be careful. In the same way that I was telling you to do the same. Not only is pushing at Sokolov a highly dangerous pastime, we may only have this once chance of nailing him. And I am under strict instructions from the director not to mess this up. We have to have watertight evidence. Otherwise we will have more than Sokolov to answer to.’
Sam stood up. They had talked enough.
‘What are you up to?’ Vlad asked.
‘I want a quick look at your photos of Number 2 Shed, please. I shouldn’t need any more than 30 minutes, maybe an hour. That should give you time to get some things together.’
‘Things? What things? What are you talking about?’ Vlad was on his feet now.
‘Overnight things. Hear me out. It’s going to be another six to eight hours before we have anything from Saudi, and another couple of hours before my analyst will have had a decent chance to look at the photos I’ve ordered. The mock-up of the dirty bomb should also be available later, but possibly not until early evening. And I ca
n access all of that on my SIS secure Nexus.’ She held up her ruggedised, secure, eight-inch tablet. ‘I guess your team can be tasked by phone to get oversight of the senior staff at Severodvinsk?’
Vlad nodded. He was struggling to keep up.
Sam continued as she put her Nexus in her rucksack.
‘I don’t know about you, but I’m catching the first flight up to the shipyard. Let’s waltz right in and start poking around. Get access to the director’s office – without him finding the time to rehearse any responses. And press him hard. Then shake the chief finance officer, or whatever his title is. Start at the top and work down. Let’s make someone squeak.’
‘But, if we assume a Sokolov linkage, the moment we walk out of their offices, he’s going to know!’
‘Exactly.’ Sam stopped and looked at Vlad, and then stared almost through him, to the smudgy window and out to what was a grey and cold autumn day.
She spoke quietly, almost in a whisper. His face had lost some of its previous colour.
‘I met him last night. He singled me out at an Embassy party. He walked straight across to me.’ She was now looking directly at Vlad; eye to eye. She knew her face was expressionless, as though all feeling had been sucked from her.
‘Without flinching, he threatened to kill me – under his breath, but still in front of a hundred people. He was charming – utterly. Except for a few seconds. When our faces were so close they almost touched. Just then, for just a couple of moments, his facade broke and I sensed his weakness. He’s clever – yes. Smart – absolutely. Incredibly well connected. And with money that can buy the most influential of favours. But he’s arrogant. Cruel. And vicious.’ Sam hadn’t blinked. Her words were monotone, but were coming straight from her heart.
‘Above his expensive aftershave, I could smell anger. Hatred. And with it, fragility. I’m guessing he has never lost anything in his life. He’s always been on the winning team. Now, he feels threatened; only a touch. But threatened nonetheless. If we put our finger in the wound, he won’t be able to stop himself. He’ll lash out.’
The Innocence of Trust Page 21