Page couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
How could a simple relationship, based on a transfer of small snippets of intelligence, in exchange for a minimal amount of cash, spiral so badly out of control? What had he got himself involved with? Sokolov and a dirty bomb? Really? His team were among the best employees in the UK. They were working at the edge of the envelope. Putting themselves at risk every day. It wasn’t an exaggeration to say that, every year, they helped unpick plots and actions by governments and terrorists that, if left to come to their own conclusions, would inevitably have led to the death and injury of scores of innocent people. They were stars. His stars.
‘Page!’
They’d never used names over the phone before. Never.
This is some serious shit.
‘OK. I’ll do it. But nothing else. I can’t do anything else. I can’t work for you at this level. I’m no longer comfortable with our relationship.’ He felt pathetic. Drained. Panicky.
There was no immediate response from Sokolov.
Then, almost in a whisper, ‘You get this done, Page,’ he flinched at hearing at his own name again, ‘and you will do anything else I ask of you. We have a contract. Remember?’
And then the phone went dead.
Simon Page was sweating, which was odd, as his mouth was so dry his tongue stuck to its roof.
He staggered to his desk and went to sit down. But didn’t. Instead he turned, and wearing a face of complete resignation, he dragged his feet across to his filing cabinet. He opened the bottom drawer, pulled out a bottle of Fortnum and Mason whiskey and a cut-glass tumbler. He filled the glass to just below the rim and took both over to his desk. This time he did sit down.
Flop.
He filled the chair. His centre of gravity sat as low as possible, as if his body was boneless. He was spent.
He looked at his mobile. He slammed it onto the green leather topping of the large oak desk, a desk shared by all previous ‘Ms’ at the British Embassy since the First World War.
What a legacy. All those brilliant men.
And me.
He took a long swig of his drink.
And then swiped his phone open, accessing the secure MMS App.
He typed in Sam Green’s name in the ‘To’ box, and, using his thumb, placed the cursor on the ‘Message’ box.
He picked up his drink with his spare hand and stared at the brown, silky liquid as it gently rolled and swelled in its glass prison. He took another long swig. As the whiskey slipped down his throat, it warmed him. Soon the alcohol would be in his bloodstream, adding to that warmth. Then he would be able to take on the world. Green. Sokolov. His wife. All the fuckers.
All the fuckers.
He typed.
Green. Get back here now. By close of play - without fail. I want a full report on my desk by 7 am tomorrow morning. You are off the operation. The FSB will now work independently. M
Simon Page’s finger paused above the ‘Send’ button.
What the hell am I doing?
He drank the final third of the glass.
And then pressed ‘Send’.
Chapter 14
41°23'27.0"N 29°16'46.3"E, Short of the Bosphorus, Black Sea
Holly stared out of the single porthole. It was Thursday; just after lunch. She knew that. And she knew that she had been abducted on Monday night. In Istanbul. Those were the certainties of her current life. In among which a secondary pattern was emerging: wake – eat – rape – sleep.
Repeat.
Almost three days of horror. If the regime continued, Berta would be bringing in lunch any time soon. It would be fabulous. And Holly would eat it. She was ravenous. She had no idea where her appetite was coming from. She didn’t normally overeat; that’s how she’d kept her figure. But the ordeal (that’s the word she was using for it) had triggered some primeval reaction which was making her want to scoff anything that Berta brought in on her silver trays; store energy to be used later.
In the gaps in her routine she was trying to find an escape opportunity. Looking for a weapon. Watching Berta’s movements. Where she kept her keys. How the door locking system worked. Trying to see if there were an opportunity that she could exploit.
And she thought she was making some progress. The door was both biometrically and physically locked. She knew it was physically locked because she heard the cogs turning when either Berta or the oaf entered the room. Once in, they didn’t seem to lock the door – only after they left; she thought the keys were probably on the outside. To get out, Berta looked into what Holly presumed was an iris-recognition camera, to the left of the door. Holly’d tried it – looked at the camera and pressed a button on the wall which was at waist height. The camera seemed to move, as if focusing, and then nothing happened. It wasn’t recognising her eye.
The only way for her to escape was to wait until either Berta or the oaf were in the room, disable them (how?) and then use one of their eyes (which one: left or right – did it matter?) to open the door.
How am I ever going to incapacitate either of those two? Both must weigh over 200 pounds.
Then she’d need to lift them to full height so the scanner could recognise their iris? And press the button? All at the same time?
It was hopeless.
But not as hopeless as the fact that she hadn’t seen land since yesterday evening. Escaping from her fabulously appointed, waterborne cell was complicated enough. Getting off the boat and onto dry land was another matter. Yes, she was a strong swimmer, but she’d need to have shore in sight before she even thought of trying to make a break.
She’d almost completely lost the geography. She had a pretty good idea of what the eastern Mediterranean was like. Istanbul stood astride the Bosphorus, a narrow channel joining the huge Black Sea to the eastern Med. That was Monday night. They’d left during the night and sailed, what she thought was northward (the sun rises in the east and sets in the west – she’d remembered that from high school). They’d moored up somewhere that evening – Tuesday: a big dock with lots of industrial-sized boats – not pleasure cruisers like this one; she thought she’d heard an Eastern European language being spoken on the dock. They’d stayed there for a day (that was Wednesday), and left early hours the following morning. She’d kicked herself when she thought that her best opportunity to escape might have been the full day in the port yesterday.
Yeah, like that was possible.
And now they had sailed south. Back across the Black Sea? Back to the Bosporus? If she were right, they’d be an opportunity to escape when the boat was sailing back through the channel.
Or, what if they moored again, offshore in Istanbul? That would be a chance.
That might work.
And then, naked apart from a wrapped sheet, she saw it through the porthole.
Land. Off in the far distance. Miles away, but closer than not being there at all.
Clunk, clunk.
The door lock was being opened.
Lunchtime. Berta. Silver tray. A blunt metal knife and fork.
And dry land. How far – ten miles?
Berta came into the room exactly as Holly was expecting. One hand on the door knob, one holding a tray carrying lunch suitable for the President. She looked across at Holly – her face was devoid of emotion. She let the door close.
Holly watched it inch toward its resting place – the door frame. Berta, who moved effortlessly for such a big woman, walked into the cabin. Everything for Holly was in slow motion. Door closing; Berta stepping forward, slightly unbalanced; a full tray in one hand, nothing in the other.
Land. In sight. Miles. But swimmable?
Go!
Holly threw herself into the centre of the room – on a direct path with Berta. Berta moved, the tray tilting from her hand. As it fell to the floor with a resounding smash and clatter, Holly met Berta’s half-turned mass – and connected. It was a shoulder barge, as she’d seen American football defence players apply to a sprintin
g quarterback.
But it was Berta who was defence-sized. And Holly, much less than a quarterback.
She bounced off Berta and fell into a heap on the floor. Berta wobbled, stepped back and steadied herself with a hand on the wall, clearly unsettled by the experience, but not overcome.
Holly twisted around on the floor, trying to get some traction with her hands and knees on the carpet – she wanted to launch again. As she lifted her head, she saw Berta with her back to the wall, still on her feet, squaring up to face Holly.
Where’s the knife?
A coffee pot! There was a silver blob with accompanying brown stain on the carpet.
Metal. Solid. Hot. A weapon.
As Holly scrambled forward to grab the pot, Berta met her with a foot.
Smack!
It didn’t take much. Berta’s foot hit Holly just below her ear. The noise was tremendous, the ensuing ringing unbearable. The dizziness was uncontrollable. Her sight went, her arms gave way and she flopped to the floor.
All her fight was gone.
She had spunk – she knew she had. She was a fighter; no, she was a protester – she had moral courage. The courage to do the right thing. To fight for what was right. But, she now knew she wasn’t cut out for physical violence. Two attempts in three days – both abject failures.
Colour returned. The lights went on. Things came back into focus.
Berta. The big blob that was Berta. Her gaoler. Her preparer. Her nemesis. She was as guilty as the delinquent. She hated her.
Berta, who was rasping, had leant forward. She was picking Holly up by her under arms. Over her shoulder. And then dumping her onto the bed. She left Holly where she was, opened the door, went out, and seconds later returned carrying a pair of handcuffs.
I should have guessed.
Berta, still breathing rapidly – like a smoker who had been for a run, sat her large backside on the bed, took hold of Holly’s right wrist and cuffed it to the bedstead. When she’d finished, she placed the key in her pocket.
Holly assumed that, at that point, her bid for freedom and the resulting punishment was over. Her head throbbed and her ears still rang. She’d learnt that lesson. It was rescue, or nothing. She wouldn’t try again.
But… Maybe if she treated them both with kindness? She might win them over? And then there might be a chance? Her mind was chasing other opportunities.
What!?
Holly might have thought the punishment was over – but Berta hadn’t. She hadn’t finished making a point.
She grabbed the little finger of Holly’s cuffed hand, and, in one swift movement, brought it back on itself. The finger bone popped out of its socket, and Holly heard the sound of sinew or cartilage breaking. Berta kept hold of the finger.
Holly screamed. And then howled.
Berta was staring straight at her. Holly’s eyes were filling with tears. Her mouth wide open, sounds of disbelief occupying the void.
With their eyes still locked together, Berta wrenched the finger back in place – the second movement equally as painful as the first.
Holly squeezed her eyes shut, but the tears still came. She’d managed to stop the squealing noise that had filled the room for a few seconds. But she could do nothing about the tears.
She panted. Short breaths. Her eyes still closed. How she wished it would all go away. That she’d not gone to Istanbul – had listened to her daddy.
‘Don’t do that again. Otherwise it will be your arm next.’
Berta let go of Holly’s throbbing finger. She stood up, made her way to where lunch had spread itself over the floor and started to clear up.
CEO’s Office, Sevmash Military Shipyard, Severodvinsk, Russia
Sam had her phone in one hand and her second cup of steaming coffee in the other. The CEO was fawning about the place. Ordering lunch, a change of clothes, some more coffee. What with the water she’d swallowed in the tunnel and now the gallons of coffee, if she didn’t pee soon, she thought she might burst.
‘I’m so sorry for this. I have no idea how it happened. Sorry, so sorry.’ Ex-Commodore Semyon Bukhalo was clearly very sorry.
He and Vlad were jabbering, much of it Sam filtered out. They were talking about the CFO, Stepanov, and where he might have gone to.
Bill and Ben – No, come on girl, Tweedledum and Tweedledee – were sitting on a couple of chairs in the office, looking uncomfortable. After all, it was on their watch that a senior FSB officer and a member of the British Embassy staff had almost been flushed down the pan and out into… wherever it was the water would have sluiced them to. Or maybe drowned, forced up against the metal meshing in the tunnel.
She shivered. She wasn’t sure if it were the remnants of the cold, or the thought of a watery death.
Everyone was trying to be as helpful as possible. And so they should.
But none of that was of any interest to Sam. Two other things were on her mind.
She tried to put them in order of importance.
This would do.
First, Debbie had sent through two photographs. The detail wasn’t great on Sam’s Nexus, but she was able to see what Debbie had seen. The first image was of the southwest corner of the shipyard. It took in Number 2 Shed and the Nation Industrial compound. It was three weekends ago, a Saturday – that was one of the weekends Stepanov had opened the yard for the fuel theft. The workman’s tent was over the manhole cover.
In the compound, outside of the shipyard, was a vehicle – a white VW transporter; Sam couldn’t make out the series, but it was either 4 or 5. When she enlarged the image, it pixelated. She’d need to be back in the office to get the detail.
The second image was of Bogdan Kuznetsov’s dacha, south of Moscow. Dated the following day. The light was poorer, but the picture was still manageable. There were four cars in the tarmacked area in front of Kuznetsov’s house. One, unsurprisingly, looked like a maroon Tesla Model S saloon. Tick. With this level of detail, she couldn’t make out the designation of the other three. Except one was definitely white; and definitely a small-sized van. A VW T4/5?
Sam couldn’t tell if they were the same vehicle – not without Cynthia’s image enhancement software.
But Debbie could. And had. She had attributed a 90% probability that both vehicles were identical. A white VW T4, probably 2002; with a small dent in the rear left of the roof panel. On both vehicles. Gotcha! That was good work. With this, they were making progress. Proper progress.
The second thing of interest was a secure SMS from M. She was being ordered back to Moscow, and off the case. She had no idea why and, still recovering from another attempt on her life, was beyond caring. She really was. She’d have this out with him when she got back. He was an idiot.
But his message poked at her.
He is an idiot. He was.
She’d fight him on this decision. Absolutely. They were getting close. Nothing would stop her. Not now.
But, and it was a lingering ‘but’, there was clearly something going on here. Sokolov’s friendly touch on his elbow at the Embassy party. Her every move being easily shadowed – only someone in SIS could do that. The note on her fridge door – again, an easy job for someone on the Embassy’s 4th floor.
Something was going on.
It may well be him. Could it be? It was too big to contemplate. And she was too frazzled to think about it. So, she didn’t. It would wait.
But it nagged.
In any case they were flying home to Moscow this afternoon. Vlad had just booked the flights. They would be back by the early evening. Would there be time to give Kuznetsov’s place the once over? See if there were a white, radioactive VW T4 van hanging around? There might be. She’d need to talk to Vlad – who was still being fawned over by Bukhalo. A trayful of sandwiches had just arrived. And some more coffee.
God, I need a pee.
4th Floor, British Embassy, Moscow, Russia
By the time Sam got into the office it was 7.45pm. Debbie had agreed to sta
y on and bring her up to date with what she had. Sam was also keen to confront M. She didn’t know what a confrontation meant, or where it would end up. But she had an armful of evidence stacked against Bukhalo and Sokolov. And they now knew what vehicle they were looking for – thanks to Debbie. It was real progress.
He must keep me on the case?
At the shipyard, she and Vlad had decided not to visit Kuznetsov’s place after they had landed; it would almost certainly be too late. Instead, whilst eating his seventeenth sandwich (she wasn’t counting), he tasked the local police to get a warrant and make an entrance into the dacha as soon as possible. If the VW were still there, they were to seal the boundaries and wait for further instructions. His phone had ‘pinged’ as soon as they had landed. Disappointingly, but not unsurprisingly, the place was clean. Kuznetsov’s wife had told the police that her husband was away on business for a few days, but should be back after the weekend. She had no idea where he’d gone. It was, according to his wife, a common theme. He was away a lot.
Whilst they were in the air, the police had also followed Vlad’s second instruction, which was to start stopping and searching every white, 2002 VW T4 in the country. The border guards were to be especially alert.
When they’d got off the plane, Sam had given Vlad the once over. He looked exhausted; his back was still giving him a good deal of pain – all that sitting about in rubbish seats on an aircraft. She’d persuaded him to go home. He would pick her up from her place at 7.30 tomorrow morning and, Geiger counter in hand, they’d make their own trip to Kuznetsov’s place and have a poke around. They didn’t have a specific warrant, but Vlad explained that the FSB had ‘special powers’.
Powers that included smashing a paperweight into a suspect’s hand? Obviously…
He’d reluctantly agreed, and went home.
She caught Debbie’s eye and gave her a wave.
‘Hi Debbie, thanks so much for staying behind.’ And then, in much lower tones, ‘Is M in?’ She pointed in the direction of his office.
The Innocence of Trust Page 26