‘No. He went home after lunch. His PA said that he wasn’t feeling himself. She reckons he’ll be in tomorrow.’
Bugger. The confrontation would have to wait.
‘Great work on the T4. The whole of the Russian security network is now scouring the country for a white VW van with a dent in its roof.’
‘Was there anything at Kuznetsov’s place?’
‘No. Vlad and I are going to visit it again tomorrow, first thing. The man’s away “on business”.’ Sam used her fingers to demonstrate speech marks. ‘According to his wife, anyway. But we’ll give the place a once over. Anything from London?’
‘Yes – some news from GCHQ. I’m not sure if it’s good, though.’
By now Sam was at her desk and had booted up her desktop. She dropped her rucksack and walked over to Debbie’s station. She pulled up the chair from the next-door desk.
‘Frank was on the phone earlier. They’ve put together a report which has just come through. It seems that there’s been a verifiable intercept from Prince Fahd’s compound – the phone is unattributable, but they have the number.’
‘What’s the gen?’
Debbie paused, looking a little downcast.
‘Come on!’ Sam didn’t have the energy for Debbie to prepare her for bad news. She just wanted news. Good or bad. She smiled to cover her frustration.
Debbie skewed her left-hand LED screen so that Sam could read it. She then double-clicked on a secure email from Frank. It read:
Debs,
We spoke. Decoded transcript from GCHQ is as follows:
Timing: 28.1317. Local
Compound (Saudi cell phone): Is it in transit?
Currently unknown location (Russian cell phone): Yes. Moving now.
C: When can we expect arrival?
U: Monday. As agreed.
C: Good. We will have delivery vehicle available as planned. Will coordinate within 6 hours of arrival.
U: Payment?
C: As agreed. You should see first transaction within 2 hours. God is great!
The Saudi cell phone is still active and in the compound. The Russian cell, which GCHQ managed to triangulate to within 100 kms of Moscow, is now off air.
Assessment.
1. Call refers to Op Samantha. Russian/Saudi link is the trigger.
2. Movement of device is taking 4 days. Options:
- by vehicle. Distance: within 3,000 km of Moscow. Any European city east of, and including, Paris.
- by train. Probably less distance: 2,000 km. Any European city east of Berlin.
- by air. Discounted. The language doesn’t match to air delivery.
3. Notice to attack. Monday/Tuesday next week.
Jane believes we now need to inform all other security agencies. She’s going to get C to discuss with FSB Director. Leave that with us.
Give my regards to Sam.
Frank.
Sam took a deep breath. They had four days, maybe five, before a nuclear-contaminated device rocked a major European city. They were chasing a white VW T4, one of the most ubiquitous small vans in Europe. Two of their three leads had disappeared. Kuznetsov was away ‘on business’. And Stepanov had left his office this morning and vanished. The FSB lads had visited his house this afternoon and found nothing, other than a distraught wife.
Sokolov was key. And he could be found – he wasn’t the shy and retiring type. But he had the air of someone who was invincible. Protected by a force field, which was supported by, none other than, the Russian premier.
And he was clever. Very clever.
It was him. It was him. But Sam was convinced they would never be able to prove it. He was too well protected. And, after what Vlad had said last night at the hotel, she wasn’t sure that his boss could find the authority to haul him in for questioning.
He was safe. Unless. Unless he exposed himself – riled by their poking around. Too proud to sit back. Wanting to take control.
In the meantime, they had one avenue: find the T4.
And that would start tomorrow, first thing, at Bukhalo’s place. Between now and then she needed to write a very persuasive report for M, get home, bathe and sleep. Preferably in that order.
There were busy days ahead.
Flat 17, 3125, Prechistenskiy Road, Moscow
Sam had decided to walk to her flat from the Embassy. She’d got away by 8.55pm and reckoned, at a lick, she’d be at her front door by 9.30pm. She needed the exercise. Last night’s hamburger still sat uncomfortably somewhere in her middle, a lump which had been compounded by three and a half hours of misery in an economy class seat on an Aeroflot internal flight. A brisk walk would do her good.
For the first 15 minutes she’d applied evasive techniques. Sensing nothing, she then walked straight home. At the corner of her block she checked out her apartment. She did a double-take.
Did I leave a light on?
Sam’s mind ran through the series of events from yesterday morning.
No, she’d didn’t think so.
What now? She was caught. Turn back. Where to? Phone Rich? Phone Debbie? Phone Vlad? Or, assume that she’d left a light on and everything was OK?
Think.
She plumped for the most likely option (but the one that she didn’t believe): she’d left a light on.
She took the stairs two at a time, turning left down the hall to her front door. As she got close, she slowed. Then stopped.
Her front door was ajar. Only an inch or so, but it was ajar.
Shit!
And then, bizarre of bizarres, the sound of James Blunt’s Goodbye My Lover wafted out of her front door and into her brain.
That’s my Back to Bedlam album!
What the fuck is going on?
She was curious now. Not scared. Alert – yes. Frightened – no.
She edged forward, pushing the front door open far enough to see in.
There was a light in her lounge at the end of the hall; the door, again, was ajar. James Blunt had moved onto Out of My Mind. No amount of reconciliation was piecing this together. It didn’t make sense.
Sam reached over to the bookshelf on her right and found the kitchen knife that she’d hidden there. She was now armed. And felt reasonably dangerous.
She walked forward slowly, a short step at a time, until she reached the lounge door.
Now!
She kicked it open, stepping back as she did – knife poised ready to strike.
Come and get me, you fuckers!
Nothing happened. Then she gawped. Dumbstruck.
There, sitting in her TV chair, was M. AKA Simon Page. AKA ‘the idiot’. He was slumped, almost horizontal. His hands were resting on the arms of the chair. One held a tumbler. The second gripped a bottle of Famous Grouse.
My Grouse!
She blinked. He looked at her, through glazed eyes. He slowly shook his head.
‘Don’t be so sodding dramatic, Green. Come in. Sit down. That’s an order.’ His words were slurred, but comprehensible. He was drunk.
And then she noticed the pistol. An SIS issued Glock 17, 9mm – short recoil, semi-automatic. It was sitting on his lap like a toy dog. He looked at her, looking at the gun. He followed her gaze.
‘As I said. Sit down. We need to have a chat.’ He hiccupped.
Still armed, and very much on edge, Sam side-stepped to the far end of the sofa – keeping a good six feet between her and Page; M; the idiot. In her head she couldn’t settle on a name. Not now – not when he’d broken into her flat (again?) and was, sort of, threatening her. Still holding the knife, she took off her rucksack, placed it beside the sofa, and sat down.
‘What are you doing in my flat? Did you break in last time and write that note on my fridge?’
Page lifted the glass to his mouth. He almost missed, a dribble forming on one side of his mouth and then making it down to his chin.
‘The problem with you, Green, is, hic.’ He metaphorically steadied himself for a second. ‘You just don’t know w
hen to stop. You so full of shit. So full of do-gooding. Of making the world a better place. You make me sick.’ He wasn’t looking at her. It was almost as though he wasn’t speaking directly to her. He was staring at the wall to her left, his eyes focused on the middle distance.
‘Do you know what fucking trouble you’ve caused me? With your gallivanting off to the fucking Arctic, and then to the bloody shipyard. Do you?’ He was looking at her now. His eyes focused on her with some effort. Sam couldn’t work out whether the look was one of anger – or fear. There was a lot she wasn’t getting tonight.
She decided not to answer. Not yet, anyway.
‘Of course not. Hic.’ He attempted to fill his glass with what was left in the bottle. Half of it splashed on the armrest – she’d need to get the covers dry cleaned.
‘Of course you don’t.’ Melancholy now. ‘You so full of shit. You. And Rich – the fucking copper. And that tart, Debbie. All of you.’ His words tailed off.
Sam thought he was about to fall asleep. James Blunt was doing his stuff. She gently made to stand.
‘Sit down!’ Any sign of slumber was immediately gone. In a single movement, he let go of the bottle and reached for his Glock. The bottle fell to the floor, but didn’t break. Sam watched it spin, a small amount of the whiskey sprayed out of the opening until the turn lost its momentum.
Sam’s eyes were back on the pistol. Her heart rate had risen, but there was no red mist. She felt in control, as if she were about to engage a jumper from a ledge.
How is this going to end? Is he really going to kill me?
‘Did you break into my flat before? Write the message on my fridge?’
Page smiled. A self-satisfying smile.
‘Yes. I thought that was rather good.’ His left eyelid was drooping. He was never far from passing out. The barrel of the pistol lowered a touch. If she kept him engaged, he might just drop off.
And then what?
‘And you’ve been tracking me. My trip, Salekhard and the Urals. You’ve been following the trace on my phone?’
He smiled again.
‘Yup. That was me!’ He suppressed a giggle. And then, with massive concentration, farted. ‘Excuse me.’ He smiled again.
Gross.
She changed tack.
‘Why is there an orange marker on Sokolov’s file?’
Page stared at his knees, concentrating. His face grew harder. His chin pushed out. He looked back up at her, their eyes met. Again, Sam couldn’t tell if it were fear or anger. Had she just pressed a button of Simon Page’s that was best left alone? Especially as he had a pistol in his hand.
But she had to know.
‘I’ve no fucking idea. It’s been there since the beginning. London’s call. Perhaps you should speak to your “friend” Jane?’ His tone made it quite clear that he assumed her friendship with Jane was more than platonic. ‘She’s another fucking dyke.’ Under his breath this time.
Sam should have been more horrified, but wasn’t. All Page was doing was cementing his stereotype. She felt sorry for him. On second thoughts, maybe not.
‘And Sokolov. Is he a friend of yours?’
‘What the fuck has it got to do with you!’ He was shouting now, spittle following the trajectory of the words; he was almost out of control. The pistol pointed directly at her head; his firing arm straight, outstretched – but wobbly; his eyes wide, and bloodshot. Sam thought he was moments from pulling the trigger.
She raised her hand, dropping the knife as she did.
Calm. Submission.
She really didn’t want to die here. Not now, having survived so much. And certainly not by the hand of this man.
‘Sorry. Sorry. Look, I’m not sure why you’re here, but maybe I can help you? Can I make you a coffee? Or a sandwich.’
Page looked confused. Upset. The concentration on his face broke, the tip of the pistol dropped a few centimetres.
And then Sam could see dampness in his eyes. A single tear formed in his left eye. She watched it as it took its own course down his face, hitting a fold in his cheek, and then dropping into his lap. Any anger was gone, his mood switching like a faulty neon tube.
‘Listen to me, Green. I’ve done some things I’m not proud of.’ A second tear formed from the same eye, and made the journey south. ‘But it is what it is. I can’t undo the things I’ve done.’ He sounded more sober – more in control. He concentrated for a second, leaning forward slightly. ‘Your job is to get the bastard Sokolov. Bring him down. You understand me? You get the fucker. He’s up to his arms in all this shit. Bring him down.’ Tears now fell from both eyes.
Sam wasn’t sure where this was going. Or what an adequate response should be.
But none of that mattered. She didn’t even have time to scream, ‘No! Don’t!’ as she watched Simon Page place the pistol in his mouth and, without any ceremony, pull the trigger.
The noise, in the small room, was deafening. Piercing. Her ears rang as her eyes tried to take in what she had witnessed. She didn’t see where the back of his head went – she must have blinked. But when her eyelids allowed her to see, the sight was pitiful.
Page was sat just as he had been, but with his head pivoted back; his Adam’s apple thrust forward. One hand still had a grip on his glass, which looked surprisingly steady on the armrest. The other had fallen beside his leg, his hand now only loosely holding the pistol. Still completely mesmerised, she watched the weapon untangle itself from his hand. And then it fell.
Clump.
She glanced up. There was blood all over the ceiling, and, as she followed the splattered trail, there were spots on the walls. And the top of the chair. It was a mess.
She wanted to move. But couldn’t, not initially. She thought she needed to throw up – she knew that was her stock reaction when things overwhelmed her. But her stomach hadn’t lurched. In fact, she was surprised at how together she felt. The more she thought about it – the more she took in Simon Page slumped dead in her chair, the calmer she felt; even with a dribble of blood now forming at the corner of his mouth.
But she must throw up? Surely?
She tried again to stand; this time her body responded. She gave Page a wide berth and walked into the kitchen. She made it to the sink. She bent over it. And waited. No vomit. Nothing.
As if in a trance, she took hold of the kettle. She picked it up and moved it from side-to-side to check it had water in it. It did. She put it on. And then reached for a mug. She put a teabag in. It was ready for the hot water.
She stopped.
What am I going to do between now and when the kettle boils?
It was a tough one. She had a corpse in her sitting room. The neighbours must have heard the gunshot. Somebody would have called the police. They would be here soon. She had nothing to worry about. She had nothing to hide. She just had a void to fill. She looked at the kettle. It was making gurgling noises.
What should she do? Whilst the kettle boils?
She closed her eyes.
Get some milk.
She turned to the fridge and froze.
There was another message. From M.
sory get sokolov 4 me
Her mouth was open. The past 20 minutes flashed before her. Those vile 20 minutes.
And then she threw up. Thankfully she made it to the kitchen sink. She took a couple of short breaths. And then threw up some bile.
That did the trick; her head had cleared.
Phone Jane. At last. She had herself back.
As James Blunt did his falsetto thing to No Bravery, Sam took her phone out of her pocket. She speed-dialled Jane, who picked up on the second ring.
She was halfway through explaining what she thought had just happened when police sirens entered her consciousness from some far-off place.
They would be here in a moment. Here to mop up Simon Page’s body.
What a mess.
Chapter 15
Outside the British Embassy, Moscow
Sam che
cked her watch. It was 9.50am. Vlad was late. They’d spoken earlier and agreed to meet outside the Embassy at 9.45. He’d been called in to see his director, an appointment he couldn’t miss, so she guessed that was running over. They’d already abandoned the 7.30 start, after the suicide ‘incident’ – she couldn’t describe it as anything other than that.
He’d be here soon.
Last night, post the ‘incident’, was a blur. She’d opened the door to the local police just before they’d broken it down. She’d been pushed against the wall, spread-eagled, her phone still in her hand and still connected to Jane. She talked at them in perfect Russian – lying, in order to find space: ‘it was her flat’; ‘she’d was heading up the stairs and heard the shot’; ‘this is how she’d found him’; and, ‘yes, she knew him’.
Just before the police had stormed the building, Jane had made it clear that they, SIS, needed to keep a lid on this – ‘control the news.’ She wasn’t asking much, especially as Sam now had the local plod stomping all over her place, asking difficult questions, like, ‘who do you work for?’ None of that was going to help.
As soon as they had released her from the wall, she’d hung up on Jane and phoned Vlad. He had been flat out to the world when she called, but quickly came to and assured her that he knew what to do. Ten minutes later one of the three policemen had a call on his radio. Sam picked up bits of the exchange. The FSB would be there in 20 minutes; leave the girl alone; the crime scene would be their jurisdiction. Most of all: don’t mess this up.
After that, they were gentle with her.
Vlad and the deputy head of section (M2 – Sam always found that amusing; somebody’s title was the same as a very dull motorway between London and Dover) turned up within minutes of each other. Sam explained to both of them what had happened, but left out the bit about Sokolov; she might have that conversation with Vlad at a more convenient time, if it helped them find the device. She’d already told Jane everything – that’s probably as far as it needed to go within the organisation. From her lips.
The Innocence of Trust Page 27