The Innocence of Trust

by Roland Ladley

  ‘We’d better call Jane.’

  DESTRUCTION

  Chapter 18

  38°09'27.1"N 15°36'12.0"E – Short of the Straits of Messina, Sicily, Italy

  Sam had worked out the rough time of day. The big woman had just brought in her latest meal. It was fruit, some bread and a glass of orange juice. Breakfast. About 12 hours ago (she couldn’t be sure), she had been served a selection of cold meats, cold potatoes, bread, tomatoes, some sliced cucumber and that fabulous coffee. Plus, and this had sealed the timing thing for Sam, a slice of chocolate cake – pudding. That was supper then.

  For both of those meals, and the previous lunch, she had accepted the red and green pills from the woman. Sam had assumed that they were antibiotics – to chase away any infection from the gunshot wound. It seemed churlish not to take them.

  Every time the woman had come in, Sam had engaged her with simple, non-threatening questions; trying to build a relationship that she might exploit sometime in the future.

  The question she really wanted answering was: ‘why are you keeping me alive?’ The UK government would be all over her disappearance like a rash. And she was sure SIS wouldn’t stand by if there were half a chance that they could extract her from wherever she was.

  Surely, from Sokolov’s perspective, she was better off at the bottom of the sea? Or they could have finished her off at the log cabin?

  Sam pressed the woman on that issue this morning.

  ‘Why are you keeping me alive?’ Positive, passive – another lesson from training. ‘Why haven’t you killed me?’ would be considered: negative, aggressive. Stay positive and keep the dialogue calm; that was the key to successful negotiations. Sam had also switched to English now; her waitress’ preferred language. She was probably practising; Sam obliged.

  The woman, who was about to do the iris thing and leave with the breakfast tray, stopped and turned to Sam.

  ‘The boss wants to see you. That’s all. I wouldn’t get too comfortable.’

  And with that, she left.

  OK?

  Sam wasn’t surprised that her stay was an interregnum. They wanted her for something. And then they’d get rid of her. That’s what would happen.

  Whatever, it had bought her some space. She had to see this additional time as an opportunity.

  She’d worked every square inch of the pod and found nothing that might help her escape. Everything was tied down. Mealtimes looked hopeless – it was all edible, except the tray, which was a thin plastic affair, and a plastic mug. They were hardly weapons.

  But, if ‘the boss’, who she assumed was Sokolov, wanted to see her, at least then she’d be taken from the pod. She’d seize the first opportunity she had. And then the second. Until she ran out of chances.

  In the meantime…

  The only good thing about the pod was, it wasn’t soundproof. She’d spent two hours last night with her ear up against the door. She thought she’d heard at least three people walk past during the evening. There had been the constant hum of the motor, the slapping of the waves, and, just before she’d called it a day, there was some shouting down the corridor that she couldn’t decipher.

  Sam decided that this morning she would listen some more. She sat with her good shoulder against the door. Her wound throbbed, and didn’t enjoy sudden movement, but it was workable.

  She listened.

  Nothing.

  Maybe an hour passed.

  She continued to listen.

  And then, her first small success. It was two men. They walked past the door talking. She picked up three or four sentences, the voices rising and falling like a siren on a passing police car.

  ‘How long do you think she’s got left?’ Russian with an English accent.

  ‘Not long. Then it’s over the side for the congressman’s daughter.’ Russian.

  ‘Where will we be for the next one?’

  The reply was too quiet to hear. It sounded like a single, or maybe a double syllable word. Perhaps, Venice? Or Rome?

  The congressman’s daughter? She had seen the deputy director of the FBI on the TV in the cabin. Holly Mickelson. The missing congressman’s daughter. One of the young women abducted. She had been taken from Istanbul. There were two other women, one had been washed up ashore on Corfu. Kelly Jameson and Lizzie Jefferson.

  Holly Mickelson was on the boat. Abducted by Sokolov. As Sam had been. But why? And her days were also numbered? ‘Not long’. How long was ‘not long’?

  What is going on?

  Sam didn’t have time to pursue the question in her head; she heard a new sound. The unmistakable slapping of rotor blades as they cut through the air. She listened: single set of blades; heavy beat; twin engine; medium-sized helicopter. It could well be a Sikorsky S-76D? One of the most popular executive helicopters in the world. Was this the boss arriving? He wanted to see her. Would it be soon?

  She stood up and wandered over to the bed.

  Holly Mickelson. She was on board. And Vlad? Somehow, she didn’t think so. Sokolov was Russian. A powerful one. They could cover Vlad’s shooting with something along the lines of trespass. But, would he risk holding an FSB agent hostage? Maybe? She’d need to find out. She couldn’t leave the boat without him.

  Could she leave without Holly Mickelson?

  Her thoughts were interrupted.

  The door opened and in came the big woman. She was carrying a pair of handcuffs.

  ‘Wrists.’

  Is this an opportunity?

  Too late. Sam had instinctively offered her wrists and was now in chains. She hadn’t seen a key.

  ‘Don’t try anything. I’m quicker than I look.’

  The woman opened the door biometrically and pulled Sam out into the corridor by the cuffs. With her hands tied, she couldn’t have tried anything even if she’d wanted to.

  She followed the woman down a beautifully appointed corridor. Red, exquisitely patterned carpets. Gentlemen’s club, rosewood panelling on the bottom half of the walls. The upper wall was finished in deep cream paint. Between wooden side-doors, someone had hung paintings. Sam was no expert, but they all looked very expensive.

  After about ten metres, the corridor opened into a wide and deep hallway, with a wooden, double staircase leading up to a gallery. Above normal ceiling height, and in line with the gallery, all the other three walls were glass; natural light streaming in from an outdoors Sam hadn’t seen for at least a day and a half. As she was dragged up the left-hand set of stairs, she glanced at the ceiling: a massive hexagonal window, rising to a point, framed a piercingly blue sky.

  This must be the Mediterranean?

  As they reached the gallery, she turned and looked behind her. Pride of place, and larger than life-size, was a portrait of Sokolov hanging on the far wall. He was dressed in equestrian gear and was standing beside a black horse. He looked every part a member of a royal family. There were no obvious indications, like a crown, a mace, or a chestful of medals. But the artist had been clever and used light to silhouette his head – almost like a halo. It was a clear statement: ‘I am an incredibly important person.’

  She closed her mouth, which was hanging slightly ajar.

  Then they were in a huge lounge. It must have been 15 metres long and the full width of the boat. There was a central fireplace and flue, with surrounding bum-warmer, finished in red leather. There were sofas and scatter cushions, occasional tables laden with fruit and nuts, a bar in the corner, and the biggest TV Sam had ever seen. The decoration was more Scandinavian chic than the English gentlemen’s club of downstairs, but she was equally impressed. At the end of room were a set of sliding doors that filled the whole wall. Beyond that, Sam saw land on either side of the boat, with a channel in between. The boat was too far away to be sure, but the channel was probably about five kilometres wide. The land on both sides was mainly urban; old sandstone buildings intermingled with new high rises. To the left, she spotted an old-walled port, with a huge pillar at the entrance; it was
topped with a gold statue. It wasn’t the Bosporus. Istanbul was immediately recognisable – a multitude of minarets was the giveaway. They hadn’t travelled far enough to reach Gibraltar; the channel wasn’t wide enough, and she’d recognise the rock when she saw it.

  Her guess: The Straits of Messina. Mainland Italy to her right. Sicily to her left. She’d not been here before, but knew the geography. Next stop – Rome. Or Naples. Or Marseilles. Or Barcelona. You could now discount Venice and Trieste.

  Why Rome – or any of them?

  ‘It pains me to use the cliché, but we meet again, Samantha Green.’

  It was Sokolov’s voice. He was behind her.

  The big woman turned, pulling Sam with her.

  There he was. As she remembered him. Big. Imposing. Tanned. Good looking, in a chiselled way. He’d lost the black tie and was now wearing expensive-looking, navy-blue chinos, and an open-necked, pinky-red polo shirt, which didn’t sport a label. Inevitably, he wore two-tone, leather yachting shoes: mostly tan coloured, but with a cream top. No socks. He looked every part the playboy. Completely at home on his luxury yacht, having helicoptered in from somewhere equally exotic.

  As he approached, Sam again spotted the unmoving, right-hand side of his face; as if he’d had a stroke – or a skin graft, post a burn. She couldn’t draw her eyes away.

  ‘Take a seat.’ He motioned to one of the huge sofas in the centre of the room. ‘Marya. Fix us some coffee, please. And some pastries.’

  Sam glanced at the big woman, now to be known as Marya. She looked confused. Wary.

  ‘Don’t worry, Marya. Samantha Green is safe with me.’ He was standing beside her now. He touched Sam’s hip and winked at her. She shivered.

  Touch me again…

  He didn’t. She sat as ordered, and Sokolov slumped into an armchair that even made him look small. There was a table between them. Fresh tulips, reds and yellows, sprung out of a simple glass vase. There was a copy of Yachting Monthly to the side of the vase.

  ‘So. Samantha Green.’ Sokolov had his fingers intertwined in front of his chin. His legs were crossed. Sam felt like she’d been called into the headmaster’s study for ‘one of those chats’.

  ‘What a fun time you’ve had. First you visit my oilfield in Salekhard. You give my boys the slip – I hope you realise they lost a month’s wages because of your actions, and then you alert Médecins Sans Frontières to our very efficient fracking process. Putting that right was a lot of hard work, I can tell you. But we sorted it. And then you chase about in Arkhangelsk with your friend Vladimir, and end up where we really didn’t want you.’

  Sam stiffened at the sound of Vlad’s name.

  ‘Where is he?’ she barked.

  ‘Who?’ Sokolov had now placed his hands on his chest, twiddling his thumbs. His head was tilted to one side. Just like a headmaster. He was enjoying this.

  She was about to reply with heavy sarcasm, but stopped herself.

  Positive, passive.

  ‘Vlad. My FSB colleague.’

  He breathed in and out through his nose. Biding his time.

  ‘I’m sorry, Samantha, but he was caught up in a fire at the cabin. We did what we could.’

  His condescension flew like an arrow into her chest. Her mind blanked. Then it spun. Sam was sitting with her cuffed hands on her lap. She had her right thumb in the palm of her left hand. She squeezed it so tight, she thought she might cut off its blood supply.

  She tried to focus. She couldn’t save Vlad now.

  I can’t save Vlad now.

  Concentrate on the opportunities.

  She took a breath. And another.

  ‘Where’s the target?’

  ‘Ahh. Back to business. Good girl, Samantha. I thought you’d ask that.’

  He turned his head to his right and stared out of the window.

  Is he going to tell me?

  It was surreal, like reciting the script of a James Bond movie. The bad guy confesses all. And then she gets fed to the sharks?

  Well?!

  ‘Ahh, Marya is back.’

  The big woman placed the silver tray on the table. She stood back, waiting ominously beside the sofa.

  Sam’s mind wandered. The cups and saucers were espresso-sized and looked elegant enough to be Meissen. Sam’s mum had been a very minor collector of fine pottery – she had one Meissen piece, a small milk jug. It sat pride of place in a glass cabinet. She’d have bitten Sokolov’s arm off for this collection.

  There was a plate full of Danish pastries and various croissants. Sokolov served coffee without asking if Sam wanted one. And he helped her to a pain-au-chocolat.

  He took a swig of coffee, his little finger stuck out as if he were having tea with the Queen. Sam was beginning to really dislike his affectations.

  ‘Well?’ Sam asked.

  ‘I’m glad you asked, but, you know, I really don’t want to talk about it. I find it sensitive – unnecessary. Sorry.’ His grin was childlike. He was playing with her.

  She broke protocol. Positive, passive would have to wait.

  ‘But not unnecessary enough for you to sell a uranium-laced bomb to a Saudi terror cell, so that they can target a city – I figure Rome? And then sit back and enjoy the mayhem? I’m guessing the price of oil alone will double within a year?’

  Sokolov then did that thing again with his face that he’d done at the Embassy. Where his charm deserts him, and anger takes over. But he didn’t flinch.

  He replied through gritted teeth.

  ‘You’re very well-informed, Samantha Green. Very well-informed. But we’re well ahead of the game.’ He looked at his watch, but didn’t add anything.

  ‘And M, you used him?’

  He laughed. His flare up of anger had now dissipated.

  ‘He helped, here and there. For a small sum. I was sad when he blew the back of his head off. That was your fault?’

  She’d had enough. It was Sam’s turn to lose it, the red mist making an impromptu appearance.

  I won’t be blamed for Simon Page’s suicide!

  ‘My fault!’ She leant forward, as if to launch herself. Marya, who was still stood by the sofa, put her hand on Sam’s bandaged shoulder, holding her down.

  Then she squeezed her fingers together. Powerfully.

  Any will to be combative immediately drained from Sam. The pain was overwhelming. She held back a tear.

  ‘Leave her, Marya. Let her have her head.’

  Marya let go of Sam’s shoulder.

  ‘If you had done what Page had asked, and stayed off my case, he would be alive today. I’m sure of it.’

  Sam didn’t say anything. She sat back on the sofa, raised her shoulders, and instinctively stuck out her bottom lip. She wouldn’t say anything else. Fuck him. She would sulk.

  ‘That’s better. Now, before we move on. I have to tell you a little secret that I have been keeping for a very long time. You are the only person I have ever been able to tell.’ Sokolov’s mood had changed. He seemed excited. Like a kid at Christmas. There were now two children in the room. Her and him.

  ‘Marya. Leave us please.’

  Again, Marya’s face adopted one of incredulity.

  ‘I’ll be fine. I am much bigger than she is. And, as you just demonstrated, she has a weakness. Go on!’ He shooed her away with his hands.

  Sokolov really was excited. He leant forward, his hands on his knees. His face beamed. It was like being transported back to the playground. One of the girls had a piece of gossip that was so huge, they’d all wet themselves when she shared it.

  Sam was intrigued. She leant forward, slowly; her pout gone.

  What’s this about?

  Sokolov looked over her shoulder to check that Marya had left the room.

  He leant forward further. He motioned with his hand for her to come closer. Sam moved in as near as she could without lifting her bum from the seat. Their faces were no more than 30 centimetres apart.

  He whispered; his face alive – that
is, the bit that could move.

  ‘Do you know why no one from your organisation has tried to stop me?’ He grinned, again looking over Sam’s shoulder. Checking that no one was listening in on his secret.

  Was it a rhetorical question?

  Yes, she was curious as to why she had persistently been told to leave Sokolov alone. With M’s admission just before he killed himself, she understood why he had pressed her. He was on Sokolov’s payroll and he was just middleman.

  But Jane? She had been very sensitive about Sam’s chasing down of Sokolov. Ordering her off his case – twice. And then there was the orange marker on his file. Special Care – Authorisation Required.

  Sam motioned a ‘no’ with her head. Her facial expression now shouting, ‘Go on – tell me!’

  ‘I’m on your side!’ He was nodding quickly, his mouth slightly open, accompanying a smile a mile wide. ‘I am an agent for Her Majesty’s Secret Intelligence Service – codenamed Pierrot, like the French clown!’ A childish giggle followed.

  To say that the admission blew Sam away was a fraction of what she felt. Wow! Within a second, though, it all made sense.

  It all makes sense!

  Sokolov and the Russian premier could not be closer; they were old KGB pals. Sokolov knew everything that was going on at the centre of the Russian government. If the Kremlin decided to invade the Baltic States, the UK would know before anyone else did. He was the perfect agent. An informant at the highest possible level.

  So, if Sokolov goes down – the British lose their joker.

  Sam could picture the finely balanced scales. On one hand – an agent so well placed you might as well be in the mind of the premier. On the other, a dirty bomb which, if detonated, would kill and maim hundreds, and could spell disaster for Europe for years to come.

  But. But.

  It was much more than that for SIS.

  Of course! Sam had it all now. Owning Sokolov was a seat at the top table. It was a hugely impressive hand of cards: four aces. Whatever SIS wanted from the CIA, they could get. Lose Sokolov, and you lose access to all manner of American intelligence assets and avenues. They would be set back years.