by A P Bateman
“But he’ll be out of your hair for a while,” Ramsay replied tersely. “Both you and Alex can have some breathing space and re-evaluate your situation while Fortez rots in a prison cell.”
“To make contact with any number of criminals who will take the job on! He’ll be likely to dangle the job and money in front of inmates just to give himself some immunity with the criminal fraternity, the big hitters inside.” She paused. “Screw entrapment. What else have you got?”
“It’s not a task for the Security Service.”
“Great,” she said sardonically. “How’s Simon Mereweather, the new boss? Just like the old boss, or so it seems.”
“He’s actually the acting director.”
“And, by acting, then you clearly mean acting like a bureaucrat…”
Ramsay sighed. “We’re here because he sent us. He understands the development and he wants you safe.”
“For us to move, again.” Caroline paused and sipped some more of her tea. “I have contacts in Interpol, from my sabbatical working with the people trafficking task force. I’ll see what I can find out.”
“No more than I have, I suspect.”
Caroline glared at him. “I’m not moving,” she said adamantly. “I’m staying put, getting back to health and then we’re going travelling together.”
“We’ll call it a sabbatical. Keep the pensions running,” replied Ramsay. “I know you two, you’ll get bored. It looks like King has already…”
“Sod off, Neil,” she said, standing up carefully. “I’ll pack a bag and you can take me back to London with you.”
“To what end?” he asked, exasperated.
“To answer the request for an assassin,” she said.
“I didn’t think you liked the idea of entrapment?”
“I don’t. Not when it’s the Italian police and their Ministry of Justice, no. But if we can get our hands on what Interpol have on Fortez so far, then we can control the parameters and see that he isn’t handed a token sentence. That is, if any investigation even gets that far. This way, we’re in control.”
“I like the moxy,” said Big Dave. “I’ve got nothing on, and Lake Como is nice this time of year.”
“Technically, it would be a cyber operation. It could be done completely over the internet and the dark web.” Ramsay said pointedly. “We only need an agreement, talk of a payoff and a trail.”
Lomu smiled as he watched Caroline’s face. “But the most thorough investigations with the greatest successes get out into the field,” he interjected, winking at her. “Don’t they, Caroline?”
Caroline smiled at him and said, “You’re damned right they do…”
Chapter Twelve
Thames House
London
“This is Captain Gerrard Durand, formerly of the French counter-intelligence service and Interpol’s senior investigator based here in London,” Ramsay turned to the Frenchman and said, “And this is Caroline Darby, with the Security Service.”
Caroline smiled pleasantly. Nobody was shaking hands these days, let alone cheek-kissing the French. Maybe the West would even start bowing soon like their Far Eastern counterparts. Anything was better than an elbow bump. “Pleased to meet you,” she said.
Durand sat back down at his space at the table. Opposite him a woman in her late thirties with light brown hair and a weary expression sat awkwardly with an open file in front of her. Caroline knew who she was, although they’d never met. Ramsay did not pick up on the fact and sat down at the head of the table, while Dave Lomu poured himself a coffee at the counter. The room was a fifteen by twenty-foot windowless box room with an office conference table and utilitarian chairs. Coffee and hot water had been put out for them in large, pressurised thermos dispensers with a jug of milk and a selection of coffee, tea bags, sugar, and biscuits. Big Dave had loaded up with biscuits and taken the last remaining chair.
The woman realised she wasn’t being introduced any time soon and caught Caroline’s eye. “I’m Sally-Anne Thorpe,” she said. “I came aboard last autumn. No doubt your other half will have told you all about me.” Her tone was challenging and passive aggressive. Thrown out there to make of what she would. “He’s a bit too old school, I fear. A blunt instrument when I see the future requires a little more precision. Especially as solid convictions will be what makes the intelligence services a viable entity in the future.”
Caroline frowned and shook her head. “No, he didn’t mention you,” she lied. King had been adamant that having a former Metropolitan detective inspector in their ranks, tasked with keeping the team on the right side of the law and influence their approach, would in fact weaken their effect on fighting terrorism. She shrugged like it was of no consequence and smiled. “Have you ever operated in the shadows? Been to some of the worst places on earth and gone up against the worst people those places have to offer? It’s not always so black and white. Sometimes people die and many people could be saved if swift action is taken.”
Thorpe paused, regarding her sceptically. “No, I suppose I haven’t. But ignoring the rule of law is the thin end of a moral wedge.”
Caroline smirked. “And what is your particular role in all of this?”
Thorpe stared at her warily. In her mind, having been the brunt of King’s feelings last autumn, she simply could not process the thought that King had not mentioned her or her remit. “I’m a former detective inspector with the Metropolitan Police Service.”
“A thankless task, I should imagine. And hindered, I suspect, by your middling rank,” Caroline interrupted her. “So, you’ve jumped ship while the going was good. What skillset do you bring to the role?”
“I might ask you the same…” Thorpe challenged her.
“I’m an ex-Army officer, formerly with army intelligence fighting the war on terror in Afghanistan and Syria. A few excursions into Iraq as well. So, three warzones… officially, that is. Then I was recruited into the Security Service and have worked in the field ever since. Apart from regular liaisons with Special Branch and two sabbaticals with Interpol.” She paused, feigning a look of bewilderment. “So, I suppose I’ve been fighting terrorism since university. Have you experience with terrorism, or is it just petty crime you were involved in as a policewoman?”
“I was a lead detective with MIT!” Thorpe snapped. “Murder was my speciality…”
“Mine, too. With the right weapon in my hand and a committed terrorist in my sights,” she said, then looked at Big Dave. “Get us a cuppa, would you Dave? I’ve suddenly got a nasty taste in my mouth…”
Big Dave smiled and stood up, his imposing six-foot-four and eighteen stone frame towering over the table. “Anyone else?”
“Do you rank over Mister Lomu?” Thorpe asked. “For him to make you a cup of tea?”
“No, not really. But he is the nearest to the refreshments table, and makes a bloody good cuppa,” she replied. “And we’ve got each other’s back. He knows that and so do I.”
“Le combat de chat,” Durand mused quietly.
Caroline turned and faced him. “À peine un ronronnement,” Caroline replied. “Mes griffes ne sont pas encore sorties…”
Durand laughed and sipped his coffee.
“What did you both say?” Thorpe asked somewhat aggressively.
“You didn’t take French at school?” Caroline smiled, but did not wait for her to answer. “Well, there’s no need for paranoia, my dear. I wasn’t talking about you.” She paused and shrugged like it was tedious and of no consequence. “Our colleague commented with the statement; the cat fight…”
Thorpe shrugged. “Well, maybe we got off to a bad start? I apologise for my part.”
Caroline smiled like she was blissfully unaware of any animosity. “No need. My reply to him was that it was barely a purr…” She paused. “And that my claws haven’t even come out yet…”
Thorpe regarded her closely but did not reply. Instead, she tried to save face by saying to Ramsay, “This problem in Ital
y, do you have any suggestions?”
Ramsay seemed bemused, having watched the passive-aggressive exchange. He’d known Caroline for long enough to know that Sally-Anne Thorpe’s card had been marked from the moment she had criticised King. He had felt for some time that the team needed clearer remits and a code of conduct that could not simply be brushed aside when situations got tough, but he could already see that the former detective inspector’s presence was going to be provocative at best.
“Giuseppe Fortez has used a former associate to make tentative enquiries regarding hiring an assassin. It is clear from this information that the man is no longer in a position of power and that he does not have men to call upon. Last autumn, five men were at his disposal to travel here and hunt for King. Now he has nobody. A rival mafia family moved in on his assets and his men were either recruited or killed.” Ramsay paused. “His being able to settle in Lake Como is both a mark of professional courtesy, and one of humiliation. You can take it as either, but as a mafia head, he’s done. He has nobody to perform this act of vendetta for him.”
“Who is the associate with the computer skills?” Caroline asked.
“Milo Noventa,” Thorpe replied. “By all accounts, a weasel of a man who is half Italian, half English. He lives in Switzerland on Lake Geneva.” She paused. “Educated at a string of private schools, generally because of his father’s work around Europe. He excelled in computers and communications, specialising in internet finance and security. Fortez used him to hide money, though not very well because he lost a great deal to the rival gang. Fortez transferred two-hundred-thousand euros to Noventa earlier this week.”
“His fee, or for that of an assassin?” asked Big Dave.
“His own fee, or part of the fee for certain,” Ramsay replied. “Noventa has set this up within the dark web, and he created a modular surface email account for the assassin to contact him directly, which would enable him to vet the applicants, leaving Fortez out of the mix, although Fortez does want final approval, so he’s willing to give Noventa some free rein, which works for us. The surface email has software and malware written in and bounces itself between thousands of IP addresses bought from Russian black hatters in internet scams. There’s no tracing Fortez from it alone, but we found out about this from Interpol from the other end. The Swiss police were monitoring Milo Noventa for money laundering through Bitcoin.”
“And Interpol are running an entrapment with just the Italian police?” Caroline asked. “Surely the Swiss police should be involved as well?”
“That is where I come in,” Durand said quietly. “The Swiss and Italians haven’t had the best record of working well together in the past. There is still much government and police corruption in Italy, whereas the Swiss judicial machine moves as smoothly and reliably as one of their Rolex watch movements. The temperaments are different, too. No, Interpol have managed to wrangle this off the Italians and the Swiss and it will work better as a single entity, but with their input.”
“But you are here, so it is now a partnership with MI5,” Caroline said emphatically.
“No, Interpol will be calling the shots. The Security Service have been read in, but you are here for advisement and courtesy only.”
“Bullshit!” Caroline snapped. “I was affected by the last attempt made on Alex’s life. Believe me, I’ve spent months recovering. I’ve had to move home, and now I’m being told to move again!”
“Nevertheless, Interpol are best suited for this,” said Thorpe. “For practical reasons, the Security Service being read into the investigation gives you a heads up, Caroline. You can stay in the loop and lay low if Fortez is successful securing an assassin.”
Caroline stared at Thorpe and said, “I’m not prone to laying low when someone is out to kill my partner. I was drawn into this last year when someone used me to get to King. It won’t happen again.”
Chapter Thirteen
CWO (Clandestine Warfare Office)
CIA Headquarters, Langley
Virginia
“Are you saying we lost them?”
“It’s a submarine, that’s what they’re designed to do.”
“Don’t get glib with me, Becker.” Lefkowitz paused. “You’re in that chair because I put you in it. I can take you out of it just as swiftly, though far more publicly.”
Becker flushed red and nodded, looked back down at the file in front of him. “Yes, Sir, off the coast of Senegal, near the Cape Verde Islands…”
Director Lefkowitz looked at the man beside him. “And the intel fits?”
Admiral Casey nodded. The sight of the man beside him hooked up to a drip of amber liquid was somewhat intimidating. His nurse had been security cleared and signed up to accompany him throughout his treatment. She looked on unperturbed, caring only for her patient and not for the secrets inside the anteroom. “It does, Sir. As we know Iran has two branches of navy. The Islamic of Iran Navy and the Islamic Revolutionary Guards Corps Navy. They command a large submarine force, but no nuclear-powered subs, and none with nuclear strike weapons. As yet, Iran is not a nuclear power. The submarine we cannot account for is a Kilo-class, or what they call Tareq-class, one of seven attack submarines they purchased from Russia for the equivalent of a reputed six-hundred million US dollars each. It comes under the jurisdiction of the Islamic Revolutionary Guards Corps Navy.”
“The Caspian Sea makes it easier to ascertain the strength and deployment of Iran’s naval forces,” Becker said. “Being a land-locked body of water, we know where they are pretty much all of the time from satellite footage and both thermal imaging and sonic pulse readings. Even the submarines are easy to track in the Caspian Sea and the Iranians have one Tareq-class hunter-killer operating there permanently, as well as four of their smaller SSM’s, or mini-subs for special forces operations, oil field protection and surveillance on other nations.”
Admiral Casey nodded. “The rest of the Iranian fleet are based in the Strait of Hormuz, but due to the savage currents, levels of salinity and depth, most patrol in the deeper water of the Gulf of Oman and the Arabian Sea. The Persian Gulf is extremely shallow, so Kilo-class boats, or in the Iranians’ case the Tareq-class boats, can only access a third of the area. The waters are also crystal clear, which along with the limited submarine operation parameters, makes it great for tracking them with eyes in the sky.”
Lefkowitz nodded. “And this submarine has been unaccounted for since…”
“Since the British Astute class sub was discovered in the Arctic by those climate change scientists and lobbyists, yes…” Becker realised he had interrupted and held up his hands. “Sorry, Director. But we really need to move on this.” He glanced at Admiral Casey. “The US Navy needs to get a submarine up in those waters now.”
Lefkowitz nodded. “Understood. But after being spotted refuelling off the coast of West Africa by an Iranian oil tanker, it could have headed in any number of directions…”
“Agreed,” said Becker. “But essentially, it was heading northwards. If it changed course and headed west, then it may well be a threat to the United States. But it would need refuelling on this side of the Atlantic, and the Eastern Seaboard is well protected by our own hunter-killer subs and detector buoys, as well as a large naval surface presence. My gut is telling me that the Iranians are heading for that submarine on the seabed and Iran wants to get its hands on some serious military technology, either the Rolls Royce nuclear reactor or the Tomahawk cruise missiles on board. If they can board it by way of a docking port, then it’s like leaving the shop door open.”
“Bloody Brits. What the hell were they doing up there, anyway?” Lefkowitz mused.
“I imagine they…”
“It was a rhetorical question, Becker,” the CIA director replied curtly. “He looked at Admiral Casey and said, “And this is your gut instinct, too?”
The Admiral nodded. “There are numerous Iranian tankers between Hormuz and Japan and at this time of year they use the Northern Sea Route over
the top of Russia to head down into the Pacific and Asia. Hell, a ship did the route a few years back without the use of icebreakers. Global warming is making the route easier to navigate and there is now a constant stream of shipping vessels sailing the route in both directions. And with Iranian tankers to call upon along the way, the sub can refuel and keep its diesel-electric motors running and not only make it to the area off Spitsbergen but have a whole range of options getting back to Iran as well, either doubling back, or taking the Northern Sea Route across the roof of the world. These tankers could also resupply them with food and water for their journey through the Northern Sea Route, where they could refuel again off Korea or Japan. You see, unlike nuclear powered submarines, the diesel-electric models have to surface regularly and refuel, as well as clean their air circulators, scrubbers and pumps.”
Lefkowitz nodded, his face pale and gaunt, his eyes deep in black sockets. The man’s health was deteriorating and there was no hiding it now. But he was damned if he was going to leave the CIA in a worse condition than he had found it and that meant tying up a dozen loose ends before he went home and let nature take its course. “That Iranian sub must not get near the British submarine.”
“Agreed,” replied Admiral Casey. “We have a Nimitz class aircraft carrier steaming across the Atlantic as we speak. The premise is an Arctic warfare training exercise. It is equipped with MH-60 Seahawk ASW helicopters.” He added. “That’s the type used for anti-submarine warfare.” He paused. “But that doesn’t help us with the UNESCO green zone, which is after all, the size of France.”
Lefkowitz nodded, but despite his pained expression, the other two men could tell he was unimpressed. “I already have an asset in the area,” he said, holding up a hand to stop either of the men from commenting, pulling the drip enough for the nurse to readjust it behind his back. “I put them in place the moment news of the sunken submarine came to light. On the very next flight.” He looked at the most senior ranking naval officer in the United States Navy and said, “Admiral, we need this to be a covert affair. We need a hunter-killer submarine to operate illegally in the UNESCO area, and it needs orders to sink that Iranian submarine the moment it detects it. A surface engagement just won’t cut it. The President doesn’t want an all-out offensive for the world to see and for Russia to fuel the flames. And we can’t be heavy-handed and break the UNESCO embargo. We hit that Iranian submarine and then we deny the shit out of it.”