The Innocence of Trust

by Roland Ladley

  She felt her legs wobble. She was going to collapse. Any fight she had left was gone. It was over. If what she thought might happen, happened, any moment now the man in the campervan would press the big red button. There would be a huge explosion. Many would die. Hundreds would be injured. And the Vatican would be out of use for a decade. The impact on the world would be unthinkable.

  And she hadn’t been able to stop it.

  She teetered, looking for something to hold onto. She didn’t want to fall to the ground again.

  She reached left, stretching for a railing she’d spotted a few seconds ago.

  And there it was.

  The campervan.

  Down the side street from the junction. Six vehicles down. With its back end to her.

  The man in the campervan. With the big red button.

  Six car lengths away.

  She didn’t fall. She didn’t even take hold of the railing. She steadied herself on her own legs. She forced her body to pivot left. And then she moved. She didn’t run. She didn’t want to alert the man. She walked. It was all she could manage.

  Walk. Like a normal person. Don’t draw attention to yourself.

  Casually.

  She walked. Step by step. The man with the campervan had a schedule. Would she be too late?

  She wasn’t scared. Death had never been a concern of hers – at times she would have welcomed it. If the bomb went up, she’d be blown into a thousand pieces.

  So be it.

  She walked.

  Five cars.

  Four cars.

  Three.

  The second.

  And then the campervan.

  She knew the driver would be just to her right. Percentages had it as a left-hand-drive vehicle. The van was parked on the left-hand side of the road, facing away from her. The North-African looking man would be in the driver’s seat.

  Just…

  …Here.

  Her right hand still hopeless, Sam reached her left hand round the front of her body and yanked at the door handle. It flew open. The man was facing away from her, bent down, looking at something between the seats.

  The movement of the door startled him and he jerked upright. She couldn’t see his face. She was concentrating on her next action.

  Was he wearing a seatbelt?

  No.

  In one seamless motion, she put one foot on the driver’s entrance step and, again with her left hand, grabbed the far lapel of his leather jacket. As tightly as she could…

  …And pulled with all the strength she could muster, purposefully falling out of the van as she did. It was about momentum. She was small. He was much bigger than her. She had to get him moving. Out of the campervan. Away from the big red button.

  Her momentum. Against his inertia.

  It worked.

  She and the man fell out of the van onto the pavement. As they fell Sam caught sight of his face. Sweat was pouring from his forehead, his eyes were wide and full of fear. They both reached the ground together, but he fared considerably better, bouncing as he hit the pavement. Sam slumped like a sack of potatoes. She prepared herself for a fight; for another launch. But immediately she knew that it was over.

  She was out of it. There was nothing left. She had lost. He could do what he wanted.

  The man, shocked but obviously unhurt, scrambled onto all fours. He looked at Sam, the fear still present – she could smell it. His breathing erratic. His pupils dilated. His head twitching from side to side.

  Still on all fours, he glanced at the open van door. And then in the direction from where Sam had come. Toward the Vatican. The home of the Pope. The very heart of Catholicism.

  ‘Don’t do it,’ she whispered in English.

  She repeated the same in Russian.

  ‘Please.’ In both languages.

  Sam could sense the man was torn. Between the promise of martyrdom and the reality of death. His glanced again at the van, and then back to the Vatican.

  In flash of movement he stood, turned on his heel and sprinted down the pavement away from his intended target. Sam craned her neck to see more – he was gone.

  It may have been a minute. Or two. She noticed a pedestrian coming toward her. It was a man in a grey suit. He stopped short, turned into the road and crossed the street. A bad Samaritan?

  Sam found the strength to sit up. And somehow reach for the door of the van, pulling herself to the upright. She crawled, face down, onto the driver’s seat and, with even greater effort, put one foot on the entrance step. With that she was able to force her torso further into the van.

  And there it was. Between the front seats.

  A small yellow box. And a big red button. Wires ran out of the box into the rear of the van.

  The sound of police sirens joined her consciousness. But not for long. A few seconds later she was out cold.

  Epilogue

  One Restaurant, Porto Montenegro, Tivat, Montenegro

  Four months later

  Sam had ordered a double espresso – decaffeinated. It was her second of the morning. The small white cup and saucer sat on the table in front of her, next to a pair of very competent, stabilised binos she had signed out from Q’s stores in Vauxhall. Beside the binos was a small flower arrangement: oranges, reds and greens in an ornate glass vase that glinted in the low, mid-morning sun. Even though it was very early spring, the sky was cloudless, the sun shining and temperatures were in the high teens. It was a beautiful day to be sitting outside.

  She’d left her hotel, the Hotel Palma (which was right on the seafront in the main town – unextravagant, but lovely), straight after her continental breakfast. It had taken her ten minutes to walk to the port and she almost tripped over her tongue when she got there. ‘Move over Monte Carlo, Porto Montenegro is the new hotspot for the rich and famous,’ was the cry from anyone with a superyacht who needed somewhere to park it. She could see why. Nestling in Kotor Bay, the deepest natural harbour in Southern Europe, and with a backdrop of spiky, Adriatic hills, it was glorious. The port was originally the main base for the Austro-Hungarian navy and, until recently, resembled a bombsite; it had now been transformed into a new playground for the super-rich.

  There were boats everywhere. All of them fabulous. Most were bigger than a couple of houses, and five or six of them were 200-footers. They were all very shiny, and very expensive. And, in her mind, they all smelt of money made on the back of someone else’s misfortunes. She couldn’t help but admire the glamour; but despised its source.

  Sam would never have chosen Tivat as a holiday destination. She’d been to Dubrovnik, Croatia, 30 miles northwest of where she was. But that was a country and a completely different culture away. Head south a couple of hundred miles and you hit Corfu, Greece. Again, she’d been there – that, again, was an altogether different experience.

  So, it was her first time in Montenegro – and it was lovely. Although, in general infrastructure terms, it was light years behind Croatia and Greece – and that was saying some. But, that all added to its charm. The clientele was less charming though, especially here in the port area – they were very ‘in your face’. More Lamborghini Diablo than Jaguar F-Type. There were a couple of the former in the quayside carpark.

  Sam hadn’t chosen Tivat. It had chosen her. More accurately, Cressida had berthed at Porto Montenegro – somewhere new to rest her weary propellers. And Sam had followed her there. That was the beauty of vesselfinder.com (now that Nikolay Sokolov’s boat had had its AIS refitted). You really could follow any ship, pretty much, anywhere.

  So far, three months into a sabbatical from SIS of ‘unspecified length’, she had chased Cressida around most of the Mediterranean: Monte Carlo, Naples, Palermo, Venice (that was particularly nice) and now Porto Montenegro.

  It was stalking on steroids. And in her present mind set, that suited her.

  After the Rome incident, she had been whisked straight home to London and given a private room in St Thomas’s. It had taken her a cou
ple of weeks to get close to having normal energy levels, and a further month of intensive physiotherapy to get her shoulder working properly again. The consultant reckoned that her shoulder would be susceptible to ‘popping out’ if it were put under any lateral pressure. She should avoid gymnastics and rock climbing.

  OK then.

  Insofar as work, it was not until Jane’s third trip to the hospital that they eventually got round to talking about the future. Sam had already been subject to a severe debrief by her own kind, initially at the airport in Rome, and then again in Tommies – as soon as she was back in London. That, in itself, had been an exhausting experience. She also had a whole day with the CIA at her bedside, eating all her soft fruit and chocolate that her few friends had brought in for her. They were more fun though, and much easier to take the mickey out of.

  On the plus side, was a welcome visit by Holly and her father. As well as thanking her (continuously), her ‘daddy’ came to tell Sam that the US Congress had agreed to present her with a Congressional Gold Medal, the highest accolade bestowed on non-military personnel in the US. Sam said ‘thanks’ several times, and wondered what ‘Daddy’ must really think about her dragging his cherished daughter into a city centre just before a dirty bomb exploded, irradiating the Pope and all his cardinals. She hadn’t asked.

  The second real piece of excitement had been a phone call from Debbie. They spent ages talking about all manner of stuff. But the call brought with it two bits of fabulous news. First, Vlad had survived the fire. He was well and back at work, although in a wheelchair. The doctors had had to amputate both his legs below the knee, due to the fire damage caused by the falling lintel. After Debbie’s call, Sam had spent many evenings reflecting on her involvement in Op Samantha and the pain it had caused her friend and colleague, Vlad. She had come close to phoning him a couple of times, but never summoned the confidence. It was just great news to hear that he hadn’t been consumed by the fire – but she was so sad that he had been left permanently disabled. She would get round to calling him at some point. Once she could face it.

  The second snippet of good news was that Debbie had spotted a report from the US’s Federal Energy Regulatory Commission (FERC), that CleanDrilling’s fracking operation in California had been closed down – and that the company were being investigated by the FBI for illegal drilling procedures; both in California and Alaska.

  ‘That’s brilliant, Debbie. Just brilliant. MSF must have used their US offices to press some buttons?’

  ‘Or, I spoke to your CIA contact, Jodie – who then made it her personal crusade?’

  ‘You did that!’

  ‘Yes. I did!’ Debbie was very excited. ‘When I thought you hadn’t made it out of the fire. I couldn’t let it rest. Not after what you had been through.’

  ‘Well done you, Debbie. Does Jane know?’

  ‘Nope – it can be our secret.’

  ‘Again, well done you!’

  The news from Debbie had scratched an itch that had been bothering Sam. She was delighted that CleanDrilling and Sokolov had got their comeuppance.

  Really well done her.

  But, it was Jane’s third visit that had brought the issue of a sabbatical onto the table.

  It was clear to both of them that Sam couldn’t go back to Moscow. It was too risky. Both from the organisation’s perspective, and for Sam’s own safety. Sokolov was at large, operating pretty much as he had before the incident. According to Jane, the CIA were still ruminating over whether to go public with his involvement in the abduction of the three women – and the murder of two of them. And, on the back of that, demand that Sokolov be extradited to the US; not that the Russians would have allowed that to happen. With Holly’s and Sam’s testimonies, the UK and the US were certain that the abuser was dead – indeed, Sokolov had held a very public funeral for his brother in Moscow, just a week after the bomb incident.

  So, the CIA was still ruminating; but not taking action.

  Sam guessed that, between the CIA and SIS, the considered view was to leave Sokolov where he was. Where he could be of best use.

  And she and Jane had discussed that too.

  As Sam was now ‘in the loop’, C had authorised Jane to include her as one of the, now, ‘gang of 5’ – although she wasn’t allowed access to the complete Pierrot file. It was a brief discussion, mostly because Sam was bored by it. The outstanding question remained: ‘when is an asset so precious that you’re prepared to sacrifice scores of lives in order to keep the asset operational?’ Sam remained unconvinced by the UK government’s position.

  ‘Why did you choose the codename “Pierrot”?’ Sam had asked.

  ‘Did he tell you that as well?’

  Sam nodded.

  ‘He was recruited whilst he was at Cambridge. He got involved in a fight in a pub. He took a glass to the right side of his face; the other guy didn’t fare so well, and was carried off in a body bag. Sokolov is the son of, who was then, a big cheese in the communist party. We were within our rights to prosecute him and stick him in jail – for a long time. Or, they’d accept a prisoner exchange. It was 1983 and there was a lot of that going on at that time. As MI6, as we were then, were preparing him for exchange, some bright spark decided to see if he could be recruited. He could. All it took was money. And that’s all it’s taken for the last 20 years. We had no idea at the time that he would end up as one of the premier’s right-hand men. As is often the case with sleepers, these things are mostly down to luck.’

  ‘You haven’t answered the question. Why Pierrot?’

  ‘His facial scar. Like the French clown.’ Jane used her hand to demonstrate a vertical mark to her face.

  Sam understood.

  ‘The scar’s been covered by plastic surgery?’

  ‘Yes. Correct. He looks like he’s had a stroke.’

  Sam nodded in agreement.

  ‘But he has more money than he needs – surely he could stop whenever he wanted?’ Sam asked.

  ‘Except that we would then expose him as a British spy, and he’d end up with a bullet in his head – or similar. My view is that he also quite likes all the clandestine stuff. Very James Bond. And he was very good at it. If you were able to look through the file, you’d be amazed at how much valuable intelligence he has fed to us.’

  Sam still wasn’t convinced. And didn’t think she ever would be.

  There was an uncomfortable silence.

  ‘Why don’t you take some time off?’ Jane asked.

  ‘What, don’t you want me back at work?’

  Was she right to feel affronted?

  ‘No, no. It’s not that. It just that… well, I can see that you’re struggling with all this, Sokolov and everything. And it’s been a tough time over the past month or so. Maybe you need some time to reflect?’

  Sam didn’t know what Jane was saying.

  You don’t want me back at work? Am I too much of a risk?

  She was about to ask, but a bout of tiredness crept over her and she thought better of it.

  Sod them.

  And that was that.

  Sam took the sabbatical on half pay. The agreement was for up to a year; anything beyond that and SIS would consider her position. They didn’t discuss what she might do if she did come back, but Sam really didn’t have the energy to get excited about it.

  She’d bummed around for the first couple of weeks, and then, with nothing else to do other than watch the complete series of The West Wing for the sixth time, she opened the vesselfinder.com web-page, and there she was: Cressida. Berthed in Monte Carlo.

  She’d never been to Monte Carlo before and there was nothing stopping her from getting on a cheap flight to Nice and then bussing it to the rich man’s playground. So, she did – the next day. And she hadn’t been back to the UK since.

  And now here she was. With her new best friend. A 230-foot super yacht.

  She didn’t spend every day staring at the back of the boat, catching the occasional glimpse of her nemes
is: Nikolay Sokolov. Watching him with his arm round a bikini-clad gorgeous thing, who certainly wasn’t his wife. Keeping an eye out for Marya – she was often there, laden with a silver tray of pastries and fabulous coffee. And making sure that his brother didn’t make an appearance; that he truly was six feet under in a Moscow graveyard.

  She also did some touristy type things. And she ran; and trekked.

  But Sam did keep a watchful eye on the boat. She considered it to be part of her rehabilitation. Seeing Sokolov from a distance. Getting used to the fact that he was alive, even though he really should be in a grave next to his brother. Preferably still conscious. At some point, she was sure that the fascination would wear off. It would.

  And what would she do then?

  Third Floor Room, Above the Moritz Eis Cafe, Porto Montenegro, Tivat, Montenegro

  Iosif Ergorov was a thorough man. He had exacting standards. Nothing was left to chance. Where he could, he rehearsed every hit, even if the target wasn’t in the frame at any point during the rehearsal. For this one, he’d practiced on the first day, and again yesterday morning. The target had been in sight on the second day. But he would bide his time. Follow his meticulous plan.

  He’d rented the second-floor room as a six-month let, but he only needed it for three days. He preferred not to work from hotel rooms – you were never sure when the cleaner might barge in.

  He’d arrived the day before yesterday and had travelled by car – he always travelled by car. It was safer that way. It did mean that his area of operation was restricted to Europe and central Asia. But, you’d be surprised at how much his services were in demand, even if he refused to fly.

  His car was in the carpark behind the apartment block, packed and ready to go. He would be out of here in 15 minutes after the hit, and across the border into Bosnia-Herzegovina within the hour. Yesterday, he’d recced the escape route, and an alternative, should the former be closed. Both would work well.

  Ergorov had the right-hand apartment window ajar. About 40 centimetres. Using his own lightweight, metal and wooden frame, he had erected a sniper’s platform in the room; it was set back from the window and almost impossible to see from the outside. You’d need a pair of decent binos, and know exactly what you were looking for, to have even the slightest chance of guessing what might be going on behind the gap in the window.