The Innocence of Trust

by Roland Ladley

  Sokolov was key. He was SIS’s joker.

  Sam looked at him, eye to eye. So close she could see a blackhead on his nose. It intrigued her. She had to stop herself staring at it.

  Sokolov was still grinning at her, nodding. The child.

  Sam could visualise the scales and she quickly made her choice: Sokolov was dispensable. The European project, and the hundreds of innocents in harm’s way, weren’t. She knew what she had to do.

  In an instant, Sam thrust her cuffed hands upwards, towards Sokolov’s throat, both fists clenched. She put everything she had into the punch. If she found the target, if she connected, she might knock him over – if nothing else, wind him; startle him. One of the huge patio-style doors was open. She would be out onto the deck in a few seconds, find a way to the side of the boat, and dive overboard. She was a half-competent swimmer, even in cuffs. She could make it?

  But her fists didn’t make a connection. Sokolov was too quick. His head moved out of the way, and her forearms flew past his ear. Her chin ended up on his shoulder and he grabbed her round her back, holding her tight. A bear hug. He was far too strong for her. The pressure on her shoulder sent spasms of pain down her side. She gasped.

  His mouth was right next to her ear.

  He whispered.

  ‘Ahh, this is nice! A hug.’ He chuckled. ‘You know, I like you, Samantha Green. Very much. I do. But, now that I’ve told you my secret, I’m afraid I’m going to have to kill you.’

  Aeroflot 737, Sevastopol to Moscow (SVO) Airport, Russia

  Yesterday had been the worst day of Debbie’s life. She’d not yet lost a close relative, but she presumed that losing Sam was akin to that? Probably.

  Today she felt lighter; as if a small piece of that load had been lifted. The whole world was now looking for Cressida. And Debbie had been instrumental in finding the intelligence that made that happen. If they found the yacht, and stopped the bomb, that would make her very proud. And it would go some way to help with the healing.

  Both she and Rich had taken a complimentary small bottle of red wine with their lunchtime, in-flight meal. As she stared at the headrest in front of her, she raised her glass and, in her head, she saluted Sam Green.

  To you, Sam.

  Rich was dozing. He’d finished all his food, his wine and the coffee. He’d woken this morning with a streaming cold, which hadn’t surprised Debbie. She’d fished out some paracetamol from her bag and handed them over.

  What now? Back to her day job? She was assigned to another case-officer who was working a couple of informants in the Russian army. They provided a link to unit manoeuvres on the border with Finland. Her job was to study satellite photography in order to add veracity to the claims made by the informants. They also had transcripts from mobile telephone comms of senior army staff. Once translated, her job was to sort the wheat from the chaff. It was interesting stuff, but not on the same scale as Op Samantha.

  She also had the ExtraOil and CleanDrilling mini-op that Sam had been running with. Debbie felt really close to the op because only she and Sam had been involved with taking it forward. This morning she’d woken with the lark. She’d spent an hour on the net seeing if there was anything from MSF that might indicate that they were even close to whistleblowing on Sokolov’s oil exploration shenanigans in Alaska and California. But there was nothing.

  However, what had alarmed her was a report she found almost by accident. She’d accessed the US’s Federal Energy Regulatory Commission (FERC) website and lifted several layers until she found a page detailing reports and news on oil exploration. There, among several notifications, was a single line:

  Authority awarded: the FERC’s east coast regulator clears CleanDrilling site at Crestline, CA; oil production can commence immediately.

  The notification was dated the middle of last week.

  Drilling can commence immediately – bother.

  What should she do?

  She should take this to Jane as soon as she got back, that’s what she would do.

  Should she?

  M, for some reason, had wanted Sam to stop – he had taken her off the case. Told her to leave well alone. But it didn’t stop there. Jane had asked Sam to pass the details to Frank (she’d been copied into Sam’s report), so he could take it forward.

  But, as far as she could see, nothing was happening. As with all other members of the Moscow staff, she received the daily sitreps from London. Over the past four days none of them mentioned anything about the ExtraOil case.

  Was Frank sitting on it? Had he also been told to lay off by Jane?

  Debbie could imagine the possible fallout of CleanDrilling’s work in California. Sam had described the conditions in that little village in the Urals. The devastation that a double dose of radioactive water had brought. Sam was almost in tears when she recounted her meeting with the MSF doctor. Imagine the effect it would have on those who were supplied via the Los Angeles watercourse. She was in no doubt that US lives were no more or no less important than Russian ones. But, there were considerably more people at risk here.

  What would Sam do? She had spoken about a pal of hers in the CIA – someone she trained with? She’d not mentioned a name, but when (on Jane’s instructions), Debbie had looked through Sam’s files and emails, she’d come across a Jodie Mountjoy, with a Langley telephone number next to it. That might be the agent she was talking about.

  Rich interrupted her train of thought by breaking into, and then out of, a man-snore. With his eyes closed, he grumbled a few words as though it was someone else’s fault, and then promptly went back to sleep.

  Debbie smiled to herself, but got straight back to her dilemma. To help, she stared at the weave of the remarkably ugly, polyester pattern of the seatback in front of her.

  What would Sam do?

  She’d phone her pal. Now. She wouldn’t wait or ask for instructions. She was a woman of action; action inspired by the desire to do the right thing, and to do it on time. If Debbie went to Jane, she’d demand a report – and, knowing Debbie, that would take a day to get right. And then there might be more questions – more work. And, who knows what the outcome might be? M had asked Sam to leave it alone. And she hadn’t. Jane had done the same. If she went to Jane, she might also be stopped in her tracks.

  That wouldn’t do.

  She may only be an analyst, but she had been mentored by the best.

  Debbie would go straight into work from the airport. She would find the American woman’s number and, regardless of the time and the fact it was a Sunday, she would phone her. She could then do what she wanted with the information.

  41°05'06.3"N 13°48'04.3"E – Southwest Coast of Italy

  Sam had no idea what was coming next. Not that she cared. At all. She was struggling to find any emotion other than aching self-pity. She knew that sometime soon she was going to die. Sokolov had made that abundantly clear. His parting words to Marya were, ‘Turn her blonde. Give her to my brother to have his fun. And then deal with her.’ He waved a single hand, dismissing them both as though he was now utterly bored.

  She was sitting back in her pod, her hair covered in sickly peroxide – which stank to high heaven, the smell of bleach burning at her nostrils. She was definitely going to end up blonde, there was little doubting that. But she really couldn’t find the energy to be bothered.

  Give her to his brother?

  Her mind ran a gentle riot, not that there was a great deal going on upstairs. She was shattered. Broken. Her shoulder ached like it had had a bullet through it and then been dislocated. It ached like that, because that was what had happened.

  Marya had brought her back to her cell (let’s call it what it is), and literally threw her in. She’d left, returning 15 minutes later with a couple of bottles of peroxide. Sam had put two and two together, thinking that she understood what ‘turning her blonde’ had meant. But couldn’t get the context. Was this some form of bizarre ritual?

  She then kicked herself. Of course
. What had the deputy director of the FBI said? They’re all blondes. That was the connection. Blonde. And young. And abducted. She could picture a couple of possible outcomes to where this was heading. Neither caught her imagination.

  Marya had dragged her into the en suite and removed her cuffs. Sam, who immediately sensed an opportunity, took an almighty swipe at Marya with her left hand. It was pathetic. And such a waste. She knew as soon as her arm wound up for the punch, that it was futile. She wasn’t ambidextrous; her left arm was much less of a weapon than her incapacitated right. Marya ducked, but Sam’s fist satisfyingly caught her on the ear – but with little effect. Marya pushed her bulk forward at an alarming pace and suddenly Sam felt she was in the wrestling ring with Big Daddy – one of her dad’s old favourites. The woman’s expansive stomach hit Sam like a small car, and it knocked her backwards into the shower. Sam hit the metal sidewall with her right shoulder and screeched in pain, collapsing in a pile.

  Sam looked up. Marya was holding her ear. It obviously hurt. Good. She walked to the edge of the shower, towering over Sam who was now curled in the corner expecting some form of retribution.

  Marya turned on the shower. Cold at first. And then hot. The woman turned the temperature knob to its highest setting. It got hotter. And hotter. The cubicle filled with steam. Sam, who thankfully had not yet removed her coveralls, curled tighter and tighter, trying desperately to hide any exposed flesh from the steaming water.

  Her hair was on fire. The cotton of the coveralls got so hot, Sam felt that they would spontaneously combust at any moment. She remembered from somewhere that showers should be set at no more than 60 degrees centigrade; this must be hotter?

  Sam knew that she wasn’t being scalded. It just wasn’t quite hot enough – especially when everything maxed and she sort of got accustomed to being fried in water. But it stung, her exposed flesh red and begging for it to stop. Her reflex action to try and escape was overpowering and it took every ounce of her inbuilt stubbornness not to push through Marya’s tree trunk legs. She wouldn’t – wouldn’t – give the woman the satisfaction of seeing her try to flee.

  Fuck her.

  Marya turned off the shower.

  Sam remained where she was. She felt like an overcooked, drowned rat. Or a boiled carrot. She stared up at Marya and tried her best ‘contempt’ look.

  Marya sneered a smile; because Marya knew what Sam didn’t. She wasn’t finished yet.

  She offered Sam her hand.

  Evens?

  Sam took it. She wished she hadn’t.

  In one swift movement, Marya pulled Sam out of the shower, grabbed her by her hair and pushed her head in the sink. Bugger, that hurt. She then took hold of her right upper arm, and with strength that Sam thought only possible from male shot putters, pulled it out of its socket. She held it momentarily, gave it a twist, and then let it ping back into place.

  Sam only felt the initial surge of pain, which hurt so much more than she remembered from when the bullet had ripped into her at the cabin. After that her mind refused to accept what the receptors in her shoulder were shouting at her. And then she passed out.

  She woke (she didn’t know how long she’d been out for) to find herself naked, lying on her mattress and stinking of bleach.

  And her shoulder! Shit, did it hurt. The pain started in the joint, coalesced with that from her wound and then went to every corner of her body. She was completely out of it. Like a teddy bear that had been pulled apart by a vicious child, and then poorly stitched back together by a careless mother. She was an idiot. She had wasted her second chance to escape. If another one came, she didn’t think she would be able to find the energy to do anything about it.

  I am an idiot. A pathetic idiot.

  The door opened.

  Marya came in. She motioned for Sam to go into the en suite. Sam did as she was told. Meekly. She couldn’t have cared less that she was naked. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered; not now. She dragged her sluggish legs, zombie-like, to the en suite. Marya pointed to the shower. She got in. Marya, having turned the temperature knob down to something sensible, pulled up on the lever. Water came. And then from her pocket, Marya removed a small bottle of shampoo. She took hold of Sam’s head and gently pulled it toward her. She opened the bottle and tipped it onto Sam’s head. And then, as if Sam were her daughter, she washed Sam’s hair. It was, for Sam, an extraordinary act. Last time she was with Marya, she had been subjected to an assault at a level of ferocity that you’d only associate with a serial killer. Semi-scalding water and a dislocated shoulder. And now she was being treated as if she were being prepared for her wedding, with overwhelming gentleness.

  Sam couldn’t take it. The juxtaposition of the two acts, combined with more pain than her body could manage, was too much.

  She wept. Her shoulders, one of which was crying out for mercy, joined the pathetic display by shaking up and down. It was pitiful.

  She’d been in more pain before. And she’d seen things that had shocked her more. And, at least once, in a warehouse in Berlin, she had willed death to come.

  But now, she was more devastated than she had ever been in her life. She’d lost Vlad. She’d been beaten and abused. And she could see no way out. Some ritual was next – and then death. She was destroyed. Smashed to pieces like a thrown dinner plate in a marital argument. If death was next, then that would suit her just fine. She only hoped, beyond hope, that any accompanying pain would be short-lived.

  Chapter 19

  4th Floor, British Embassy, Moscow, Russia

  Jane had eventually settled down to a half-decent day’s work. She’d cleared most of the reports she had from London and was thinking about closing down for the day. Debbie and Rich had been due to land half an hour ago. It was past 7pm, and dark and wet outside; she assumed that they were heading straight home.

  There’d been nothing yet on Cressida. It was a tough one. You would have thought that tracking down a 200-foot yacht would have been simple enough. But the Mediterranean was a very big and very busy sea. Even if they had authorisation to stick up a squadron of NATO Airborne Warning and Control System (AWACS) aircraft, with huge radar domes on their roofs that could pick out ships within a 400-mile radius, they’d still struggle to find an aircraft carrier in a week. Cressida was quite capable of hiding away for as long as it took to deliver her cargo.

  London had produced a map with concentric rings on it, centred on Sevastopol. It showed Cressida’s likely maximum arc, having left Sevastopol on Thursday at 10am. The bottom line was that she could get anywhere from Beirut to Gibraltar by Monday lunchtime – the whole of the Mediterranean was fair game. The map, which was updated hourly and based on Cressida’s maximum speed, also gave them an indication of where the boat couldn’t yet have reached; as of half an hour ago, the ring stopped on a curve from Tunis, through Sardinia and Corsica, and onto Marseilles. That was about one quarter of the Med that was not yet within her range.

  In short – they needed a stroke of luck. And they needed it soon.

  There was some noise in the office – it had been deathly quiet up until then, every sensible member of the organisation was at home sleeping off their Sunday lunch.

  Her door opened without ceremony. Rich and Debbie burst in, almost falling over themselves. They were excited. Debbie was giggling.

  ‘Have you two been abusing the Aeroflot complementary drinks? If not, why not?’

  ‘No, no.’ Almost in unison. ‘We have some fabulous news.’ That was Debbie.

  Jane was about to reel off a list of possible fabulous news, when Debbie, who clearly couldn’t contain herself, blurted out, ‘Sam wasn’t in the cabin. It wasn’t her body!’

  What?!

  ‘What?!’

  ‘The FSB left a message on Rich’s phone.’ Rich was clearly not going to get a word in edgeways as Debbie continued at a blabber. ‘The body in the cabin was a man’s. They have no idea whose, but the pelvis is the wrong shape for a woman. It’s definitely no
t Sam.’

  Jane was hit by a tsunami of emotions. Sheer joy. Elation. Then, confusion. Followed quickly by fear.

  ‘That’s… that’s great! But where is she?’ The last question was clearly rhetorical.

  Rich filled the gap. ‘I think we need to look again at the woods. I don’t mean to use a dreadful pun, but she’s not out of them yet. And we have two other main options: one of Sokolov’s residences. Or Cressida.’

  Jane wrapped her fingers on her desk, and then stood, her hand moving to her forehead.

  ‘Rich, how much clearance around the area of the cabin did the FSB manage to complete?’ Jane asked.

  ‘I don’t know, but I’ll get onto them, pronto. If it’s not been thorough enough, I’ll see if we can get a joint team down there now. I know it’s late, but we have to do what we have to do.’

  ‘Good.’ Rich was about to leave the office, when Jane added, ‘I hate to say it, but check the lake.’ Rich stuck his thumb up, and left.

  ‘And Debbie…’ Jane was still thinking on her feet.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Get a Priority 1 into Langley for IR shots of a ten-kilometre radius of the cabin. If they’ve got images from last night, then great. If not, get them onto it now. If Sam is down and in the area somewhere, then she should be a hotspot. Certainly, last night. I know it will be difficult to sort a human from, let’s say, a deer, but we have to give it a go.’

  Jane had run out of instructions. Instead of leaving Debbie looked like she didn’t want to move – just yet. ‘Anything else?’

  She looked uncomfortable. As though she had something to tell her. Jane raised her shoulders and lifted her hands in an ‘And?’ sort of way.

  ‘No. Nothing. Thanks, Jane.’ And then she was gone.

  Jane was just about to think through how they should play the fact that Sam Green, an SIS case-officer, had likely been abducted by a Russian oligarch, when her phone rang. It was Frank.