The Innocence of Trust

by Roland Ladley

  She needed to be occupied – on the dirty-bomb case. Helping finish what Sam had started.

  First thing she’d called the chief in London. They’d spoken yesterday, but she’d wanted to revisit the discussion she’d had with the director of the FSB concerning Sokolov. C hadn’t changed his mind overnight. He reckoned that Pierrot was intact, and Jane agreed with him. As such, they’d leave well alone. For now. It was the lesser of two unspeakable evils, but only just. C told her to phone him if the situation changed in any way. Then they would reconsider.

  Vauxhall had taken full responsibility for the UK’s side of Op Samantha. They had a team of seven multi-agency staff working on it around the clock. The assumption was the device was headed west, and likely out of territorial Russia. All national security agencies were alerted to the threat and borders were being monitored. Radiation experts were stood by, but the target list was so long, nobody could adequately focus their efforts. The German Federal Intelligence Service, the BSV, was particularly concerned about the threat to Berlin. They had upped regular police patrols, and were conducting random stop-and-searches on anything van-sized and above. At most it was a deterrent. There was little hope of actually finding the bomb this way.

  They had nothing new from Saudi, or from any of the other out-stations. If it were al-Qaeda, they were doing a very good job at keeping the lid on it.

  And 14 Signal Regiment had a LEWT on six hours’ notice-to-move. A Special Forces Chinook helicopter was at the same notice. And a government-owned HS 125, twin-jet aircraft, was stood by – should the target be out of Chinook range.

  On the other issue, M2 was on the suicide case and handling it well. She was right about Simon Page’s staff. After the initial shock of the news, they had settled back into their routine without too much fuss.

  Jane drummed her fingers. What to do? Yesterday came back into view.

  Do something!

  Her patience snapped.

  She picked up her mobile and phoned Frank.

  ‘Hi Jane. Are you OK?’

  ‘Hi Frank. Yes. No. Not at all. But it will heal eventually.’ I hope. ‘What about you?’

  Nothing came back initially.

  Then, ‘Sorry, Jane. I can’t begin to tell you. It’s Berlin all over again. I’m not sure I’m going to fully recover this time.’

  Jane sighed. It was all rubbish. They’d lost Sam once before in Berlin – for two days. But then, they always hoped. This time, there seemed little point in hoping.

  ‘I know, Frank. I know.’ She paused. ‘Can we do some work?’

  ‘Yes. Please.’

  Good.

  ‘Look, this is a long shot. In fact, so long I’m worried about throwing it into the mix – so don’t share with the team. I don’t want them distracted.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘We may have lost Sokolov’s mega-yacht, Cressida. It should be in Sevastopol, but may not be. I’ve got a couple of staff heading down there now to check it out. Could you get in touch with the Maritime and Coastguard Agency, and put feelers out to see if they have any method of tracking a 200-foot yacht – that doesn’t want to be found?’

  ‘You’ve looked on vesselfinder, for the boat’s AIS?’

  ‘Yes. It says it’s in port; Sevastopol. But the air-phots Sam ordered tell a different story.’

  ‘OK. I can see why you might think that’s an issue. But, who delivers a nuclear device on a yacht the size of Southampton?’

  ‘Exactly. And the AIS system isn’t bomb-proof.’

  ‘Indeed. OK. I’m on it.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Jane felt a little better at having done something proactive.

  Crestline, Northeast of Los Angeles, USA

  Todd Mason was having another of his ‘good days’, even though it was only 9am. He loved his job, especially after the move to California. Out in the fresh air all day, with views of Twin Peaks. When he climbed up the largest of the fracking fluid bowsers – which was over 60 feet high, he caught a rare glimpse of the beautiful Pacific Ocean. And nestling on its shore, the metropolis that was Los Angeles.

  The drilling looked good. The well had been cased at the end of last month, and they had started preparatory fracking on Monday. It wasn’t his side of the business, but Todd, a drilling engineer pal of his, had given him the thumbs-up the other day. They were three weeks ahead of schedule, but starting slow – just 100 barrels a day. That would quickly ramp up, certainly now the Federal Energy Regulatory Commission (FERC) officer had been round and given them the all-clear. Todd reckoned they would all get a $500 bonus for completing early, especially as they were working weekends – which was great. He was saving up for a bright red 1957 Mustang, which was on the forecourt of a dealership downtown. His $500 would probably buy the four hubcaps.

  He checked the pressure reading on the main pipe’s gauge, the big one that fed the well. It was reading 8,750 pounds per square inch. He tapped it with his knuckles, a sort of ‘good luck’ tap. Unsurprisingly, the gauge didn’t move. He then checked the level of the fluid bowser that was in use. It read 560 gallons; about three days’ supply left. The other two towers were empty – it was pointless spending cash on fracking fluid until the well had been given the green light by FERC. He had the order in. The prepared fluid would arrive on Monday, pulled by three Mack trucks. He had them down arriving at 9.30am, from the usual supplier. He’d be ready for that.

  ‘Hi, Todd.’ It was Brad, the site foreman.

  ‘Hi Brad. Lovely day?’

  ‘Sure is. How’s it going?’

  ‘Good. All good. Thanks.’

  ‘I see you have the fluid ordered for Monday?’

  ‘That’s right, Brad. From Fluid Companion, the usual team.’

  Brad grimaced. It could have been the sun, which was just beginning to hit his eye line.

  ‘Sorry, Todd. I’ve cancelled that. We have a new supplier. I’ve duplicated your order and the first truck should arrive late on Tuesday. We’ll balance any drilling to meet the later availability of fluid.’

  ‘But…’ Todd was confused. ‘Why change the supplier? Are they cheaper?’

  Brad smiled. ‘Considerably so.’

  ‘And why is it coming so late? Are they shipping the stuff down from Alaska?’

  Brad smarted.

  ‘You don’t know how close you are to the truth, Todd.’

  Sevastopol Port, Crimea, Russia

  It had taken Rich and Debbie six and a half hours to get portside. They had booked onto the 3.45pm from Moscow (SVO) to Sevastopol, but it had been delayed. They then had trouble hiring a car and, without any GPS fitted, it had taken them an hour and a half to find the correct entrance to the port.

  Rich, who spoke fluent Russian, was having an animated conversation with a marine security guard. Debbie stayed in the car to keep warm. It was bitterly cold, with a strong, damp wind blowing in from the Black Sea. She could see Rich bent over, talking to a man in a booth through a slit in the window. There was limited lighting, but she picked out Rich showing the man an ID card. It seemed to do the trick. He jogged back to the car.

  ‘What did you show him?’

  ‘I have an FSB pass. It gives me limited access to a couple of buildings in Moscow. Here – I can go anywhere!’

  Debbie grinned (which was against the wishes of her persistent hangover). Rich was fun to be with. And relatively normal – for a spy.

  The port was half riverbank, half large, industrial marina – they’d looked at Google Maps before they had left the office. The Chrona River, which Sevastopol straddled, didn’t appear to be wide enough to be a natural harbour. But, in reality it was bigger than it looked on the map. Even in the semi-dark she could now see why it made a decent port.

  They were on the east-side dock. It was filled with an eclectic mixture of ships and boats – Debbie really didn’t know the difference between the two. Surprisingly, the latest satellite image showed that there were plenty of grey Russian navy ships moored alongsid
e the tankers and cruisers. As they drove down the concrete quayside, commercial buildings on their left, the back ends of some huge ships on their right, she spotted a submarine. She remembered Sam describing the TK-202; something along the lines of, ‘as big as a skyscraper on its side’. This one wasn’t that big, but it was certainly akin to a row of terraced houses.

  With a blanket of low cloud, and now accompanying light rain, all the boats looked bleak. The naval ones more rust coloured than grey paint. Intermittent, dull orange street lamps, and a line of run-down and rickety buildings added to the gloom.

  Debbie was counting the ships. Cressida’s berth should be the 17th along next to a small naval boat, and just before a non-military boat – some sort of medium-sized, civilian cruiser.

  And there it was. Or wasn’t. A gap, about 15 metres wide. Naval ship on the right, and a large, ageing pleasure craft on the left. There was a long, possibly 50 metre, concrete and wooden jetty running perpendicular to the quayside. Every eight metres or so a bulbous piece of metal sprung out of the concrete. Hanging from these were a couple of those big, wardrobe-sized rubber fenders; protection for the side of the ship. At the end of the jetty, which was decorated with plenty of carelessly coiled, heavy ropes, she could just about make out an unlit streetlight.

  Rich got out. Debbie followed him. He opened the rear door and, from his holdall, took out the ‘gadget’. It looked very Heath Robinson: like a large, plastic pistol. At the dangerous end, there was a horizontal metal rod with a vertical spike at either end. Like a TV aerial that had moulted.

  It was interesting, but not interesting enough to keep out the cold. The wind whipped Debbie’s hair across her face. She was looking forward to supper – in a warm hotel.

  Rich, on the other hand, was very excited.

  ‘It’s a VHF/HF direction finder. The two antennae here…’ he was pointing unnecessarily at the two aerials at the end of the gun-shaped thing (she’d worked that out), ‘pick up the signal that you tune to. Because they’re separated by a short distance, a clever bloke in here,’ he was now pointing at the main bit of the gun, ‘can sense two very slightly different angles from the signal. As you turn it…’ he now did a short twist of his hips, ‘the machine gives out a bleep. The loudest bleep indicates the direction of the signal. It’s all very simple!’ He grinned. Ear to ear.

  Debbie gave him a patronising smile. She hoped he couldn’t tell.

  Get on with it then…

  He did. As he walked around the jetty pointing the thing, Debbie heard him shout, ‘I’ve already tapped in the correct frequency for Cressida.’

  She heard some beeping, and then a continuous noise. Rich was now walking down the quay. Thankfully he stayed in a straight line; to deviate would have been a very wet experience.

  ‘It’s coming from over there!’ His words deadened by the wind.

  She jogged to catch up with him. The further down the jetty they walked, the worse the wind got. And it had now started to rain heavily. Perfect. She put up her hood.

  They were at the end of the jetty. Rich put down the direction finder and looked up at the unlit lamp. Now she knew why it was unlit. It had a box on the top; not a light. Rich had taken off his jacket and he held it out to her; she took it. And then, to Debbie’s surprise, he shimmied up the lamp post. It was about four metres tall. She moved closer to the pole, pointlessly preparing herself to break Rich’s fall, should that happen. It wasn’t necessary. Expertly, Rich opened a small door in the side of the box, and looked in. He then reached into his pocket, took out his phone, and, all with one hand, snapped a photo; the phone’s flash momentarily lighting up the sheeting rain, as well as the inside of the metal box.

  Then he was down. Debbie stepped away. In the short time he’d been up the pole, the wind seemed to have increased to gale force. She was hugging her arms to her chest. He, seemingly unaware of the cold, picked up the direction finder and brought his face to within a few centimetres of hers. He was wet; rain streaking down his cheeks, dripping from his chin. And he was smiling.

  ‘Success.’ He was almost shouting; the wind so strong it was whisking away his words. ‘Cressida is not here. But someone wants us to think that she is.’ He pointed at the box on top of the pole. ‘The AIS system is in there. Wired into the mains. Very simple and very clever. We need to get this to Jane, and then get dry. And then eat some food. They do good dumplings here!’

  Was that sarcasm?

  Delta Hotel, Sevastopol, Crimea, Russia

  Debbie felt much better having had a shower and eaten something that might be called ‘food’. She and Rich were sat at the bar. She was exhausted. She had ordered a coffee, he a beer. She hadn’t drunk any alcohol. So as not to appear a prude, she explained to Rich about the hangover which, thankfully, was a shadow of its former self. She really didn’t feel up to drinking. Not tonight.

  Rich had phoned Jane as they drove to the hotel, putting her on speaker so Debbie could hear. He’d already sent her a copy of the photo of the inside of the box. The AIS had a serial number on it, which you could see in the picture. He was confident that you could match the number against Cressida’s designated system. But, what was obvious: Cressida was off doing something she probably shouldn’t.

  Jane was convinced (and pleased) – but she still thought that they were short of conclusive evidence. She needed something that irrefutably tied the device to the boat. Nonetheless, she was sure that Vauxhall would now send out an ‘all ports’ call, looking out for Cressida. She may be 200 feet plus, but there were hundreds, maybe thousands of berths in the Med where a boat of her size could dock, unload, and then disappear back out to sea. Then there was the remaining issue of ‘who in their right mind would carry 30 kilograms of uranium on their pristine show-boat?’ It was essential that they tie the device to the yacht. Somehow.

  Debbie took a sip of her coffee.

  ‘If the device is on Cressida, what do you think the target is?’ Rich asked.

  Debbie’s geography of the Mediterranean was restricted to major ports. Her view was that, if you ruled out anything on the north African mainland, you could probably count suitable targets – those with the biggest impact – on just over one hand: Tel Aviv, Istanbul, Venice, Rome, Nice, Marseilles and Barcelona. She spelt them out to Rich.

  ‘I know I suggested Rome earlier in the week, but it’s not a port?’

  ‘No, but there is a port a short distance away that services Rome. You could offload the device, and drive it to the front steps of the Vatican, or the Trevi Fountain. Or any of a hundred other spectaculars.’

  ‘OK, I get that. But with the French very jumpy over the whole Islamic terrorist issue, I’d put Marseilles and Nice a close second. Or, and maybe you discounted it, Monte Carlo?’

  Would anyone really mind if Monte Carlo was targeted?

  ‘I don’t get Monte Carlo. Who would care if a load of rich folk get irradiated?’

  Rich laughed at that.

  The longer they talked, the more something bugged her. It was Jane’s earlier line about being ‘short of conclusive evidence’.

  Just as they were about to call it a day, a penny teetered, and then dropped.

  ‘Do you have a firm’s Nexus on you?’ she asked Rich.

  ‘I do, it’s in my room. I’ll go and get it.’

  He was back a few minutes later.

  ‘Can you log in as me?’ Debbie asked.

  ‘No, not quite. But I can log in as me, and access your account. If you give me your password.’

  Between them, with the Nexus on the bar, they accessed Debbie’s files. She opened the two IR images of the berth – the one showing the very bright hotspot, and the second, a much lighter, almost ‘stain’ of the first.

  ‘What do you think?’ She pointed at the hotspot. ‘I hate to sound unscientific, but is nuclear radiation in the red or blue part of the electromagnetic spectrum?’

  Rich expanded the image.

  ‘Definitely red.’ He was concentra
ting. ‘Hmmm. Could be a couple of pixel irregularities – some burnout. But I’m not sure. And why coincident, two nights running? This is a hotspot – either something very warm, like a fire. Or a rectangular block of radiation. And this,’ he swiped the Nexus and pointed at the lesser mark on the second image, ‘could be irradiated concrete or tarmac, left over from the previous evening.’

  Rich sat back on the bar stool. And breathed out heavily. He then picked up the Nexus and compressed the image back to normal size. The hotspot was now no bigger than four or five pixels. He studied it for a while.

  ‘Can I have a look at any daylight images taken between these? I’m looking for something.’

  There were two. Debbie brought them up, and handed the Nexus back to Rich.

  He played with them for a few minutes. Debbie finished her coffee.

  He then showed the Nexus’s screen to Debbie. It displayed a full-size photo, one square kilometre, of a big chunk of the port and river – the 10am shot, the one following the night-time hotspot.

  ‘What’s that?’

  Rich was pointing at the very top of the screen, in the middle of the channel. Two small things that weren’t water. And easily missable, if you weren’t looking for them. One was the tail end of something which was off screen. It appeared to be a very small part of a white boat – probably a slice of its stern. Right behind it was a much smaller vessel which you could see all of. With the fabulous resolution they had, you could pick out ropes connecting it to the stern of the larger boat.

  Debbie expanded the image and dragged it so that the two objects were in the centre of the screen. It was clear.

  ‘Damn. How could I miss that?’ Debbie was furious with herself.

  ‘Nothing to miss. If you hadn’t picked up the radioactive hotspot, I wouldn’t have given the image a second thought. Instead we’ve got what looks like the back end of a Cressida-sized boat towing a tender. A tender big enough to be full of explosives and uranium.’

  He finished his beer.