In the car park she watched Baxter walk unsteadily to his car and fumble in his pocket, and then she heard a metallic clink as his keys fell to the ground and heard him grunt as he bent down to find them. ‘Hi Laurence, are you ok?’ she called out.
He looked around and gave her a bleary grin. ‘Oh, hi Emily. Just dropped m’keys; they’re round here somewhere.’ He stared vaguely about, then leant against the car and groaned.
‘You’re in no state to drive,’ Gerry declared. ‘Look I’ll take you home.’ She bent down and found his keys under the adjacent car.
‘Thass great; give’m me; m’ok really.’
‘I’ll give them back to you when we get to your place. Now get in my car.’ After a couple of minute’s effort she had the drunken man slumped in the passenger seat of her borrowed car. ‘So where do you live?’ Gerry asked.
‘Take the First Ring Road’, he mumbled.
‘Ok,’ Gerry replied and set off towards his apartment. She was fully aware of its location having already spent several hours searching through it when Baxter was at work. Years ago her service would be worried about an individual such as Baxter revealing military secrets to the communist bloc, but now Gerry was merely ensuring that her country’s exports of military equipment to the Gulf States were not being jeopardised.
‘Maybe you’d better call Sandy, tell her you’ll be home soon,’ she suggested.
‘Still be at Canadian…Canadian embassy party I’spect.’
Through her contact in the Canadian embassy, Gerry knew that Lyudmila Yakutina also known as Sandy Dempster had left two hours ago.
‘She’s a lovely girl, Sandy. Have you known her long?’ she asked.
‘Bout six months.’ That was accurate. From the selection of women’s clothing in Baxter’s apartment Gerry also knew that Yakutina often spent the night there.
‘I wonder how many generations of her family have been in Canada. She looks sort of Ukrainian I reckon. Long blonde hair. She looks like one of those tennis players. You know the Russian ones. Maybe her family’s from Russia…originally.’
‘Er…I d’know. She’s from Toronto,’ Baxter mumbled. He looked around and recognised where they were. ‘S’next right.’
Gerry pulled up beside the small apartment block. Baxter climbed out and fumbled for his keys.
‘I’ve got them, remember?’ said Gerry rattling them in front of his face. He grinned at her and then took them.
‘Thanks for the lift,’ he said, ‘I’ll be alright now.’
‘I need to use your bathroom, if you don’t mind,’ said Gerry.
‘Oh! Well come on in then.’
She followed him up the stairs to the large, three bedroomed first floor apartment provided at the UK taxpayers’ expense.
‘You’re late!’ snapped a woman’s voice in a Canadian accent, and as she followed him through the door Gerry recognised the blonde haired attractive woman, aged about thirty who had jumped up from her seat. ‘Oh!’ she added when she saw Gerry just behind Baxter.
‘Hello, Happy New Year! Delighted to meet you,’ Gerry called out and noted the woman’s mouth about to form some words but then her expression changed from a curious frown, to a forced smile and she said ‘Happy New Year!’ in return.
‘I’m Emily Stevens, a colleague of Laurence’s,’ Gerry continued. ‘He’s a bit pissed so I brought him home. You must be Sandy.’
‘Yuh I’m Sandy,’ she replied. ‘Thanks for bringing him back.’ She had recovered her poise but still Gerry saw the suspicion on her face. Laurence staggered towards her and Gerry noted her recoiling from his clumsy embrace.
‘I need to use your bathroom please,’ said Gerry.
‘Through there,’ Yakutina said waving towards an archway.
‘Thanks,’ said Gerry.
She went through, took a much needed pee, washed her hands and then from her handbag she took out her Glock automatic, gave it a quick once over and then did the same with her Taser. Then she walked quietly back in with her hand inside her bag clutching the Glock. She relaxed when she saw Laurence slumped in an armchair and Yakutina bringing in a tray with three cups, a jug and a sugar bowl on it.
‘I’m making us all some coffee,’ she said with a big smile for Gerry. ‘Laurence could certainly use one anyway.’
‘Me too,’ Gerry agreed enthusiastically. ‘So Sandy, what brings you out to Kuwait?’
‘I work for Bombardier, the Canadian aerospace company. We’re hoping to supply new training aircraft to the Air Force here. How about you?’
‘I’m in foreign aid,’ Gerry replied.
‘Huh? You’re not telling me the Brits are giving the Kuwaitis financial aid are you?’
‘No, I’m trying to persuade them to give it to African countries,’ Gerry replied, ‘then we won’t have to.’
‘Ah, I get it,’ she nodded.
‘So you’re in the same line as Laurence. He’s the commercial guy helping British Aerospace out here.’
‘Yes that’s right,’ Yakutina replied. ‘I expect the coffee’s ready.’ She returned to the kitchen.
Gerry turned to Laurence. ‘How are you feeling?’ she asked.
He stared past her with a look of amazement. ‘Fucking hell!’ he said.
This non sequitur aroused sudden suspicion. Gerry whirled round and was shocked to see Yakutina walk back in with a Russian P96 pistol aimed at her. The Russian was obviously expecting Gerry to cower at the sight of it, but instead she threw herself behind the sofa. She heard the sharp crack as Yakutina fired the pistol. Shit, was the woman really trying to kill her? She was just an industrial espionage agent wasn’t she? Gerry took her Glock out her handbag and rolled sideways and fired two quick shots at the Russian’s feet. One at least hit her because there was a spray of blood and she screamed, then she dropped her gun and collapsed to the floor clutching at her foot.
Gerry stood up and pulled the cloth off a small table. ‘Apply pressure with that.’ She ordered. The woman sat up, grabbed the cloth and pressed it to her ankle moaning in pain. She looked up with hatred at Gerry and muttered something in Russian.
‘You should be grateful,’ Gerry stated. ‘Seems you’ve had a flesh wound rather than a broken ankle joint.’
‘What the hell is happening here?’ demanded Baxter who had jumped to his feet and was sobering up with the assistance of a rush of adrenaline.
‘Your girlfriend is Lyudmila Yakutina of the Russian Federal Security Service. You’ve been passing her secrets for the last six months.’
‘What? She works for Bombardier, the Canadian company,’ Baxter insisted, astounded.’
‘So why did she try to shoot me just now, you bone-headed moron,’ said Gerry. ‘Yakutina is an industrial spy. At first we thought that perhaps the two of you were up to something more serious, but my investigation just showed that you were some poor fool who wanted to get his leg over and this woman was prepared to put up with you to further her own career.’
Baxter stared at Yakutina, then back at Gerry and swallowed. ‘So what happens now?’
‘I’m going to call the Embassy, get you out under diplomatic immunity. Then I expect you’ll be flown home and unceremoniously booted out from the FCO without references. I doubt you’ll be prosecuted.’
‘What about her?’ He turned a hate filled gaze on the Russian woman.
‘I’ll call the Kuwaiti police.’ She spoke to Yakutina in Russian. ‘You don’t have diplomatic immunity, do you Lyudmila?’
‘You bloody bitch,’ Baxter shouted at Yakutina. ‘You’ve ruined my career!’ His voice shook with drunken anger.
‘Shut up you idiot!’ said Gerry. ‘I saw a first aid kit in the bathroom. Go and get it.’ Gerry knelt down beside the Russian women. ‘Take the cloth away; let me see how bad it is.’
The Russian suddenly looked past her and screamed just as a shot hit her in the chest and knocked her backwards. Gerry whirled round awkwardly and saw Baxter’s unsteady hand now trying to aim Yakuti
na’s P96 towards her. She tried to shoot him in the shoulder but in her hurry she missed her aim. He fell back with his arms flung wide, the front of his chest turning red and she guessed she had hit his heart. She slowly lowered her Glock and stared at the carnage around her.
‘Oh shit have I fucked up,’ she muttered to herself. She felt unsuccessfully for a neck pulse in the Russian women, and caught a strong smell of spirits; perhaps the woman had been drunk, which might explain her aggression. Gerry sat down on a chair and stared at the two corpses and mulled over the possibilities. She wiped her fingerprints from the Glock and placed it in the dead Russian’s hand. Then she gazed round the apartment thinking where she might have left any other signs of her presence. Three cups on the tray; she put one back in the kitchen. She returned to the bathroom and carefully wiped anything she might have touched with a small hand towel which she then stuffed in her bag. She found another towel in the cupboard and placed it on the rail, gazed around once more then shook her head and left.
Eight hours later back at the Embassy she filed an inaccurate report that described how Laurence Baxter and Lyudmila Yakutina had shot each other in a drunken encounter after Gerry had revealed to Baxter that his girlfriend was a Russian agent and that he would be sent back home in disgrace. She had left out the fact that she was present at the incident, but said that she had attended the scene at the request of the Kuwaiti police as Baxter was an accredited diplomat. She emphasised how her knowledge of Arabic had helped to keep the situation under wraps and that the Russian official who was also invited to the scene seemed happy with the explanation of events and she was hopeful that it would be kept quiet.
Half an hour later she received an order to return to London to file a further report in person. She booked a seat on the following evening’s British Airways flight and decided to drive back to her hotel. As she entered the lobby she saw a man get up from an armchair and walk quickly towards her. She decided he was unlikely to be a threat because nobody menacing her would step forward in plain view and she doubted that she would encounter a Russian heavy bent on revenge in a Kuwait city hotel with video surveillance of the public areas.
As he drew close she realised he was an Arab. He was wearing grey trousers, a white shirt and a black leather jacket. He was middle aged, at least fifty years old and comfortably overweight without being excessively fat; clearly not physically trained. He had short wavy hair and a big untrimmed moustache. ‘Good evening Miss Geraldine Tate,’ the man spoke quietly in Arabic. ‘I wonder if I might speak with you. My name is Hakim Mansour.’ Gerry was amazed that the man knew her name and she stopped and stared at him; she was formulating a response in Arabic when the man made a further request.
‘I wonder if you could arrange to take me for me a most urgent meeting with Sir Hugh Fielding.’
Gerry’s stare turned to an expression of bewilderment. Fielding was the director of executive operations in the UK intelligence service and her ultimate boss, and now this unknown Iraqi was requesting an appointment as if he was an old acquaintance.
Forty eight hours later Gerry Tate and Hakim Mansour were sitting in a BAe 125 executive jet operated by the Royal Air Force for the UK government as it approached the runway at Frankfurt airport. A third person had joined them whom Mansour had introduced as Ali Hamsin. ‘He is my translator and an old friend,’ Mansour explained. ‘My English is not so good so I bring him along just to be sure we all understand each other.’
The aircraft turned off the runway to the south and taxied into the United States Air Force base where it parked alongside a grander Gulfstream executive jet. One of the pilots came out of the 125 flight deck and beckoned Gerry forward. ‘See that building next to the hangar, Emily? You’re to go over there.’
‘Ok thanks for the ride Jack. I don’t know how long this’ll take; probably a couple of hours.’
‘We’ll be waiting.’
Despite being virtually on American territory, Gerry felt a curious sense of exposure as she walked ahead of Mansour and Hamsin across the deserted apron under the bright floodlights and she shivered in the freezing wind. Just before they reached the door, it was opened by a bearded man wearing a thick hooded parka. The dim interior light illuminated a corridor. ‘Second door on the right, sir, ma’am,’ was all he said.
Gerry looked back at Mansour who appeared to be perfectly at ease. She walked between the bare walls and opened the door which led to a room furnished with four armchairs, a conference table on which lay a computer and two telephones. One of the seats was occupied by Sir Hugh Fielding, Deputy Director of MI6. In another seat lounged a tall man with greying blonde hair who was plainly an American. Both of them climbed to their feet as the door opened. ‘Hakim Mansour, good morning, how are you?’ asked the American.
‘Pleased to see you again gentlemen,’ Mansour said in his heavily accented English, smiling under his thick moustache. ‘You remember Ali Hamsin, General?’
‘Yes indeed.’ They shook hands all round.
‘That will be all for the moment, thank you Geraldine,’ Fielding said, giving her a glance.
She left the room wondering what to make of Sir Hugh Fielding using her first name, albeit without being aware that nobody in her life called her anything but Gerry, except of course her parents. She wandered back outside.
‘Can I give you a cigarette?’ asked the American who had opened the door for them. He had thrown back his hood revealing a mop of dark hair that merged with his beard. The only features Gerry could make out were a straight nose and eyes which appeared black under the harsh flood lighting. Gerry did not smoke but was happy to accept a cigarette for social purposes. The hand that offered her the open packet and then took a lighter from a pocket had thick fingers that somehow suggested that a powerful frame lay beneath the jacket.
‘Thanks.’ Gerry drew on the cigarette but avoided inhaling it into her lungs. ‘Who’s the guy in with my boss? I presume he’s your boss?’
‘That’s the General.’
‘Ah…the General,’ Gerry replied, nodding sagely. ‘Well I’m pretty good with faces so later on I should be able to pick him out of the possible two hundred and thirty active army generals, or sixty marine generals; he doesn’t look Air Force. I think I’d probably start with the Marines, but maybe I’d have to go to the retired list.’
The American grinned through his heavy beard. ‘I guess I could save you the trouble. General Robert Bruckner, US Marines retired. And I’m Dean Furness.’ He held out his hand and Gerry shook it. ‘Emily Stevens.’
‘Your boss called you Geraldine.’
‘So he did; he’s always mixing up names.’
‘Ok. Pleased to meet you, Emily. Who are these guys you brought with you?’
‘The older one is Hakim Mansour; he’s somewhere in the Iraqi hierarchy, but I don’t know how high up he is. The other guy Ali Hamsin was introduced as a translator, but he could really be their chief of military intelligence for all I know. I received strict instructions not to question them during the journey.’
In fact Gerry had learnt that Hakim Mansour was a senior member of the Iraqi ruling elite, and Ali Hamsin was a graduate of Exeter University. He was fluent in English and French as well as his native language; he was married to Tabitha and had a daughter called Farrah and a son named Rashid who was at university in England but she saw no reason to divulge any such information to this guy Dean Furness, no matter how many cigarettes they smoked together. They exchanged small talk for a couple of minutes, and then began to discuss the prospects of an invasion, both concluding that their countries’ leaders were determined to turn Saddam Hussein out of power notwithstanding any compromises that he might make at this late stage. Having achieved a meeting of minds they lapsed into silence.
‘Another cigarette?’ Furness suggested.
‘No thanks. I could do with a coffee, though. I’ve hardly slept in the last thirty six hours, and I’m getting a bit cold.’
‘I wish we could’
ve stayed on board the airplane.’ He nodded towards the Gulfstream jet which emitted a high pitch drone from its auxiliary power unit that kept it supplied with electricity and air conditioned comfort whilst it sat on the apron. ‘They’ve probably got a full galley in there.’
‘I’ll bet there’s something in this building, though,’ said Gerry.
They went inside and found a room with a set of chairs arranged for a briefing around a desk equipped with an overhead projector. ‘Nothing here; let’s try the next door.’
The next door was locked but without any comment Gerry pulled out a key ring and selected a notched metal probe. She inserted it into the lock and a few seconds later the door clicked open. ‘Let’s hope there’s some milk in that fridge,’ she said marching across the room.
Forty minutes later both of them were fighting off fatigue by sipping their second cups of coffee and reading some confidential US Air Force memos and Playboy magazines that Dean had removed from a cupboard. On finding them Gerry had seen his hand hover over them for a moment and then he ignored them. She supposed that this was out of some vague notion of politeness so without saying anything she picked one up herself and handed another one to him. He had cast a couple of sidelong glances at her as she flicked through the pages and she wondered idly if he thought she might be gay.
‘Dean Furness, front and centre!’ came a muffled shout. They stuffed the memos and magazines back in the desk and hurried to the makeshift conference room.
‘Ah, Geraldine; Mr Mansour and Mr Hamsin are returning to Kuwait, and then you’ll see them safely over the border back to Iraq. You won’t ask them any questions. Is that understood?’
‘Of course Sir Hugh,’ she dutifully replied.
The Gilgamesh Conspiracy Page 3