‘We’ve got the location down to about one square kilometre. It’s the best we can do. Coverage from the local towers is average, but, importantly, it’s uninterrupted over the past 12 hours. So, it’s not the telephone company’s lattice coverage that is at fault, it’s the phone that’s not pinging. Last comms between Tower K/12D4 and the mobile was 12.45 today. The Russian number gave us pretty much the same result. Its last ping to the same tower was at 12.57. They both appear to have stopped communicating with the tower within minutes of each other.’
Debbie held the phone in one hand and rested her forehead on the other. She was concentrating – working the options, whilst staring blankly at a paperclip.
‘OK. That’s not great. We better get there asap. Sorry, Tim. Anything else?’
‘Yes. This is odd. You asked us to look at SIS’s phone’s browsing history. The detail is, again, in the email. But, the phone’s data was active until 12.45. That is, the browser was open when the phones stopped responding. And the latest web address was “vesselfinder.com”.’
What the hell is that?
‘Debbie.’ It was Rich at her shoulder. ‘It’s time.’ He was pointing at M’s office.
She nodded at Rich.
‘Thanks, Tim, I’ve got to go. And thanks again for that.’
Rich had walked off in the direction of the office.
Debbie highlighted and then copied the lat and long coordinates from GCHQ, and then pasted them into Google Maps. A pin dropped on the digital map. It was an orange pin in a mass of green, next to some blue – forest and lake. There were a couple of dotted white tracks which led from the pin to a yellow road.
Darkest nowhere.
Debbie scrolled out. However, it’s only about 30 clicks southeast of here. With the coordinates cemented in her consciousness, she scrambled after Rich.
M’s PA showed them into the office. Jane was surrounded by files. She looked up and put her pen down.
‘Any news?’
Debbie gave Jane what she had from GCHQ, about both phones being down, and that she had a lat/long of their last known location.
‘How long will it take us to get there?’ Jane was on her feet, reaching for her coat.
‘Half an hour, traffic dependent.’
‘Let’s go. Rich, sign out a firearm. Debbie, get us a firm’s car. I’ll meet you round the front in five minutes.’
On the Edge of Lake Shishkino, South of Moscow, Russia
The rough track they had taken from the minor tarmacked road had led them to the lake’s edge. The section’s four-year-old Vauxhall Vectra was just about man enough for the job, and Debbie had driven well. She might struggle to turn it round, though, in the small clearing they had driven into.
The three of them got out of the car.
Trees and water. No sign of humanity. Nothing.
This doesn’t make sense?
Jane soaked in a bit more of the scene. It was beautiful. And tranquil.
‘This isn’t right,’ Rich said as he kicked the bracken to one side, looking for something.
‘Can you smell that?’ It was Debbie.
Jane took a deep breath.
Smoke. Wood fire.
‘Look, over there!’ Debbie was pointing off to Jane’s right, through the forest, along the lakeside.
Jane bent down slightly so she could see under the lower layers of the pine trees branches. About 400 metres away there was, what looked like, the remnants of a fire. A pretty large one.
Oh my god…
She blanked. She knew Rich and Debbie were waiting for instructions. She was at least three ranks senior to them – that meant you took charge. She dithered.
She’d been here before. Chasing Sam, and her UN friend Middleton, across Sierra Leone. Dragging them from a burning hostel, in a little shanty town called Kenema. Minutes from death. That building had been upright. It still had its roof. They’d made it just in time. No permanent damage done.
If the fire through the trees was what was left of a building, it no longer had a roof. It was an ex-building. They wouldn’t be pulling anyone alive from that.
‘Jane!’ It was Rich.
She still stared, rooted to the spot.
She always expected the worst. She planned for it. It was in her nature, and it had fared her well. Sam Green was in that fire – she sensed it. And Jane hadn’t protected her. She hadn’t saved her, from herself. She’d been too busy with Sokolov. Too busy keeping an eye on the Queen’s friends and enemies. She felt sick.
Rich’s voice cut the impasse.
‘Debbie, bring the car round. Jane…’ He was at her side. ‘You’re coming with me.’
And they were off, running down the edge of the forest, a small gravelly beach strewn with large rocks and the odd low branch. They’d be at the fire in less than two minutes. The exercise was purging her anguish, her heart pumping blood into her brain – making it work again.
Jane was easily keeping up with Rich. She was fit. Jogging and yoga. A small run in the woods was well within her ability. She and Sam used to do yoga together, until Sam had left for her language training…
Stop it!
As they got closer, the smell became more acute; and the scene started to unfold. It was a building: black and brown charred logs, and heavy, half-burnt crossbeams, rising out of a smouldering mass. There was the odd lick of flames, but mostly there was just smoke. It got hotter as they got close, but not unbearably so.
It was a cabin of sorts…
…And a body! There!
Rich reached it first, but only just.
A man’s body was lying on the grass, about three metres from the embers. He was on his back, his head furthest away from the fire, his knees brought almost to his chest, trying to get them as far from the heat as he could. Even so, his training shoes were burnt, the plastic unbearably moulded to his feet. And his jeans were singed; red, exposed flesh peeking out through black-edged holes. Above his waist he looked OK. A black bomber jacket, covering a chequered shirt.
But he looked dead. Smoke inhalation?
‘There’s a pulse.’ Rich was on his knees next to the man. ‘And very shallow breathing. Second or third degree burns to the legs. I’m going to put him in the recovery position. Jane, call the Embassy. Get an ambulance.’
‘Sure, Rich. I’m OK now. Sam was a very close friend of mine.’
Rich looked up as he was about to put the man on his side.
‘She’s not dead yet, Jane.’
Jane accepted the admonishment – she deserved that.
She took out her phone and was in the process of tapping in the Embassy number when she heard the man on the ground ‘grunt’ in pain.
‘Fuck.’ Rich took a breath. ‘Sorry, Jane. Gunshot wound to the chest. Entrance is through the back. He’s still bleeding. I’m going to have to stem the flow. And we need a drip. He’s lost a lot of blood.’ Rich’s hands were covered in it.
Just as the Embassy switchboard picked up the phone, Debbie arrived in the car.
‘Get the emergency pack from the boot!’ Rich shouted.
There was a distant ‘OK’ from the car, 20 metres away to their left.
‘Hi. Who’s this?’ Jane asked.
‘It’s the duty officer. Is that Jane Baker? Her number has come up.’
‘Yes. Listen. First, triangulate this phone. Second, get onto the emergency services and have an ambulance here as soon as possible. We have at least one casualty. Gunshot wound and second degree burns to the legs. And, when you’re sure that’s all working, get a link-up call with the director of the FSB. Now. Understand?’
‘I’m not sure I can…’
‘Do it!’ Jane tone was both loud and menacing.
Debbie was now with Rich. He had his jacket off; the residual heat from the cabin still pumping out like a thousand bar fires. They had a shell dressing on the man’s back, tying the attached bandages carefully round his chest. The man was out for the count. And Rich had pulled the ma
n’s sleeve back and was looking for vein, pushing on the man’s forearm with his thumb. He had a needle in his hand, and Debbie was holding up a saline drip which was attached to the other end.
Jane wandered to her right, keeping a good couple of metres from the cabin. Was she staying away because of the heat? Or for fear of seeing something she didn’t want to.
Was Sam Green in there?
The odds fell that way. The guy on the ground looked mid-40s and fit. That would be Vlad. Sam was with him. She would have stayed with him. Probably pushed him out of the door first. That was her way. She didn’t make it out of the fire.
Stop! She had to keep a clear mind.
Round the front of the house there was a burnt-out car – it looked like a Mercedes E-Class. There was another smaller building off to one side. That had also been razed to the ground. Its fire was almost out. It seemed unlikely that Sam would be in here. She leant forward and peered in at the charred remains. Burnt tyres, and what looked like a fridge. A metal bedstead. Nothing of import that she could see. They’d have to get the forensic boys down here. Or, should she say, the FSB would need to get their forensic boys down here. This definitely wasn’t her jurisdiction.
She was round the far side of the cabin now. Nothing obvious. But she still didn’t want to look too closely at the cabin. She didn’t want to see what might be in the remains.
Then back round to the rear. Rich and Debbie were still working on the man. He was in very good hands. Every SIS vehicle carries a very comprehensive medical emergency pack. And all SIS case-officers spend a month in a local accident and emergency unit prior to deployment; this was following on from two weeks of intensive first-aid training. They’re definitely not doctors, but they’re good at patching up. Debbie was standing by the man, holding the drip.
‘Anything?’ Rich asked.
Jane had her back to the cabin. Better that way.
‘A car round the front. And whatever forensics can pick out of that mess.’ She signalled over her shoulder with a flick of her head.
She still couldn’t look. She couldn’t.
Rich nodded and walked over to the edge of the cabin.
Jane stared at the trees, and then glanced to her right, hoping to find some solace in the calmness of the lake. A white stork had settled on one of the posts of a jetty.
‘Jane.’ Rich’s tone was quiet. And flat.
‘What?’ She didn’t turn.
‘There’s a body in here. About a metre in. I can’t make out much more than that.’
Jane instinctively turned and looked directly at Debbie. Debbie raised her free hand to her mouth, her eyes welling up. Still expertly holding the drip which didn’t budge, she turned to one side; her head nodded to the beat of accompanying tears which had begun to flow.
A rage swelled in Jane. From the pit of her stomach, rising slowly.
Random, self-loathing thoughts filled her head.
She had let Sam Green down. Her country had let her down.
Just now Jane wished she hadn’t been promoted. Wished so much that she hadn’t had to carry the burden of the Pierrot file. So wished that she’d stopped David from pressing Sam into the ranks of the case-officers. She should have called Sam back to the UK when they’d spoken to each other the other day. She could have done that.
There were so many things she wished she had done.
She hated herself. The anger was focused on her. She was to blame.
Suddenly her phone rang. It was welcome relief.
She fumbled as she collected it from her pocket. It fell to the floor.
‘Fuck!’ A quiet, female fuck.
She picked it up. It was the Embassy.
‘Yes.’
‘It’s the duty officer, Jane. The ambulance is on its way.’ He paused. ‘And I have the director of the FSB. Shall I put him through?’
Jane looked for a place to speak where she couldn’t be heard. The jetty. Thirty metres away. She could talk there.
And then she would throw herself off.
She walked as she talked.
‘Yes please.’ There was a click. ‘Hello. Director?’
‘Yes, Jane Baker?’ Perfect English with a Russian clip.
‘Yes, sir. I’m the…’
‘You don’t need to tell me who you are, Miss Baker. I think I know you quite well.’
Of course.
‘Of course. We have a situation here. I’m on the side of Lake Shishkino, South of Moscow. Do you know it?’
‘Yes, I do. But not well.’
‘We were tracking down one of our case-officers, Sam Green. I think she came here with an agent of yours, a man named Vladimir?’
‘Yes. Go on, Miss Baker.’
Jane was reaching the end of the jetty. She was staring out into the lake. Her anger simmering just below the surface. She had to watch what she said. She was on very thin ice. She also knew that she had to keep her anger under control.
Could she?
‘There’s been a fire. I think your agent, if it’s him, was caught up in it – after he’d been shot. A couple of my staff are looking after him. He’s hanging on. We have an ambulance on its way. I think it will be touch and go, though. I’m sorry.’
The director was silent for a while.
‘That’s unfortunate. And your woman Green?’
Of course he knows about her.
‘We can’t be sure, but there’s a body in the remnants of the fire…’ Jane didn’t want to finish that sentence.
Further silence.
‘That’s also unfortunate. I’m sorry, Miss Baker. I believe they were onto something – pursuing the radiation device.’
Jane took in a deep breath through her nose; her teeth tightly clasped together.
Here goes.
‘You can stop this, Director.’
Another pause.
‘How is that so, Miss Baker?’
‘We both know that Nikolay Sokolov is behind this. You can get him stopped.’
The director chuckled.
What’s so funny?
‘I have no control over Mr Sokolov, I’m afraid, Miss Baker. He is, as you westerners say, “above my pay grade”.’
Jane thought she understood. Sokolov was as close to the Russian premier as any man could get. Any case against him would have to be completely watertight, and, even then, he might walk away unscathed. The director of the FSB undermined by an oligarch? That’s where Russia stood right now.
‘You could stop him, Miss Baker.’
What?
‘I’m not sure I understand, Director.’
There was a pause.
‘Yes, I think you do, Miss Baker.’
Jane looked to the sky. She didn’t need any inspiration. She just needed to get away from here. From the responsibilities that she carried. From the stench of burnt corpses; from the expectations of her staff. From Nikolay Sokolov. From everything.
She now knew that the director of the FSB was onto the Pierrot file.
Or… he thought he knew about it. Because if he had been absolutely certain, no amount of protection could save Sokolov.
What had he just said? ‘I have no control over Mr Sokolov… he is above my pay grade.’
So – he wasn’t completely sure. There was doubt.
And she wasn’t going to elucidate.
‘I have absolutely no idea what you’re inferring, Director.’
Chapter 17
36°52'37.2"N 23°36'38.1"E, The Aegean Sea.
Where am I? Shit, that hurts – my shoulder is throbbing like hell. Come on, open your eyes!
Sam opened her eyes. And immediately closed them again. The light was too bright. Instead, she lay still and listened to her body; felt her environment. She was on something soft, probably a mattress. Her heart was beating regularly – maybe 75 beats per minute, quicker than her usual resting rate of 54, but at least it was a steady rhythm. Her shoulder ached like there was no tomorrow – I was shot, that’s it. I remember.
As she was running in the woods? She couldn’t picture the detail. It was something like that.
She felt really groggy.
Keep checking. She tensed the muscles in her legs. They worked. Breathed in deeply. Ouch! Her shoulder didn’t like that. There was no smell, other than something clean? The whole room was swaying, accompanied by a slapping sound – hull on water? And she needed a pee.
OK, let’s do this.
She opened her left eye. She blinked. Closed it. Opened it again – and blinked again. This time she managed to keep the eye open. She was in a small room, lying on top of a mattress on a metal-ended bed. No sheets, or blankets. The room was mostly white, and some shades of blue. It looked completely sanitised. Like a plastic pod you could wash down with a hose in a couple of minutes. The bed, which was up against one wall, took up most of the room. On the far, narrow wall, was a door. It was funny shaped, oval at the top. There was no door handle. But, at eye height to its left, there was a biometric iris reader accompanied by a simple, dull chrome button – she knew what they looked like. That told her something.
She opened her other eye. Stereoscopic vision. Brilliant. But it was still the same pokey, whitewashed room. She lifted her head; the pain in her shoulder ramped up a couple of notches, but not so much that she couldn’t bear it. Beside her was a metal shelf, riveted to the wall. A wall which curved gently outward as it followed the hull of, what Sam assumed was, a pretty big boat. And beyond that, opposite her, was a door-shaped space leading into a simple en suite. A metal toilet bowl, which didn’t seem to look like it had a seat; a metal sink; and she thought she saw the edge of a shower.
There were no decorations. No signs. A bed, a sink, a loo, a shower and no space to swing a cat. No porthole. She was in a compact, comfortable room, which doubled up as a cell? Or maybe the other way round? At least it wasn’t a shipping container. She shivered at the thought.
She was on a big boat?
The Innocence of Trust Page 31