She was using him as a shield. She knew that. And at that point she had crossed a line – and was now as reprehensible as the men trying to kill her. But she had to get out. To get the message about the ship to Jane. And get help; to try and save Vlad’s life.
She was at the back door, turning to go through it.
Crack! Crack! A double tap.
The man’s dragging body became limp. He had done his job, and he was gone. And now he was useless to her. Dead men weigh more than live ones. It’s one of nature’s known unknowns.
She dropped him and made it out of the cabin. As she ran, she was faced with a choice. Car – left? Woods – ahead? Water – right?
Woods won.
It was the wrong choice. There was no obvious path, and the bracken was high. Her run petered out. A sprint became a jog. She hopped between gaps in the undergrowth. Trying to weave. Trying to become a more difficult target.
Five metres. Ten. Fifteen.
Crack!
The explosion in her right shoulder spun her round as if she were dancing the tango. As she dropped, she picked out one of the men from the Merc. He was stood at the back door. Feet spread apart, one slightly further forward than the other. Both hands outstretched, one holding the weapon, the other supporting the firing hand and the butt of the pistol. It was a good shooting position. The best. Just before she hit the floor and all went black, she judged the distance. Could be 25 metres? That was a really good shot.
Or a lucky one.
Chapter 16
4th Floor, British Embassy, Moscow, Russia
Jane Baker was still wearing her coat. She’d called Debbie into M’s office. She needed a much wider brief on Op Samantha than Gerald Masters, the section’s deputy, was able to provide. His job was more on the admin side and so he wasn’t up to speed on the op – other than what Sam had told him last night. That was one of the reasons Jane had got on the first flight out. The place needed getting a grip of.
The whole thing was a mess. The suicide of the top man. And Sam Green stomping all over the Pierrot file.
Where the hell was she?
The fact that Sam had pushed off, back out into the field, didn’t surprise Jane. She knew Sam well. They, were, as far as former boss and employee were concerned, as close as you could get. Sam was an exceptional analyst; but probably not tied down enough to be a wholly effective case-officer. That was Jane’s view. There were too many loose wires. Too much emotional baggage, when, what you needed was considered thought – and measured decisiveness. She’d been surprised when her old boss, David, had put Sam forward for case-officer training. But, the girl had passed the course. And passed it well. You couldn’t take that from her.
After last night, Jane couldn’t see Sam taking a morning off. Or hanging about in the office, basking in the glory of a truly newsworthy event. No, Sam Green would be out somewhere, poking around – or down some dark hole; turning over stones and making mischief.
She certainly didn’t want her poking around or making mischief with Nikolay Sokolov. No matter what he was up to. If there was mischief to be made there, she was the only one in the building with the authority to do so. That was immutable. And she was disappointed, but not surprised, that Sam still hadn’t managed to get that message.
‘Where is she, Debbie?’
Debbie Wiltshire, mid-height, mid-build, and with a pretty, rounded face, was, by all accounts, a decent analyst. Jane had never met her before, but SIS, at just over 2,500 strong, was a small business. Most people knew, or knew of, most other people.
‘The last I had was a text from her and Vlad, he’s her FSB oppo. It said that they were “heading for a new location southeast of Moscow”. I have no idea where.’
‘Have we got a trace?’
Debbie was shaking her head, her hands raised in a ‘didn’t think it was my job’ stance.
‘Where had she been?’ Jane was logging into M’s desktop as she spoke.
‘Kuznetsov’s dacha. On the outskirts of Moscow. I can find the address if you want it? The police visited there yesterday. They were following up on the last known location of the T4.’
Jane looked up from the screen. She was expertly removing her coat without being distracted from the job in hand.
‘Gerald. Coffee please. Black. Debbie – do you want one?’
Debbie shook her head. M2 didn’t bat an eyelid. He clearly knew his place. He disappeared from the office.
‘If I read last night’s section’s sitrep correctly, that’s the white van you spotted from the air phots? And the van the local police didn’t find when they visited the dacha, yesterday?’
‘That’s correct, Jane. Yes.’
Jane was tapping away, accessing Cynthia’s mobile tracing app. She didn’t look up.
‘Who else is on the case?’
‘Just me, although Rich has been on the periphery of this operation.’
‘Rich who?’
‘Richard Dixon. He’s an ex-policeman…’
Jane knew him. A good case-officer.
‘Yeah, yeah… I know him.’ Jane hadn’t got time for unnecessary detail. ‘Get him in here. Please.’
Debbie scooted off.
Jane opened the tracing app and typed in Sam’s number. She knew it from memory.
A dialogue box sprang up:
Device not found.
Jane typed in the number again. The same dialogue box appeared.
Something is not right.
Where are you, Sam Green?
Debbie returned with Rich, M2 following on with a cup of coffee.
‘Hi Rich.’ Jane put her hand up to stop him from replying.
‘Debbie – what’s Sam’s number?’
Debbie didn’t need to think. She regurgitated it without a pause. Analysts were good at that.
It was the same number that Jane had already used.
Jane sat down. She’d come to Moscow to oversee any media fallout from M’s suicide. To provide the section with support during a difficult time – although, knowing Simon Page, she couldn’t imagine there would be many of his staff completely overcome with grief. And to get a grip of Sam and refocus Op Samantha on finding the device, and not pursuing Sokolov – that wouldn’t happen without her authority.
Instead, it looked as if she’d need to divert all their efforts to finding an errant case-officer.
‘Device not found.’ She pointed to her screen. ‘Has this happened before on the machines here in Moscow?’ She was looking at Gerald.
‘No. Never.’
‘So, Sam’s phone is off. Or broken? Run out of batteries? Out of signal? Possibilities? Rich?’
‘Broken – unheard of. Out of signal – Moscow is notorious for providing decent mobile coverage. Turned off – why? She’s always taken my calls. Debbie – and yours?’
Debbie nodded.
‘And I don’t think, even in her state from the past couple of torrid days, she’s of the mindset of not charging her phone. That just wouldn’t be her.’
Jane agreed with Rich. Sam Green didn’t forget to charge her phone. In the same way most people don’t forget to breathe. She stared beyond them to the wall, focusing on a portrait of the Queen. How Simon Page. Jane wasn’t a republican and she had a good deal of time for the old girl, but she didn’t think she’d ever have a picture of the Queen on her wall – pride of place.
‘I don’t suppose anyone has the Russian, Vlad’s, number?
Nope – Debbie and Rich shook their heads.
‘Any other ideas?’
There was a lot of fiddling of fingers and not much else.
Then Rich broke the silence.
‘Do you know that she was threatened – knocked over by a car? It was something to do with oilfields and an oligarch named Sokolov. We can’t rule out that she’s in danger. Who knows what’s happened to her.’ Jane was surprised by the sensitivity in Rich’s voice. He obviously had a soft spot for Sam.
But Jane already knew all of this
– what she hadn’t heard from Sam from the other day on the phone, she’d got from Frank. Sam was definitely in danger, especially now M was dead. Sam’s disclosure that Page was very likely to have been on Sokolov’s payroll, and was controlling Sam on his behalf, was a huge revelation. But, from Sam Green’s perspective, that had been a good thing. Now, with M gone, there was no one to control her. For Sokolov, that could only mean one thing: Sam Green would be terminated.
And Jane didn’t have the power to stop that.
The only answer was to find Sam and bring her in. Now.
‘OK. Here’s what we’re going to do. Rich: get hold of someone in the FSB and find out where Sam’s oppo is. They must know. Call him. If he doesn’t reply and if they haven’t the technology to immediately trace his number, then get it from them. We can do it in ten minutes via GCHQ. Debbie: warn GCHQ that a Russian mobile number might be on its way. And get them, Priority 1 – use my name, to triangulate Sam’s number to its last known location. And check her browsing history; both her phone and her Nexus. You can look at her desktop as well. Let’s see what she’s been up to.’
Jane hoped she had overegged the pudding. Sam’s phone was down. Vlad would answer his. They would be having lunch in a local bar. She’d get Sam back into the Embassy by teatime. And all would be well.
Really?
Probably not. Something wasn’t right – she knew it. This was Sam Green they were talking about.
She looked at her watch. It was 13.50.
‘Let’s meet at 15.00 and see what we have. Both of you, keep trying her phone. And get a trace map up on a screen somewhere, so if her phone gets turned on, or we receive a signal, we know exactly where it is.’
They both looked at her.
‘Come on. Let’s go!’
Rich and Debbie left in a rush. Gerald stayed where he was. Jane guessed that he didn’t think he was included in the latest instruction.
‘OK Gerald. Let’s have ten minutes on what we’re going to tell the media about Simon Page.’
Kuznetsov’s Log Cabin, Lake Shishkino, South of Moscow, Russia
Vlad slipped in and out of consciousness. When he was awake, he was joined by a new friend of his: excruciating pain. He couldn’t breathe. That is, he couldn’t breathe deeply. His chest hurt more than he could bear, even without any unnecessary expansion and contraction. So, he took shallow breaths and tried to work out what was going on.
He was with Sam? That’s right. In the cabin. There was the man in the chair. And then he was in front of them? They were escaping. And then the noise of the gunshot. He’d been hit. Chest wound by the feel of it. He listened for his heart. That was beating. Rapidly, but regularly. His brain was working. He’d have an entrance wound. And maybe an exit wound? Two places where he could lose blood – externally. And then there would be all the veins (and arteries?) in his chest that had been ripped open by the slug. He didn’t think an artery had gone, otherwise he wouldn’t have woken up – he’d be pushing up the crocuses. But he would have lost a lot of blood – that was for sure. And he needed to stop that. How much could he lose? A litre and he’d be unconscious – well, he’d just been there. Two and a half and he’d be dead. That’s right.
He tried to open his eyes. Nope. That didn’t work. He tried again.
He blinked.
And then the smell came. It was as though by opening his eyes he had rebooted all his senses.
The smell!
Vomit. Urine. Excrement. And a fourth smell, which he couldn’t quite register. Like a petrol station? Not sure.
Whatever, it was putrid.
His stomach involuntarily lurched.
Блядь! нет! The pain was too much. His eyes closed again. Squeezed tightly closed. Pushing out unstoppable tears of pain: falling from the eye closest to the ground, straight onto the wooden floor; and dribbling over the bridge of his nose from the other eye, falling to join the pool.
He couldn’t remember the last time he had cried. It must have been when he was a kid.
Let’s try again.
He opened his eyes, and blinked, clearing the tears.
That worked.
Everything was at 90 degrees to the normal. It was an odd perspective.
He didn’t move his head, but swivelled his eyes. He was ten feet from the back door. Or a hole where the door used to be. Vlad remembered knocking it down.
He could see the man; he was sort of in a bundle, a little way away from the door.
That was his escape route. It was too far.
How do I get out then?
Use your mobile – идиот!
It took him two attempts to try his pockets. On the first try, he passed out from the pain. He had no idea how long he was gone for. Could have been minutes. Or hours.
His mobile wasn’t in any of his pockets.
Voices!
Quiet at first.
‘OK. We’ve got all the stuff in the right place?’
‘Sure. What about the Mercedes?’
Then louder. Two men walking round the cabin.
‘Let’s get the cabin alight, and then we’ll torch the car. Happy?’
‘Sure.’
One of the men stepped in through where the back door used to be. Vlad checked that his eyes were closed. They were. Look like death.
‘He hasn’t moved. He’s not going to. Anyway, it’ll all be over in ten minutes or so. Come on, let’s get going.’
The man stepped back out through the hole in the kitchen wall. There was more talking which grew quieter as the men moved away.
Get the cabin alight. Torch the car.
That was clear. The smell. It was petrol. Gasoline. A ring of fire.
Shit!
He had to move. I have to move!
But he couldn’t. Not without that pain, and then passing out.
Crackle. Crackle.
But, he had to move. If he didn’t, the pain of being burnt alive would easily surpass the bullet in his chest.
Crackle. Crackle. The smell of burning wood was getting stronger.
Move. Move! Now. Stay low. The smoke will kill you before the flames do.
He lifted his torso. Fuck!
Change of plan. His legs felt good. Use his legs.
He moved onto his back, dizziness almost overcame him.
He breathed. Then he brought his knees up, dug his heels in, and pushed. Pain. Lots of it. But movement. He did the same thing again. And again.
I need to rest. He couldn’t rest.
He pushed again. Excruciating pain. And pushed again. Dizziness.
Stay awake.
He forced himself around the bundle of the man, knocking over a kitchen chair as he did so. The smell of burning was all pervading. The heat from the outside wall was tremendous. Looking up, he saw clouds of acrid, dark grey smoke building up above him. Parts of the ceiling were glowing orange. The fire had taken hold upstairs.
One of those beams could drop at any moment.
He tipped his head backward, like a backstroker just about to push off from the wall of the pool. He could see a burning hole behind him. Splodges of green between the black smoke and orangey flames. The outside. First a fire hoop – like the circus. Then freedom.
Almost there. Four more pushes should do it.
One! So much pain. God, no. Not again.
Two! Dizziness. Stay awake!
Three. His torso was out of the building. Result. Come on!
To his horror, in slow motion he saw the lintel above the door crack. It was alight. It was falling.
Four!
4th Floor, British Embassy, Moscow, Russia
Debbie had Cynthia’s tracking app running on her left screen. Sam’s number was active – but there was no trace. Rich had already been across to tell her that the FSB had tried Vlad’s number, but the phone wasn’t connected. They weren’t concerned about him not being in touch, and had no idea where he was. But they had reluctantly provided Rich with the number. GCHQ now had it
. Debbie was waiting for them to get back to her. She’d promised to let Rich know as soon as she had anything.
She’d already been through Sam’s browsing history on her SIS desktop and found nothing of interest that she wouldn’t have expected. She’d also accessed all her recent files, and, again, there was nothing there that gave any clues as to where she might be now.
She checked her watch. She had 15 minutes before she and Rich were due to see Jane. GCHQ needed to get their skates on if she were to have anything to take to the meeting. In the meantime, she’d look again at the recent satellite photos she had from the US. She’d ignored those of the shipyard. Those images had done their job. However, they were still getting photos every eight hours of Sokolov’s residences and Kuznetsov’s dacha. It was one of the Kuznetsov photos that had thrown up the matching T4. She was quietly very pleased with herself about that.
What about Sokolov’s places? Her previous reviews had shown nothing anomalous. But, as an analyst – no matter how good you were – you never quite saw the whole picture. She would look at them again. How many were there? Sam had ordered photos of Sokolov’s Moscow residence, his dacha, his central-Moscow office, their house in Park Lane, London, and the berth of the yacht in Sevastopol. New sets of images every eight hours; the ones taken at night would be infrared. Over the past three days that gave them 44 images. The next five were due in an hour and a half. So, 44? Not a problem for her.
She’d start with Sevastopol and get it over with. Cressida hadn’t been in her dock since they’d started taking the photos, and there was nothing around her berth that looked out of place. Begin there – and quickly move onto Sokolov’s dacha.
She had just opened all five images of the berth, when her phone rang. It was GCHQ; almost certainly Tim, the desk-officer she spoke to at the Doughnut (the new build, all concrete and glass, was a shaped like one).
‘Debbie, here.’
‘Hi Debs, it’s Tim.’
‘Hi Tim, what have you got?’
‘I’ll back this up with an email which I’m finishing off as we speak – you’ll need the details. First, the last known location of the SIS number you gave us was from an area of woodland, southeast of Moscow. The lat/long will be in the email. Which, hang on… I’ve just sent to you.’ An email alert popped up on Debbie’s machine. She opened it.
The Innocence of Trust Page 30