‘Leave the manhole cover open. We’ll be half an hour,’ Vlad barked.
The foreman nodded.
Vlad offered Sam to go first. She returned a look of ‘do you really think I’m that stupid?’ Vlad huffed, and then dirtying his jeans on the wet tarmac, made his way down into the access hole. When he reached the bottom, he turned his phone’s torch on and looked up. Sam’s bum wasn’t far behind him.
‘Get the Geiger counter out,’ Sam ordered.
Vlad did as he was instructed.
The back-lit, blue dial read 65 cpm. Normal.
And then Sam was off, her torch leading the way.
‘Hang on, hang on!’ Vlad shouted, as he chased after her.
‘What?’ There was a touch of desperation in her voice.
‘I need to take some readings.’
‘And I need to spend as little time in here as possible. There’s a constriction 50 metres ahead, where the security gate is.’ She signalled down into the darkness to their right. ‘We can check again there.’
She’d only glanced at the plans last night? How does she remember all of this?
Vlad couldn’t really see her face – the only decent light they had was from their torches, and he didn’t want to shine his in her face. But, from what he could make out, she looked ashen. Almost panic stricken.
‘Is this your Achilles heel? Confined spaces?’ he asked, trying to be as tender as he could.
‘This, and spending time in a drainage tunnel with a pork-eating Russian spy. Now come on!’
They both moved as quickly as they could, restricted to a fast walk by six inches of water and limited visibility. Vlad’s feet were soaking. His Nike pumps would be ruined. Another wardrobe oversight – Alyona would kill him. After three or four minutes Vlad caught a glimpse of the remnants of a set of crossed metal bars which, if they had been intact, would have prevented them moving forward. Someone had taken them down. After a quick look at the raw metal edges, it must have happened recently.
Success.
He took the Geiger counter out of his jacket pocket.
And then they froze. Sam turned to Vlad, both their torch lights throwing a ghostly shadow across her face. At any other time it would have been comical.
Clunk. Whirr. Clunk. Whirr. Whirr!
The noise was unmistakably mechanical; and it came from the direction of where they started. The distant circular grating sounded like the turning of a huge drill. Metal against metal. As it got quicker, the sound got louder. Within a few seconds there was an accompanying waft of stale air. Followed by the terrifying noise of gurgling water.
It needed no explanation – it was the screws. The only decision they had to make was whether to head backwards to the open manhole; or run forwards, and hope that they could get out of the second opening.
If it were open.
The rising water and strong current made the decision for them.
Sam grabbed Vlad’s arm, breaking his semi-trance, and pulled him away from the oncoming deluge. Their original fast walk now became a heavily laden run, the tunnel lit by bouncing torch light and accompanied by the fearful smell of rising salt water.
As he struggled to keep up with the mad woman who was tugging at his sleeve, he reminded himself of the layout of the tunnel.
Maybe… 30 metres… T-junction… Turn left… God, the water’s up to my knees!
The muscles in his legs ached, his heart was beating as though it was trying to escape from his rib-cage, and his lungs were red-raw. If he ever got out of this, he would make much better use of his gym membership.
They hit the T-junction and were met by a wall of water that was now over his waist. Sam, who seemed to be swimming and running at the same time, dragged him left; immediately the water level dropped back down toward their knees, the initial surge split in two directions.
Shit!
He stumbled on something underfoot, and fell forward. But Sam still had hold of his arm and, with strength he couldn’t comprehend, she helped keep him upright. And kept him moving.
Then, to his immediate front, all was dark.
К черту! My phone! It was gone, in the stumble. Idiot! Lost in the swirl of water which was easily travelling faster than he was. Why don’t we just surf it to the end?
But Sam was still on her feet, using the water to gain momentum but somehow not allowing it to take control. And she still had her phone – it lit up the tunnel ahead, glancing left and right above the water which was up to his middle again. The original mechanical noise was now lost in the cacophony of water sloshing against the brick sides of the tunnel.
And she was still pulling at his arm.
The bitter cold of the water now mixed in with his sense of dread. If they didn’t drown, the would surely die of hypothermia.
Sam stopped abruptly; they were there. It all happened in a rush. Sam stuck her phone in her mouth and, with her now free hand, held onto a railing which seemed to come down from a black heaven. She placed his hand on the first step above the water.
‘Goonegh!’ The word was undecipherable through a mouthful of mobile and the immense noise of the rushing water.
It took him an instant to realise that they only had a few seconds left before the current took them away; Sam was hanging onto the rail with both hands, her body almost horizontal.
Vlad worked as quickly as he could, pumping his freezing cold legs to get his body out of the water and up into the darkness. Once his feet were clear, he moved more quickly.
After a few seconds his head struck metal with a ‘clunk’ that reverberated around his brain; a wave of dizziness came over him.
Shit – that hurt!
The manhole cover.
He looked below him and saw a pair of eyes illuminated by a torch just below his feet. Relief washed over him for a second. But it didn’t last long.
He couldn’t shift the cover.
With his head bent, he pushed his shoulders against the metal and forced his body upright. Nothing. He took another step on the metal ladder and, still holding the railing with his left hand, he used his right arm to add some more leverage. And pushed.
Still nothing.
He pushed again, his strength draining away. Nothing.
One more go.
Fucckkk yoouuu!!
The cover lifted a fraction and he quickly shifted his stance to the left; he felt a muscle twinge in his lower back. The cover followed his movement, its edge now resting on the ground outside. A shaft of light. A sign from heaven. Thank you. He’d go to the gym every day. And church on Sundays.
‘Get on with it, you wuss!’
Sam had obviously managed to get her phone out of her mouth and was now able to offer encouraging advice.
He took a deep breath. And pushed. And shifted – the huge metal slab following his movement. His back twinged in protest. He pushed some more. Soon there was lots of light. And a minute later there was a gap big enough to crawl through. They both struggled out onto the wet grass, lay back on the ground and stared up at the sky.
‘The fuckers tried to kill us,’ Vlad panted.
‘They did.’ Sam took a breath, her words staccato, between chattering teeth. ‘But they didn’t. Result for us.’ Lying prostrate on the ground, she thrust a thumb in the air.
‘You sound cold.’ Vlad turned to face her, he could hear her teeth rattling from where he was lying.
‘Fr… freezing.’
Vlad got up, stretching his back as he did. Christ, it was sore. He reached for Sam’s hands and helped her to her feet, grimacing as he took her weight.
‘Come on, let’s go and get somebody arrested.’
She didn’t say anything. She was looking around – Vlad sensed her analyst’s mind at work. They were in a small compound with rusty, sheet metal walls, and a heavy steel gate off to their right. There was a lone portacabin, a few piles of old metal, and a couple of dozen wooden pallets. Apart from that the place was empty.
On the side
of the portacabin, in Cyrillic, was a sign. It read: ‘Nation Industrials’, with a telephone number underneath it.
Sam was on her keypad.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Shut up.’ She stuttered; she was still shaking with cold. As she prodded deliberately at her phone, Vlad took off his jacket and placed it tenderly around her shoulders. Sam smiled at him.
He heard her mobile ringing. She offered it, so they both could hear.
‘Hello. Nation Industrials. How may I help you?’
Sam shot a glance at Vlad.
‘Hello.’ She was working hard to control her chattering teeth. ‘I’m writing an article for Russian Life Magazine – we’re doing a piece on successful, worldwide companies, and your firm has been mentioned. Could you tell me, who is your CEO?’
Sam screwed her face up. It was a long shot.
There was a slight pause. Vlad thought the woman at the other end was establishing whether this was a hoax call.
‘Why, it’s Mr Bogdan Kuznetsov. Can I ask who’s calling?’
Sam dropped the phone from their ears and ended the call. Vlad noticed that her teeth had stopped chattering and some colour was returning to her cheeks.
‘Who’s Kuznetsov?’
She had that faraway look in her eyes. He recognised it. It was the one where her brain was spinning.
‘He works for Sokolov. And he drives a maroon Tesla. Use my phone. Get hold of one of Tweedledum or Tweedledee and get them here fast – before both us lose what little body warmth we have left.’
Vlad took the phone and punched in a number.
‘Hi, Abram. It’s Vlad.’
‘Hi Vlad.’
‘Look, I know you’re interviewing, but one of you needs to get a car round to…’ Vlad found the sun that was peeking through the clouds, ‘the southwest corner of the shipyard. Look for a metal fenced compound about as big as a couple of tennis courts. The company is called Nation Industrials. We’ll hopefully be waiting for you outside.’
He had no idea how they were going to get out, although the gate looked climbable.
‘Sure, Vlad, I’ll do that now. And, I have some news.’
‘What’s that?’
‘The CFO, Stepanov, who you interviewed this morning. And you asked us to follow up?’
‘Yes, go on.’
‘He’s gone. Scarpered. We went to arrange a meeting with his secretary and she was all at sea – sorry to use a naval pun. She’s says he disappeared about ten minutes after your chat this morning. Told her to cancel all of his meetings. And then pushed off.’
‘Great…’
Now, why doesn’t that surprise me?
4th Floor, British Embassy, Moscow
Simon Page was feeling restless. Six of his case-officers were out of the building doing what they did. Five of them were on top of their game. Only one was potentially at risk of messing up his day. The lesbian, Green. What was she doing up at that godforsaken shipyard? What did she think she could achieve up there, that a couple of local FSB agents couldn’t? Her time would be much better spent back at the hub, pressing GCHQ to get more intel on the Saudis.
What did they teach them at Portsmouth nowadays?
She was a thorn in his side, and always would be.
He’d go for a wander around the office. Pick on a couple of the younger ones. Spread his largesse – and hope to impress.
Who to go for first? Ahh, Debbie! She was a well put together girl. If she played her cards right…
Hands thrust deeply into his suit pockets, he was at her desk in no time, moving quickly between the cabinets. At one point he nearly knocked over a potted plant that was on the corner of a desk. Whoopsie-daisy.
‘Morning Debbie, how’s it going?’
He had startled her. She was attentively studying her two large LED screens. The left screen showed an overhead of a piece of the shipyard – the front end of a grey warship, surrounded by dark blue sea, giving it away. The right looked like a residential property – could be anywhere.
‘Good, sir. Good.’
M couldn’t be sure, but Debbie seemed to be uncomfortable with him looking at the right-hand screen.
‘What have you got?’
She played nervously with a notebook on her desk. M saw that she had written ‘SAME VEHICLE?’ in capitals across the pad.
‘Ehh, nothing really, sir. I should get back onto the shipyard. Sam emailed me this morning to say that she and her FSB colleague were going to tackle the drainage system…’ She reduced the screen with the residential property on it, and then, with some quick clicking of her mouse, deftly displayed a photo of Number 2 Shed. ‘Here.’ She pointed at a grey manhole cover a short distance from the shed.
‘Is that how they think the fuel was removed from site?’
‘Yes. I’ve not heard from her since, but the FSB have drainage plans which show a connection between the manhole here, just outside Number 2 Shed, and a second manhole, outside the compound, here.’ She was now pointing at the left-hand screen. The juxtaposition of both the images was making his head hurt.
‘It seems pretty preposterous to me – there must be easier ways of getting the stuff out than via a tunnel? It’s not a Nazi prison camp.’ M was shaking his head. ‘And what was on the photo you just reduced?’
‘Ehh, nothing. Another preposterous notion of Sam’s. I’m going to leave it now.’
Something’s not right here.
M was just about to give the girl a piece of his mind for being evasive, when his mobile rang. He looked at its screen: the caller was Gravytrain.
‘Shit,’ he said under his breath.
‘Are you OK, sir?’ Debbie bleated.
‘No. Yes. Just get on with your work. And I want a full explanation as to what you were looking at here when I come back in a couple of minutes.’ He wasn’t sure if the girl heard the last bit – he was rushing to his office.
He pressed the green ‘Accept’ button as soon as his door was closed, tentatively raising the phone to his ear.
‘Yes?’ He was sheepish.
The phone was secure, but they still didn’t use names. Just over two years ago, when the liaison kicked off, he’d provided Nikolay Sokolov with a works phone. As the boss, M could get whatever he wanted. And he wanted a spare phone. So ‘Q’, the Embassy’s quartermaster, delivered one.
He had quietly passed it on to his new acquaintance.
Simon Page was paid in cash. Monthly – $25,000 a time. It wasn’t a huge sum of money, but over three years – that was the contract they had both agreed – it would be close to $1 million. With his SIS pension, it would easily be enough to see him through his retirement. He saved every dollar into a Polish bank account, which he’d set up in Krakow when he’d visited Auschwitz a couple of summers ago. He went back there twice a year, and deposited the cash in a lump sum. No questions asked. His wife thought he was going there on business. She was blind to most things; stupid cow. She had left him at Christmas citing nothing more than that he was a miserable sod; ‘not a jovial bone in your body’. Well, when he pushed off to the Bahamas with $1 million in his back pocket, then she’d see who was miserable. And it wouldn’t be him.
Sokolov didn’t ask for much, and Page was happy that what he handed over was hardly undermining national security. It was simple things like, and this was a good example, the itinerary of the recent visit by the Foreign Secretary. He guessed the FSB would have that sort of stuff covered – so he didn’t feel that uncomfortable about passing it along.
Recently Sokolov had been interested in Green. At his meeting with her on Monday, he had discovered why. The dead reporter, and then Green, had pieced together a conspiracy to do with oil drilling. With Sokolov’s business interests he understood why he would want the story squashed. On Sokolov’s order he had tracked Green’s phone, under the clear assumption that no harm would come to her. He may be bent, but he wouldn’t be complicit to serious injury. Or murder. Not of his own kind.
Sokolov had agreed.
He’d broken into her flat and left a message on her fridge. Then, the next day, he’d made it clear to leave ExtraOil well alone. Job done. And, thankfully, the dirty bomb op had come along to divert her attention.
The last time he’d spoken to Sokolov was at the Foreign Secretary’s reception. He’d told him what he had done, including what he had written on the fridge (which he thought was very Nightmare on Elm Street). He was on top of her. She was under control. And he was very pleased with himself.
Sokolov’s parting comment was that they should give each other a wide berth for a couple of weeks, and let the whole thing calm down.
So, what did he want now?
He held the phone an inch or two from his ear. He was nervous, and he didn’t understand why. Very soon, it all became clear.
‘Green is in Severodvinsk. Digging about in something which she shouldn’t be.’
What?
Page’s brain went into spasm. Surely there wasn’t a linkage between the submarine, the missing nuclear fuel, and Sokolov?
Surely?
His mouth went dry. He had nothing to say.
‘Get Green back in Moscow and off the case. Do this now – by the end of the day. If you don’t, then she will meet with an accident. And you don’t need that sort of paperwork. Do you?’
The Innocence of Trust Page 25