Sam looked beyond Vlad as if trying to find some inspiration.
‘This is 150 kilograms of bomb. Most cars will need beefed-up suspension to carry this in their boots. Small vans: look for ones that are down on their back axle. Medium-sized vans – you won’t be able to tell. So, for them and anything bigger, it’ll have to be Geiger counters at dawn.’
‘That’s not helpful. Without an early lead, the moment the bomb’s on the move, it be like looking for Osama bin Laden in the suburbs of Islamabad.’
It was Sam’s turn to laugh now.
She had a sip of her coffee and continued.
‘So, we have to either find it now, during construction, or prevent it from detonating when it gets to its target – statistically, as you probably know, more devices are found by intelligence services in the very late stages of deployment, than in their development. All we need to do is reduce the number of targets, and then be very alert.’
‘How do we prevent it exploding? Even if we find the vehicle in the final stages of deployment and stop it before it gets to its target, it will be nigh on impossible to prevent it from being detonated remotely. And a radiation bomb going “kaboom” in, say, the suburbs of Berlin, would create as much mayhem as the same thing happening at the target. Say, the Brandenburg Gate?’
Again, Sam stopped the conversation by not replying. She daintily scratched her chin, her slim fingers a distraction. He sighed inwardly. Thankfully, Sam Green wasn’t Vlad’s type. She was cute. Sure she was. And she was one hell of an agent. But he preferred his women more, well, “womanly”. With some flesh on them. If she put on about 50 pounds, she’d have pressed a few more of his buttons. Not that that would have forced him into action. He’d never been unfaithful to Alyona – and knew he never would be. But every man could dream – couldn’t they?
‘We turn off the mobile towers. So, they can’t transmit the detonation signal.’
‘Can you do that?’ Vlad wasn’t sure if that would be possible in Moscow.
‘We did it once in London. Five towers. It prevented a car bomb detonating in the City area. Made the bankers livid for a couple of hours, but it did the trick. We have that authority in the UK. And our mobile operators, if they’re given a couple of hours’ notice, will comply.’
‘What about Germany?’
‘I’m not sure. Everyone thinks the Germans are efficient. And they are. But their security services don’t have the reach of the UK’s, or the US’s. They could probably manage it if you gave them a week’s notice.’ Sam was in deep thought again. She was mulling something over.
‘I’m giving away state secrets, and should probably be locked in the Tower. But we have people with equipment who can block signals across the complete mobile signal frequency range. We’d need to get the equipment to the target. But once in place, and we have it up and running, mobile phones wouldn’t work. Period. Until someone politely asked us to turn off our gear.’
Vlad was impressed.
‘Range?’
‘In the city centre, probably a kilometre square. In the country – three by three?’
They both remained quiet for a while as the waiter brought the coffee.
‘Do you have anything else from Evgeny?’ Sam asked.
‘Yes – sorry, should have said. I have a set of lat and long coordinates for where the drainage tunnel surfaces outside of the boundaries of the shipyard – it seems to be in another yard. We can have a look at that tomorrow. It’s about 100 metres from the manhole cover we found today. And Evgeny has also sent through the actual tunnel map.’ He took a sip of his coffee. ‘And, I have provisional files on the CFO, the chief tech and the contracts man.’ Vlad was feeling pleased that he had something useful to offer.
‘And?’ Sam asked.
‘Looks like both the techy and the contracts bloke might be clean. But…’ he paused for effect, ‘the CFO has a police record.’
Sam motioned for Vlad to continue.
‘S&M prostitution; and heroin usage.’
‘And is he married?’
‘Yes. Devotedly so. Three children across the age range. The middle girl is at a specialist music school in the UK. Fees of £20,000 a year. Apparently, she’s a good cellist?’
‘And there’s no hint of wider family income?’ Sam asked.
‘No, it’s all self-made, apparently. And he’s loving it. Drives a BMW 7 series with all the bells and whistles. Wife stays at home, no income, while he makes a huge amount of money as CFO of Sevmash Military Shipyard.’
Sam added, ‘On a wage of, probably, no more than 2,200,000 roubles – say £30,000 a year?’
Vlad nodded. The sums didn’t add up.
‘And we’re seeing him first tomorrow?’
‘Yes. He and his family have just come back from two weeks in Thailand.’
‘Perfect.’
Indeed it was. They might just have their first break.
‘And you, Sam. Anything else?’
‘No, sorry. Nothing from GCHQ from the Saudi intercepts. And nothing from Tehran.’ She was distracted again.
‘What, Sam?’
She leant forward, her chin resting in her hands.
‘Why do you think Sokolov is pulling this together, Vlad?’
He wasn’t surprised by the question. It had played on his mind as he’d got dressed after having had a shower.
‘I’m not sure. You?’
‘My logic is this. You set off a dirty bomb in the middle of Berlin. Germany implodes – there’s a snap general election, the far-right get into power, anyone who even looks like an immigrant is persecuted. The same thing happens in one or two more countries in the EU – and that bloc disintegrates.’ She tipped her head to one side. ‘Who’s the winner?’
He thought for a moment.
‘Russia, I guess. Although I’m not convinced we’re up for full-scale colonisation of our satellite states again. I think people here are too well informed to stomach that sort of nationalism.’
‘I agree with you. And I don’t see Sokolov as a nationalist. He’s not an idealist. He’s not a politician. But he is a businessman. A hugely wealthy, and ultimately greedy one. So, let me ask you again, who wins?’
Vlad had it. He could see her logic. In some very perverse way it all made sense.
‘Sokolov. Him. Himself. His empire. Set the world alight and what happens to commodity prices? They go through the roof. As they always do when there’s a crisis. Everything he owns will double, triple in value. He’s the winner.’
Sam was nodding.
‘I think that’s it, Vlad. I really do.’
Chapter 13
CFO’s Office, Sevmash Military Shipyard, Severodvinsk, Russia
Vlad had finished the standard set of questions. If he stuck to the script they’d rehearsed over breakfast, he was now going to take Abram Stepanov on a more difficult journey. So far the man had been unflappable; as smooth as silk. It was the analytical mind of the accountant. They had the ability to think fast – getting ahead of the interviewer.
Stepanov’s looks matched his demeanour. He was one cool customer, that was for sure. In comparison to the drabness of the shipyard, he seemed out of place in his grey-blue, pinstriped woollen suit, a light pink cotton shirt with a cut-back collar, and a dark blue and white polka dot tie. The last time Sam had seen someone dressed so yuppilly was on TV – at a Conservative Party conference.
‘You have a police record, Mr Stepanov?’ Good – this is where things should get interesting. Vlad was aiming to draw the first blood.
If the CFO was unnerved by the question, he didn’t show it. Instead, he smiled a self-satisfying smile, as if fondly remembering his wedding day.
‘That’s correct. 2013. I was caught during a brothel raid in Moscow. Unfortunately, Miss “Whiplash”, I think that was her name, was high on heroin – there was some in the bathroom. I couldn’t tell, mind you, I was wearing a mask at the time – and tied to the bed.’ His smile turned to a chuckle, wh
ich he quickly stifled. But the smile remained. ‘The police set me up with both charges, to which I pleaded guilty in absentia. They fined me 50,000 roubles, which I thought was a bit steep.’
He was enjoying himself. There was something of a piece of theatre about him. Sam knew his type. It was all about him. He had to be in the middle, surrounded by an adoring throng. She didn’t get why wives stayed with men like him – especially after a hooker sting and a slab of heroin. Mind you, she was hardly an expert.
Some men…
‘You seem quite proud of yourself, Mr Stepanov?’
He feigned bashfulness.
Sodding man.
‘No. Not at all. But we all have our vices, Mr Turov?’
Sam saw Vlad tense, as though he was preventing himself from launching across the lounge lizard’s desk and throttling him.
He didn’t. Instead he asked the next penetrating question.
‘How do you account for your lavish lifestyle, on wages of 180,000 roubles a month? Your recent family holiday to Thailand, for example, couldn’t have been cheap?’
Stepanov smirked. He reached across the desk, picked up an expensive fountain pen and played with it.
‘I’m an accountant, Mr Turov. I manage my finances well.’
‘Well enough to send your middle daughter, what’s her name – Bepka, to an English boarding school?’
Stepanov’s mouth tightened. Not much, but just enough for a bit of colour to drain from his lips.
‘We have family money. My grandparents left me some from their farm.’ He was back to his charming self now, but not quite so self-assured. A tiny crack had appeared.
Sam’s patience had run its course. She couldn’t stop herself.
‘What’s your relationship with Nikolay Sokolov?’ She interrupted, against the agreed flow of questions. She wanted to break him – to see him squirm.
Stepanov’s gaze drifted in Sam’s direction. She knew he was the sort of man who didn’t expect to be asked questions from a woman – unless they were fawning secretaries offering to make him a coffee; or soliciting prostitutes suggesting something slightly darker. He stroked his nose with an index finger, and then looked back at Vlad. He clearly wasn’t going to give her the time of day.
‘Mr Sokolov and I are acquaintances.’
Sam could see the cogs turning. Quickly. Stepanov knew he was talking to the latest version of, what had been, the KGB. Three letters that struck terror into the heart of any Russian. If they didn’t yet have access to all his inner secrets, they would – sometime soon. By any method. He needed this to be good.
‘We belong to the same club in Moscow. I don’t know him by his first name, but we have bumped into each other. I admire him.’
‘Enough to assist with the theft of 30 kilograms of spent fuel rod?’ As Sam said it, she noticed Vlad tense. A question that wasn’t in the order they had agreed. But she was on a roll.
Stepanov ignored her, his gaze fixed solely on Vlad. A gaze, behind which, Sam sensed a rising anger.
Good.
‘I used to have the greatest respect for the FSB, Mr Turov. But it seems to me that things are not what they used to be. Especially, as now, you have to rely on the British Secret Service for support. I’m disappointed.’
Vlad stood up, raising himself to his tallest height. He picked up a brass paperweight that was on the CFO’s desk and casually inspected it. Then, with a speed that surprised Sam, he reached across Stepanov’s desk and grabbed hold of his wrist. He then slapped the man’s hand to the table and, before the CFO could stifle a scream in submission, had smacked the paperweight onto the CFO’s fingers. The crunching sound of brass, bone and sinew made Sam flinch.
Vlad held the man’s hand in place for a second, and then let go.
‘Fuck! You bastard!’ Stepanov was staring at the back of his hand, which, from where Sam was sitting, looked slightly deformed. And very red. How many fingers are broken?
With both elbows on his desk, he thrust his head into his spare, unbroken hand, and closed his eyes. His damaged fingers were pulsing like a minor human lighthouse. He rocked from side to side.
‘Answer my colleague’s question, Mr Stepanov.’
Sam lowered her head slightly, twisting her neck so she could see at least some of the CFO’s face. Tears of pain were dripping from his cheeks, pooling on the wooden desk.
‘I don’t know. I really don’t.’ It was a mumbled response.
Vlad took the man’s wrist again and, just as smartly as before, went through the motions on slamming the paperweight down on the exposed fingers. Sam really thought he was going to go through with it, but Vlad stopped just short.
‘STOP! Stop. Please.’ Stepanov’s mumble had turned to a blubber, his face staring up at Vlad’s – tears of horror streaked across his cheeks.
Job done. He was a broken man.
Sam was surprised that she didn’t feel uncomfortable with Vlad’s methods. It had shocked her, but only because it was unplanned. The whole torture argument was one they had discussed at length during training, with no definitive answer; it was as though SIS could never condone torture, provided that they didn’t actually administer it themselves.
But Sam was clear. If all Vlad had to do was lift the paperweight again to elicit responses to some penetrating questions, then a few broken fingers were probably worth the effort of attending any future board of inquiry.
And he hadn’t yet let go of Stepanov’s wrist.
‘You don’t know him. He’ll have me killed.’ More blubbering. Then, as if a lightbulb had come on, he lifted his head and asked, ‘Can you protect me? Take me into custody? You know, like in the movies?’
Sam felt her shoulders drop. It was pathetic. Men and their fragile bravado. Strong when they can be. Weak when put to the test. She thought that Sokolov was probably the same, although there may be a screw loose somewhere. That would make him much more difficult to predict.
‘Just answer the question,’ Vlad replied without emotion, the paperweight still hovering menacingly.
Stepanov’s moment of lightness evaporated. Submission returned.
‘I set up a meeting between the captain of the submarine…’
‘Mikhailov?’
‘Yes, that’s him. And Sokolov. At our club. And then all I did was ensure that the shipyard could be accessed on two weekends, three weeks ago, I think. That’s all. Other than security staff, who wouldn’t react if the captain and I were guiding people in and out, there would be no one here. I just opened the doors they wanted opening. I had no idea what they were up to!’ He almost shouted the last sentence. Sam thought he was probably telling the truth.
‘And how did they get the fuel out?’
‘I really have no idea. They couldn’t have got the stuff out through the front entrance – the area is protected by a radiation detection loop. Anything radioactive would send the alarms crazy. They go off every so often when the staff working on the reactors drive out to go home. It’s a nightmare.’
Vlad looked at Sam. She nodded. They had what they needed. For now. There was more. Much more. You don’t live Stepanov’s sort of lifestyle without being corrupt to the core. She wouldn’t be surprised if the shipyard’s accounts were full of extremely well-hidden financial anomalies.
‘My local team will be interviewing you later today. I expect you to answer their questions thoroughly and honestly. Do you understand?’ Vlad was still standing next to Stepanov, paperweight in hand.
‘No protection, then?’ the CFO asked meekly.
‘Not from me. Sorry. Maybe ask your paymasters?’
Vlad put the paperweight back on the table and nodded to Sam.
They were done for the day.
Outside Number 2 Shed, Sevmash Military Shipyard, Severodvinsk, Russia
The pair of them had quickly agreed to hand over their two scheduled meetings, with the senior technical and contracts officers, to the local FSB lads; Vlad made a quick call. They’d now try and e
stablish whether the nuclear fuel had been removed from the shipyard via the drainage system.
As they walked out of Stepanov’s office, he had tasked the CFO’s secretary, who was looking fidgety and uncomfortable, to get a foreman to meet them outside Number 2 Shed as soon as possible. The poor girl picked up the phone immediately and started making a call.
Outside, most of the overnight sleet had disappeared. But it was still damn cold, even if the sun was making an appearance. He crossed his arms to hold in some warmth. He shouldn’t have packed in such a rush. With more time he would have found a fleece, or a heavier jumper. He blamed Sam Green. She had a lot to answer for.
As they walked to the space where, last night, he had found the manhole cover, a man wearing dark blue overalls jogged over to meet them.
Vlad extended his hand.
‘Hi. My name is Vladislav Turov. I’m an FSB agent. I need this manhole cover opened as soon as possible.’
‘OK, Mr Turov. I’m the foreman. I’ll go and get a crowbar.’ The foreman disappeared back in the direction of the decommissioning shed. Vlad looked across at Sam. She was playing with her phone.
‘Anything?’ he asked.
‘Nope. Still nothing from Saudi. Although GCHQ have narrowed the mobile phone search down to just ten. They’re hopeful. But’s that’s it. I’m just penning an email to Debbie – an update.’
A few seconds later the foreman returned with a crowbar and took the cover off the manhole. Inside, there was a drop of over four metres; access into the abyss was granted via a set of simple, vertical metal steps, to the left of which was a single handrail. From where Vlad was, he could only just make out the bottom. There looked to be a couple of inches of water down there.
‘What’s this for?’ Vlad pointed to the hole.
‘Entry to the feed pipe, between two of the dry docks and the sea, and some overflow capacity. It’s fed by a couple of Archimedes screws that are located in that brick building.’ The foreman pointed vaguely toward a building in the middle distance.
Vlad tried his best to picture the layout from the diagram, the one Evgeny had sent through last night. If he remembered correctly, it was a straight route of about 60 metres away from the hangar, a left at a T-junction, and then a further 30 metres before an access hatch outside of the grounds. It seemed an extraordinary oversight to have allowed the tunnels to exist as they did, breaching the shipyard security. Although Evgeny had put a circle around a notation on the plans, which identified a security mesh halfway along the tunnel. If that had been breached, then they’d know they were looking at a possible escape route for the uranium.
The Innocence of Trust Page 24