She broke the trance. And half-smiled.
‘And it’s then, just then, when we will be able to access his deepest secrets.’
Vlad didn’t say anything for two or three seconds. Sam wasn’t sure what was going on in his head. Maybe he thought she was mad – which wouldn’t be too far from the truth. Maybe he cherished his current life more than a potential duel with the devil. She got that. But he needed to tell her.
‘I can’t just leave the office.’ He threw his arms out wide. ‘I need authority. I have to sign for a credit card, so I can book flights. I need to tell my family.’ He looked fidgety. Unsure.
Sam tipped her head to one side. I’ll take that as a ‘yes’ then.
‘I have a firm’s card which has unlimited credit on it; and no restrictions on how I spend it.’ (Actually, I need to account for every penny…) ‘In my book, that means all you have to do is tell your family. And you can do that when you pop home and get your overnight bag. But not before you show me where the photos are.’
Vlad shook his head.
Then he picked up his car keys and wallet from his desk, and led Sam out into the corridor.
Who was this woman, Sam Green? Vlad had absolutely no idea where she would eventually take him. The trip to the shipyard made sense, and he’d go with that – although Alyona would be disappointed by him being away from home again.
But Sam’s thing with Sokolov? Or, just as important, his with her? It had obviously become personal, and she’d need to guard against her emotions skewing her many abilities.
She was very good, there was no doubt about that. When she had been posted to Moscow, they’d read her file: the Ebola incident; saving the German chancellor’s life; and bringing down the Kirche des Weißen Kreuz. All on her own, if you believed everything in the file. She was immediately placed on the FSB’s ‘to watch’ list.
So, they couldn’t believe their luck when she had been assigned to the FSB – rather than be free to poke her nose into their other business, where they’d rather not have SIS company.
He knew that Sokolov had tabs on Sam, and had for over a week. It was Vlad’s job to know as much about Nikolay Sokolov as could be known – without unsettling him. His key informant was a man in the oligarch’s inner circle. It was he who had mentioned that Sokolov may have had a part in the theft of the uranium. But he couldn’t share that among his team. Sokolov was on ‘close-hold’. The file was Operation Magpie; it was available to just Vlad and the director. A file that was potentially bigger than a dirty bomb, or any other illicit activity that Sokolov might have his fingers all over.
So, when he’d been tipped off by his informant that an SIS case-officer was creating waves in Sokolov’s pond, he had quickly found the cause: Sam Green. What infuriated him was that he wasn’t able to work out what Sam was onto last week. He could, maybe should, have had Sam tagged. Maybe she’d tell him in due course?
Whatever, Sam had a thing for Sokolov; and he her.
That was a good thing.
Both he and the director had agreed that she was key to Magpie. They needed someone pliable in the British Embassy with a link to Sokolov. Someone to force the British’s hand. Only then could they hope to find the key piece of intel which would close the Magpie case.
It was clear then. He needed to earn Sam Green’s trust. And to do that, he’d stick by her. Whatever.
‘Here we are, Sam.’ Vlad led them into a larger room, in the centre of which were four desks. Each desk was equipped with two large LED screens, and each had its own operator; all of whom were wearing headphones. He could hear the shrill of music coming from the nearest analyst’s headset. That was allowed. Anything to improve concentration. Running along the wall, under the two windows, were a series of tables with maps and satellite photographs strewn across them. The walls were plastered with charts and more imagery.
‘All of these analysts are working on Op Samantha.’ The four operators, now aware of the pair’s presence, looked up and then immediately got back to work. ‘Follow me.’
Vlad led Sam around the set of tables to the operator on the far side of the four. It was Evgeny. He was the youngest of their analysts and easily the most attractive.
Here we go.
If Sam thought she could take control of Vlad’s life without a bit of mischief coming her way, then she was wrong.
‘Evgeny. This is Samantha Green. She’s a liaison officer from the British Embassy. She has complete authority to look at any of the Op Samantha slides. Please let her study what she wants. By the way, her Russian is better than yours, which I know isn’t difficult as you’re a Cossack. So, try not to be rude. I’ll be back in 40 minutes. Happy?’
Evgeny, who was the coolest dude in central Moscow, didn’t bat an eyelid. He half turned to Sam and gave her the biggest smile his face could manage – the one that all the secretaries in the building hung about in corridors hoping to get a glimpse of.
‘Pull up a chair, Miss Green.’
Vlad smiled to himself.
Smooth as silk and pure chocolate. Take that, Sam Green.
Up until that point Sam had a soft spot for Vlad. Now she hated him more than a plateful of broccoli. She got straight away what he was up to. And she knew that vengeance would be sweet. I don’t know how, I don’t know when…
Evgeny was gorgeous. But knew it. And that would normally have been enough to put Sam off. But, even so, it was going to be impossible to concentrate. It was like being offered a seat next to David Gandy, and then being asked to thread a needle.
They shook hands. He moved his chair to one side, but no so far that, when she pulled a seat next to his, the notion of personal space was a lost sensibility.
She took a deep breath and asked a couple of access questions. Evgeny, all elbows and thighs, showed Sam some folders which were date-marked. And then which keys she needed to use to enlarge the photos. Using an overhead of one of the docks, he demonstrated how to further manipulate the image. Throughout, his face was far too close to Sam’s for comfort. He did smell nice.
But she couldn’t concentrate.
I’ve had enough of this.
‘I’m a lesbian.’ She raised her eyebrows in a, ‘that told you’ sort of way.
He checked back, and smiled again. Her knees weakened.
‘Seriously. You are an attractive man and your attention flatters me. But, I prefer my partners with breasts and without the dangly thing. Now, can we please get to work?’
‘Sure.’ He tutted in a fabulously sulky way.
Sam clenched her teeth. And her knees.
God, how I wish I had better control of my libido.
Once her pulse had settled, it took Sam 15 minutes to get her general search of the 220 monochrome images down to three – all of Number 2 Shed. A little over three weeks ago, a Saturday, a Sunday and a Monday – taken at 15.00; 15.35 and 15.47. The change of times, Sam assumed, was due to the obliqueness of the satellite orbit. Whilst Sam was poring over the images, the supermodel had been dispatched to make them both coffee. He may have been God’s gift, but the brown sludge he returned with was rubbish.
Sam had the earliest photo on the left screen and, reduced in size, the later two on the right. She enlarged all three separately, and then reduced them again. Pixilation began at 40 centimetres and, due to the lack of enhancement software, when the image started to blur she had to zoom out again.
‘Leave these three,’ Sam barked at Evgeny. She stood up and walked to the window, staring out through the grey for inspiration. Drops of rain had started to splatter the glass. She hated the run up to winter. In any country.
She came back again and sat down. Evgeny was looking intently at all three.
‘What can you see?’ he asked.
Sam took hold of the mouse and used it as a pointer.
‘It’s not what I can see, it’s what I can’t see that’s important.’
On the left screen, she hovered the pointer over a small light-grey rectangul
ar splodge with a line down the middle of it.
‘What’s that?’
Evgeny leant forward and stared at the screen, its reflection creating a mosaic in his fabulously blue eyes.
‘Not sure. Using the scale, it’s probably two metres square. Looks like a tent.’
Sam flipped the mouse between screens. She pointed at the same place on the top photo on the second screen.
‘And that?’
‘It’s the same thing – it’s not moved. Whatever it is.’
‘And here?’
Sam had moved the pointer to the lower photo and paused in exactly the same place where the grey splodge had been before. It had gone. It was replaced by a smaller, darker grey, chequered square.
Evgeny looked confused.
‘Something’s been moved? Whatever was there before has gone?’
‘Exactly. What should be there, but isn’t.’
‘What does that mean?’ Evgeny asked.
Sam leant back in her chair and put her hands behind her head. She didn’t mean to push her modest chest out, but Evgeny couldn’t stop himself from catching an eyeful. Bless him.
‘I’m not sure. And I need to do some work on this. I think the first two photos of Saturday and Sunday show a workman’s tent.’
Evgeny finished her thought process.
‘And the third, Monday, shows the work complete. Possibly leaving a manhole cover.’ Having taken his eyes off Sam’s breasts, he was now looking back at the screen. ‘Just about 30 metres from the main shed. And…’ he used his finger to point at the date of the photo, ‘about the time we think the piece of fuel rod went missing?’
‘Or, pieces. This could have been going on for some time.’
‘That’s genius. They could have been stealing the uranium and getting the fuel out of the shipyard via the drainage system.’
‘Correct. So, the next step is?’ Sam tested Evgeny.
‘Get a copy of the drainage plans and see if we can establish a route that takes us out of the boundaries.’
‘Right answer. Can you do that?’
Evgeny’s reply was curtailed by Vlad’s return; he was carrying a black carry-on case. He raised his eyebrows at Sam playfully.
Sam smiled, a knowing smile and touched Evgeny’s forearm.
‘Brief the boss, Evgeny.’
Which is what Evgeny did. He used ‘we’ rather than ‘Sam’, but she really didn’t mind. Hopefully he’d learnt a few things today: how to be a better photo analyst; and how to treat women with more respect.
No, he’d never learn the latter.
‘That’s great work. What now?’
On a normal day, Sam would have let Evgeny continue, but they needed to leave. She’d checked flight times before she’d left the Embassy. They had 90 minutes. The next flight to Arkhangelsk was five hours later – it would be too late.
‘Evgeny’s going to check out the drainage system. I want my team to look over our own images using the same logic. And we need a Geiger counter.’
Vlad scrunched his face up as though the last sentence had hurt.
‘I have a couple in my office.’
‘That’s Russian sarcasm, isn’t it?’ was Sam’s response.
‘Yeah.’ He thought for a second. ‘I guess we’re in a rush to catch the 12.45? I checked on the way over.’
Sam was on her feet now, collecting her things. And nodding at the same time.
‘Evgeny. Get hold of the appropriate department at the university. Have them blue-light a Geiger counter to the airport. They have an hour.’
Vlad finished the last sentence as he and Sam rushed out the door.
In the air between Moscow and Arkhangelsk
Sam and Vlad had managed to get seats next to each other on a packed flight from Moscow. The flight was scheduled to take three and a half hours; they’d be landing at Arkhangelsk, the closest airport to the shipyard, at about 4pm. Vlad’s team had got a Geiger counter to them just before they boarded the plane. He thought it might be dangerous air cargo, until Sam pointed out that it was just a metal cylinder with a high-voltage tungsten wire running through its middle (the power supplied by a medium-sized battery). Her mad physics teacher used to spend an hour with the class making one from old bits of throw-away rubbish. So she understood how they worked: a plastic cap at one end allows radiation to get into the tube; it affects the gas inside, sending bits of it to the tungsten. This causes a pulse of electricity, which then makes a sound. Lots of bleeps means lots of radiation. It was perfect for their needs. Especially as the latest ones were small enough to fit in your pocket.
Whilst taxiing, Sam had drafted and sent an email to M, Debbie and Rich. It read:
The FSB have asked me to accompany them to Severodvinsk. We have caught the 12.45 from Moscow (SVO) to Arkhangelsk (ARH). Aim is to undertake further interviews/investigations at the shipyard.
Notes:
1. FSB have added Vienna to the target list, and removed Jerusalem. I agree.
2. Possibility that Ur could have been removed from shipyard via drainage system. Debbie: look to sat phots of Number 2 Shed over the 3 days, three weekends ago (Sat to Mon), at a distance of 30m SW of shed, east wall, bottom corner. In Lubyanka we found poss workman’s tent on the Sat/Sun, then only manhole cover Mon. Might be key. We will physically investigate drainage whilst we’re there, unless instructed otherwise.
3. FSB have limited border coverage, but view is device being put together in Ru - and still here.
4. FSB looking into files on senior staff at shipyard. Debbie, dig out wiring diagram and give me anything we might have on those staff. Looking for high-level political influences and ambitions. (Sam wanted to press Debbie to look at senior staff links to Sokolov, but couldn’t mention his name.)
5. Forward int from GCHQ and PD as soon as you have it.
6. I will liaise with Riyadh and Tehran separately.
Thanks. Will be in touch and hopefully return tomorrow.
Sam.
In the spirit of bipartisanship, Sam let Vlad read the email before it went.
He then showed her his instructions to his FSB colleagues to also look for linkages between the key shipyard staff and Sokolov. And, just before the air hostess told him off for using his mobile during take-off, he’d tasked the Severodvinsk FSB team to expect the pair of them, and to meet them at the airport – they were also to let the shipyard boss (Semyon Bukhalo – they had Googled the name in the taxi on the way to the airport), know that he was to be available for interview before close of play today. That is, whenever they got there.
The in-place FSB team were nervous about the second instruction. Bukhalo was a big-cheese in Severodvinsk and wouldn’t necessarily take kindly to being ordered about. Sam was impressed with Vlad – his retort was along the lines of, ‘when the director of the FSB asks you to be available for interview, you’re available for interview.’
Simple.
The pair of them had compared further notes for the first hour and a half, but had got no further. They then agreed the interview question list; Vlad would interrogate – Sam would observe. (She thought she might struggle with a supporting role – but would do her best to keep quiet.) After that, they played with the in-flight video before being fed. Sam had pushed the food, which was greasy meat and dumplings, around the tray. Vlad had wolfed his all down as if it were his last meal. They both declined alcohol and, after coffee, Vlad had fallen asleep, his head leant back on the headrest with his mouth slightly open. As he sat there, oblivious to the world, Sam felt a real pang of affection for this middle-aged FSB agent. She was so glad that she was taking on the likes of Sokolov with someone as grounded and experienced as Vlad.
And on that floating thought, she too fell asleep…
Chapter 12
CEO’s Office, Sevmash Military Shipyard, Severodvinsk, Russia
‘This is outrageous. First, you order me to stay behind after office hours, as a result of which I will be late for my son’s
birthday party. And then you bring a British Embassy official in here, as though it was the most natural thing in the world!’ Semyon Bukhalo, the CEO of the shipyard, was not happy. Not happy at all.
Vlad, who was stood in front of the CEO’s desk, was beyond caring. Bukhalo was just an ex-Commodore in the Russian navy, and now promoted to two-star equivalent in the civil service. Two-stars were ten-a-penny in his book.
The man, across the desk from him and also stood, was blotchy, overweight, early 60s and due a heart attack. Bulging veins showed up on his forehead. If he carried on like this, they’d be administering CPR to him on the worn, paisley carpet – in his worn brown office. Vlad thought that would probably best be a job for Sam.
He looked across at her. She sat impassively on a chair in the corner of the office, her hands together on her knees. Prim and proper.
Bukhalo was bent over his desk, supporting his torso with straight arms, ranting some more. Vlad let him run out of steam. There was silence for a short while.
‘Please sit down, Commodore Bukhalo.’ Vlad used his rank. They liked that, these ex-military types. It played to their previous status. On the way from the airport he’d received his first int. update from Evgeny – there was half a page on the CEO. At first take, Bukhalo seemed clean. He was an ex-naval engineer, whose last military job was senior engineer on the Admiral Kuznetsov, one of their huge navy aircraft carriers. His background, and the fact that he had served as a submariner before moving onto carriers, made him the obvious choice to oversee the shipyard when the post became vacant two years ago. He didn’t have an FSB file, and his police record was clear. Evgeny had more to do to uncover his political affiliations and personal connections. That would come. From what he had, though, Vlad thought it unlikely that he was Sokolov’s man.
Bukhalo sat down, the redness of his face dissipating a touch as he did.
‘As you know, 30 kilograms of spent fuel rod is unaccounted for from the decommissioning of TK-202. Our local FSB staff have interviewed the pertinent personnel involved with the decommissioning process. We are widening our interviews to include all senior shipyard staff. My British Embassy colleague and I will stay in Sevmash for as long as that takes. And I am here with the full authority of the director. If you wish, you can phone him at any time. Miss Green,’ Vlad acknowledged Sam, ‘is a specialist in nuclear material theft. She is here under that capacity.’
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