It was getting on for 1am by the time they had agreed a way forward; before then, two security staff from the Embassy had arrived and had started dealing with the scene – shooing the three of them into the kitchen. After quickly mixing up M’s message on the fridge door, Sam made them all some tea (it was just about all she could manage – that and irreverence) whilst Vlad and M2 agreed that the scene could be designated ‘British Sovereignty’, as though the crime had occurred in the Embassy itself.
Having agreed what they needed to and finished their tea, they walked back into the lounge where a third man, Sam suspected the Embassy doctor, had arrived. There was more plastic sheeting lying about than she’d seen in a Christo and Jeanne-Claude wrapothon. And she spotted a body bag. Yuck. The doctor was playing with the top of Page’s head, as if he were performing surgery. Sam presumed he knew that M was dead.
As Vlad left, he said to Sam, ‘I assume first thing tomorrow is off. Call me when you’re ready. We can then discuss our next move.’ Sam had nodded compliantly. It was all she could manage. At that point M2 took a call from Jane. When that was done, he explained to Sam that Jane would be flying over first thing to ‘take control’. She expected to be in Moscow by midday.
And then he added something which surprised and frustrated her.
‘Jane has made it clear that you are not to continue your investigations regarding Nikolay Sokolov, not until she has had time to talk to you. I’m not sure why that’s the case, but I’m convinced you’re going to want the morning off? You can brief Jane on her arrival, and then move on from there?’
I don’t want the blooming morning off.
Sam had a VW T4 to find. But she didn’t argue with the man.
‘Where do you want to stay tonight?’ M2 then asked.
The question caught her off guard. She hadn’t thought about it. Could she sleep?
‘Ehh, here. It’s fine. Providing this lot don’t make too much noise.’
‘You could come and stay with my wife, Bev, and me?’
Sam was flattered.
‘No thanks, sir. I’ll be fine here.’
‘OK. Well, we won’t expect to see you until lunchtime. And if you need more time, then that would be fine.’ He paused on his way out. ‘Oh, and if you think you need some support, the Embassy has a counsellor. And a padre.’ He smiled.
Another surprising comment.
Sam had had her fill of psychiatry and counselling. To overflowing: after the Camp Bastion mortar attack in Afghanistan; in the early days as an analyst with SIS, post-Sierra Leone and the Ebola incident; after Berlin and Köln – two days in a freezing container accompanied by more death. If she never had another one-to-one with a shrink it would be too soon. No, she could cope, thank you very much.
Can I?
‘No thanks. Sir. No, I’ll be fine. I’ll be in tomorrow. You go home.’
And that had been that.
She had slept, and slept well. Dreamlessly. She’d woken with her alarm at 6.30am, got up, wasn’t surprised to see a security man still in her flat standing by the front door (‘We thought it best, miss.’), showered, made a quick breakfast for two – the security guard was delighted, and then took the metro to work, checking her tail as she did.
She’d called Vlad as soon as she was in, and he’d told her about his appointment with the director. They agreed to meet at 9.45am and then drive to Kuznetsov’s dacha. Kuznetsov wasn’t Sokolov, so she wasn’t really disobeying any edicts from on high. Not really. It was good enough for her; it had to be.
In the interim, she had busied herself avoiding everyone in the building, especially M2. She and Debbie had popped to the staffroom to share a cuppa. Sam had quickly routed any question onto Op Samantha, rather than more complicated ones like: ‘So, M topped himself in your apartment – are you OK?’ and, ‘You think M was on Sokolov’s payroll – how does that work?’ Debbie had agreed to keep in touch with Frank and, on Sam’s behalf, phone an oppo in every Embassy in countries where al-Qaeda had a presence and press them for any leads. She wanted to widen the field.
‘Oh, sorry. I almost forgot. Ask Frank to get in touch with Defence Intelligence. Tell them, and use the Samantha op code, to get one of 14 Signal Regiment’s Light Electronic Warfare Teams on suitable standby. He’ll know what I’m talking about. They’ll need to be able to deploy to any city in Western Europe ASAP.’
‘Sorry, Sam. For my education, what are you talking about?’
‘It’s an Army team of four men; a mixture of Royal Signals and Intelligence Corps personnel. They deploy anywhere – at any time. They can intercept and triangulate enemy radio equipment, and they also have the ability to conduct mobile jamming.’
‘What, you mean like blocking signals from radios?’
‘Yes, but specifically in our case, mobile phones.’
‘Got it. It’s the detonation signal for the device. You think it’s going to be set off by mobile – like in the diagrams from PD.’ Debbie was on it.
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘OK. I’ll do that. And what are you going to do – wait for Jane?’
‘Yes. Well, no. Not exactly. Vlad and I are going to Kuznetsov’s place. He’s a bit delayed. But I’m off there…’ she looked at her watch, ‘in ten minutes. Sorry, Debbie, I’d better dash.’
And that was that.
And here he was.
A dark blue Mercedes E-class. Probably 2008/9. The W211 version with the ridiculous oval front lights – four of them. What were Mercedes thinking? It looked like a Mr Chad – all that was missing was a bit of urban graffiti down its side: Kilroy was Here. By the sound of it, it was a diesel, probably the E220 Cdi – the smallest version. Whatever, her chariot had arrived.
‘Really sorry about last night. I’m so sorry you had to go through that. Did he give any reason?’ Vlad didn’t know where to balance the questions. He obviously needed to show his sympathy, whilst discovering what the hell was going on. The suicide of the Head of Mission of the UK’s second largest SIS detachment was huge news. And in such odd circumstances – in Sam’s flat? Could it have anything to do with Op Magpie? He really needed to find out.
Especially after this morning’s meeting with the director. The boss had previously been called to the Kremlin and told, in no uncertain terms, that he was to leave Sokolov alone. There was no problem with chasing the ‘dirty bomb’, but Vlad’s actions had caused a stir at the very highest level of government, and Sokolov wasn’t on the menu.
‘Find the VW – stop the bomb. Do that, and use the team to help. But, if we both value our jobs, Vladimir, and we don’t want to be wearing grey overalls and carrying a pickaxe for the rest of our lives, steer clear of Sokolov – for the moment. But, press your girl, Green. This suicide has something to do with it. I’m convinced there’s veracity behind Op Magpie. Convinced of it. Green is the answer. Press her hard, and she will force the UK’s hand.’
The director had flinched when Vlad had told him he intended to visit Kuznetsov’s dacha this morning with Green. Kuznetsov worked for Sokolov, so there was a link. But, he was chasing the last known location of the VW van. Was that a problem?
The director had thought for a second.
‘No, Vladimir. That’s fine. Just keep Sokolov’s name out of any conversation.’
He had the greatest respect for his director. The man was KGB/FSB through and through. But he had none of the tainted history of many of his colleagues. He was a Russian – impeccably so. But he wasn’t a fanatical nationalist. He wanted what was best for his country. All of his country. Not just the rich elite and the senior politicians. That’s why he was pushing the Sokolov operation so hard. Op Magpie was central to what the director stood for. And Vlad felt humbled to be, as far as he was aware, the only FSB agent working with him on it.
Sam wiggled in her seat uncomfortably, and then played with some of the dials on the dash. She wasn’t going to answer his question.
‘Has it got heated seats?’ she asked.<
br />
Vlad was perplexed.
‘Ehh, yes. Electric everything.’
‘We could have done with these when we got out of the sewer yesterday.’
She found the appropriate button, and pressed it.
‘I didn’t see you as a Merc man?’
‘Well, I am. They’re very reliable and make me feel important.’
Sam flashed him a smile.
‘You need all the help you can get.’
What can you do with her? He tried to revert to the original question.
‘Do you want to talk about last night?’
‘Nope.’ Sam was fiddling with something else now, down beside her. It was the electric seats. She moved slowly up and down, accompanied by an electronic whirr.
Vlad was then clear that she wasn’t going to talk about M’s suicide.
‘Anything else on the op?’ he asked.
Sam stopped playing with the buttons and stared straight ahead. She breathed out heavily, her cheeks puffing out. Vlad thought she must be exhausted. Almost drowned in a tunnel in the morning; watch a man blow his head off in the evening. Not a great day for even the strongest of stomachs.
‘Sorry, Vlad, in all the excitement I forgot to tell you about the intercept we’ve had in. It’s from an exchange between a Saudi and a Russian mobile that was within 100 kilometres of Moscow.’
‘Go on.’
‘D-day is Monday, or Tuesday…’
Vlad had to stop himself from slamming on the brakes.
‘What? That quick?’
‘Yes. The transcript of the call said four days’ travel from yesterday; and a day to prepare. London reckon anything east of Paris – including Paris. Jane, a senior hood at Vauxhall, she’s my ex-boss I told you about – the one who’s flying over today to “take control”… Anyway, she’s going to speak to her oppo at your place and send this thing global.’
That made sense. And better the Brits do it for Europe. They’d have more credibility than if the FSB tried. Having a continent-wide search for the bomb would help.
‘Let’s hope we find something at Kuznetsov’s dacha. If not, we’re stuffed,’ Vlad continued.
‘Won’t your director haul Sokolov in and grill him?’
‘Not possible. Not at the moment. My meeting this morning was about laying off Sokolov. My boss had his collar felt at the Kremlin. We’re to leave well alone for the moment.’
Actually, it was about more than that – but that’s all I can tell you.
Sam was quiet. She’d stopped fiddling with all the buttons and switches.
‘Why is there this reluctance to pursue Sokolov?’ Sam asked.
‘Political influence from our side, Sam. We know he has the ear of the premier.’ He wasn’t going to let this lie. ‘What about yours? Why did M call you back?’
She was in thought again. She had information which she wasn’t prepared to share – he knew it. How could he get it out of her? How could I make her trust me more? The irony of his last thought wasn’t lost on him.
‘Sam?’
She looked across at him with eyes which said, ‘I want to tell you something, Vlad, I really do. But I can’t.’
She broke the impasse.
‘How long before we get there?’
He checked the road signs and then looked at his Satnav.
‘A couple of minutes. Just around the corner.’
They travelled in silence for the final kilometre or so.
Kuznetsov’s place was stood back from the main road, surrounded by trees. A high, concrete-based, metal fence declared its boundary; a large, automatic gate prevented immediate access.
Vlad pulled up, lowered his window and pressed on the intercom. It buzzed.
They waited a few seconds.
‘Who is it?’
‘Vladimir Turov. I’m an agent with the FSB. Is that Mrs Kuznetsov?’
‘Yes.’ The reply was tentative.
‘I need access, please, Mrs Kuznetsov. And I want to ask you a few questions about your husband.’
‘But I spoke with the police yesterday, Mr Tupov.’
Vlad sighed. It’s Turov.
‘I’m FSB, Mrs Kuznetsov. Please let me in.’
There was a buzz. And then the gate opened.
Mrs Kuznetsov met them in front of the two-storey, white house. It was modern and angular, with big picture windows and a flat roof. But, perhaps typically for a newish Russian house, if you looked hard enough you could see that it wasn’t well finished. Kuznetsov may work for Sokolov, and he might own a dacha on the outskirts of Moscow, but Vlad didn’t think he was on oligarch’s wages. Maybe if they pulled off the dirty bomb?
There was only one car on the gravel in front of the house; it was a Citroen, probably the wife’s car. Vlad looked for a garage, but couldn’t see one.
He shook Mrs Kuznetsov’s hand.
‘We’re just going to have a look around. The local police tell us that you saw a white van here, about ten days ago?’
‘Yes, that’s true. It was only here for a couple of hours. Then it disappeared.’
‘Who was driving it, Mrs Kuznetsov? Your husband?
She laughed.
‘My husband. Driving a van? No, Mr Tupov. It was a man I’ve never met before. Yesterday, the police asked me to recall what he looked like, but I was hopeless at it. He looked like, well, a man. He never came into the house, but stayed with the van. I do remember that he was wearing a red and white sweatshirt – it had an emblem on the front. Probably a football team. But I can’t be sure.’
That’s helpful.
‘Was there anything odd about the van?’
‘No. Not that I recall.’
‘Do you remember exactly where it was parked?’
Mrs Kuznetsov looked confused, her hand to her chin.
‘Over there.’ She was pointing.
Sam was already over in the area where the wife had indicated, crouched down. She was studying the tread marks. She had her phone out and was taken photos.
‘Vlad, have you got the Geiger counter?’ Sam asked.
Vlad jogged over. He took the Geiger counter out of a small daysack he was carrying. He turned it on and stuck the nose to where Sam was pointing.
It went mad.
‘550 counts per minute.’ He moved it left to right. The further he moved it from Sam’s spot, the weaker the signal became.
‘What did you point at?’ Vlad asked.
‘Between the two rear wheels. Where I would carry a heavy load.’
‘Well, we know it was here. That’s something.’
Vlad turned off the counter.
‘Mrs Kuznetsov, do you know where the van went to?’
‘No, I’m sorry. My husband doesn’t share his business interests with me.’
Sam joined the conversation.
‘You and your husband own this dacha, a small flat in Moscow, and your husband works out of offices, which are also in Moscow. Is that correct?’
‘Yes, Miss?’
‘Green,’ Sam continued. ‘Do you own any other properties, Mrs Kuznetsov?’
The wife thought for a second.
‘No, not really.’
‘What do you mean, not really?’ It was Vlad’s turn now.
‘Well, my husband and his brother own a log cabin-cum-workshop about 30 kilometres south of here, on Lake Shishkino. It used to be their father’s, and when he died, they kept it. They use it for fishing and boys’ weekends away. I’ve not been there, I’m afraid. I’ve never been invited.’
‘Do you have the address?’ Sam asked.
‘Yes, I do. Shall I get it for you?’ she replied.
‘Yes please. And, Mrs Kuznetsov, when was the last time you spoke to your husband?’ Vlad continued.
She smiled again, a knowing smile.
‘We don’t speak when he’s away. He likes to have his own space. I’m happy to give it to him.’
And with that, she disappeared into the house.
Five miles short of Lake Shishkino, South of Moscow, Russia
Sam’s phone pinged. It was a secure SMS from Debbie. As she opened it she checked the time on her phone: 11.45am. The text read:
Hi Sam. From Reuters. Russian head of MSF resigned. Cites political differences with regime. Nothing else on ExtraOil from anywhere across the media spectrum. Jane due in in 60 minutes. Will you be here?
‘Was that anything exciting?’ Vlad asked.
Sam didn’t reply. Instead she typed.
Thanks. And no. Am moving onto new location SE of Moscow. Sam
She’d need to do something about the whole ExtraOil affair. She was thankful that Debbie had stayed on the case. She’d lost it in the noise of the all the other rubbish that had been going on.
She glanced across at Vlad, who looked very comfortable at the wheel. Behind him, a small snapshot of the massive forest they were driving through, flew by.
He was an interesting character. Tenacious, a skilled agent, at times ruthless and, clearly, extremely keen to get to the bottom of the whole Sokolov/dirty bomb affair. And Sam trusted him. He had looked after her from the beginning; had followed her lead without flinching. Any normal person would have spent much more time questioning her maverick approach, instead of following her wild leads that had, she admitted thankfully, so far worked in their favour. He obviously trusted her. And that felt like a really good place to be. Especially as Sokolov wasn’t done with them yet.
Did she trust him enough to share M’s semi-admission? That he was on Sokolov’s payroll? Would it help them find the bomb? Or just muddy where they were?
Probably the latter.
‘What are you expecting to find at the cabin?’ she asked.
Vlad was tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. He had put the radio on, tuned into Capital FM 105.3. It sounded like Russian heavy-rock. Even if the lyrics had been in English, whatever it was wouldn’t have been on her playlist.
‘We’re assuming that Kuznetsov and the van driver brought the T4 to the lake. If it’s as secluded as it looks like it’s going to be,’ he waved a free hand at the dense trees rushing past, ‘I’m guessing this would be a good a place as any to bring together all the ingredients and turn them into a bomb. Mrs K spoke of a “workshop” – that sounds promising.’
The Innocence of Trust Page 28