by L. A. Larkin
Wolfe is feeling uneasy. Only she, Harvey and Yushkov were meant to stay on board and fly on to Punta Arenas, where they were boarding commercial flights. Why the change?
‘You think Trankov will try to steal the crates?’ Yushkov mocks. ‘I do not think so.’
Heatherton ignores him.
‘So what is going on?’ Wolfe stands in the aisle. ‘Who is telling you what to do? Your director?’
‘I can’t go into it, Olivia.’
‘So the samples are going by ship without you? You’re prepared to hand over everything you’ve worked for to complete strangers? I don’t believe it,’ she persists.
Sinclair is quivering with rage. ‘Mike, for God’s sake! We’ve been to hell and back to prove subglacial life exists. And now we’ve finally got it, you’re going to let others examine it?’
Heatherton drags his palm across his face, wiping away perspiration. ‘The samples are staying with us. All right?’
‘What?’ Toby’s jaw drops.
Whetton comes out of the cockpit and unlocks the side door. As it opens outwards, a gush of cold air enters the aircraft and a man in orange high-vis overalls wheels some steps up to the exit.
‘Refuelling should only take twenty minutes or so,’ the pilot says before skipping down the steps.
‘Everyone, please sit down,’ says Matthews.
‘No way,’ Wolfe says, moving down the narrow aisle. ‘I want to know exactly where I’m going and on whose orders.’
Matthews and Heatherton glance at each other.
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake!’ Price snaps from her seat, her exasperation obvious. ‘You can at least tell them we’re flying to Mount Pleasant. At low altitude all the way.’ Price stands and gives a horrified Sinclair a reassuring smile. ‘Don’t worry, Toby. I won’t let anything happen to our babies.’
Mollified, Sinclair sits, but Wolfe isn’t so easily won over.
‘Is this because our cargo is dangerous?’ she asks Heatherton.
He looks down, avoiding her gaze. ‘We’re taking a few extra precautions, that’s all.’
She doesn’t believe him. ‘Why the Falklands? Mount Pleasant is an RAF base.’
‘Olivia, please,’ says Heatherton. ‘We don’t even know what’ll happen when we get there. These orders have come from the very highest level.’
‘How high?’
‘The Home Office.’
24
The Falkland Islands
Windswept, desolate and rocky, the sub-Antarctic Falkland Islands are not for the faint-hearted. Through the Twin Otter’s small window, Wolfe sees moss-green mountains, coastlines strewn with boulders and boggy lowlands devoid of habitation.
‘Approaching Mount Pleasant,’ announces the pilot. ‘Buckle up.’
The RAF air base is in the middle of nowhere, near a mountainous area suitably named No Man’s Land. Surrounding the base is flat, boggy, open land, with only a smattering of lakes and access roads to break up the featureless terrain. Port Stanley, where most of the island’s three thousand inhabitants live, is thirty miles away, and from what Wolfe can see from the plane’s cabin, it might as well be thirty thousand miles away. But the air base has its own community of two thousand troops and a small military town of housing, shops and sporting facilities. Closer now, Wolfe spots two Sea King helicopters on the tarmac, not far from a series of huge khaki green aircraft hangars. The Voyager K2 air-to-air tanker is nowhere to be seen, nor are four Eurofighter Typhoons - either in the skies or the hangars, she guesses.
In contrast to the Rothera landing, this one is a breeze. They taxi towards the hangars on smooth asphalt. The cabin is quiet, faces anxious. Sinclair has a hand under his chin and his fingers tap his cheek nervously. Harvey is cleaning his glasses for the fourth time. Ahead, Price’s head snaps from side to side, desperate to see what is happening outside. The plane heads for the biggest hangar, built to take the air-to-air tanker with its sixty-metre wingspan. Inside is a Lockheed C-130J ‘Hercules’ tactical transport aircraft, which fills almost a third of the space. Its hinged loading ramp at the rear of the fuselage is down and the activity surrounding it suggests it is being readied for takeoff. When she spots two men in disruptive-pattern operational uniform, carrying MP5 submachine guns, approaching the Twin Otter, she knows something is seriously wrong.
The hangar’s steel doors grind electronically to a close and the knot of apprehension in her gut twists tighter. They have been brought to one of the most isolated British military bases in the world; the classic strategy of anti-terrorist spooks wanting to interrogate a suspect away from prying eyes or, worse, make them disappear altogether. Wolfe looks down the aisle and watches Yushkov. Is this about him? She turns her gaze on the back of Heatherton’s thick mop of hair. What has Heatherton done?
Wolfe drags her backpack from under the seat in front and leans over it, ensuring Harvey, who sits to her right, can’t see what she’s doing. But Harvey looks the other way, peering through the window, seeking answers to their bewildering situation. From her wallet she removes something credit card sized. It is not a bank or membership card but a tiny stainless steel tool kit for picking locks, which looks like a rectangular pattern of metal holes until you snap off the lock-pick device you need. It contains a ball pick, a hybrid feeler pick, a tension wrench that can also be used as a handcuff shim pick, and a diamond pick. She pushes it inside the cuff of her jacket. Up the other sleeve she shoves her plastic knife, safely sheathed. She’s not taking any chances.
The pilot kills the engines and then scrambles to open the side door. Heatherton grabs Whetton’s arm.
‘What’s happening, Doug?’
‘Haven’t got a clue. Been told to open the door and wait for further instructions.’
As soon as the door is open, two men in red berets, their batons extended, enter the cabin. On the arm of their khaki uniforms is the unmistakable insignia of the Royal Military Police: the initials MP on a red background.
‘Are you Vitaly Yushkov?’ asks one of the officers.
‘I am.’
‘Undo your seatbelt. Then put your hands on your head. Nice and slow.’
So that’s why the pilot directed Yushkov to seat 2A. Vitaly nods, as if he’s expected this, and stands, hands raised above his head, leaning forward because of the low-ceilinged cabin.
‘Everyone else, please stay seated.’
‘I don’t believe it,’ Wolfe says to herself.
Why doesn’t Heatherton object, or Matthews or Sinclair? Instead, they watch in silence.
‘Turn around,’ orders the officer.
‘Will somebody please say something,’ Wolfe says aloud.
Yushkov turns to face the tail section. He may appear calm, but his jaw is clenched and his eyes cold with fury. An officer grabs his hands, drags them behind his back and handcuffs him.
Wolfe can’t stand it any longer. She undoes her seatbelt and gets up.
‘Where are you taking him?’
‘That’s need to know, ma’am. Let us do our job.’
‘But he’s a British civilian. You’re military police. You have no right to do this.’
The tension in Yushkov’s face dissipates for a moment as he smiles a thank you. It’s little more than a creasing of the eyes and the mouth, but it conveys genuine warmth.
‘I have done nothing wrong, so I have nothing to fear,’ says Yushkov.
‘Bullshit!’ says Wolfe. ‘Too many innocent people have disappeared under extraordinary rendition, just like this. I repeat, Yushkov is a civilian.’
‘And under Section 24(A) of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act 1984, we can arrest any person we have reasonable grounds to believe is committing, or has committed, an indictable offence.’
‘What offence?’
‘I’m not at liberty to say.’
Wolfe moves down the aisle.
‘Stay where you are, ma’am,’ the second officer commands, raising his MP5.
‘What offence?’ she d
emands.
‘Olivia, it is okay. I go willingly.’
‘Sit down, ma’am. Now!’
Between her and Yushkov stands one of the arresting officers. The other military policeman steers Yushkov out of the plane.
‘Michael, why don’t you say something?’ she says.
Heatherton shrugs helplessly, ‘What can I do?’
‘Anybody?’ she asks. ‘He’s your friend. This is wrong.’
Price grabs Heatherton’s arm. ‘Dear God, Michael! What on earth have you done?’
A stocky man with a crew cut, in grey suit and a long, black woollen coat that looks totally out of place on a military base enters the cabin. He moves casually, chewing gum, hands in pockets, as if Yushkov’s arrest is boringly everyday.
‘You?’ says Wolfe, taken aback.
‘Good to see you too, Olivia,’ he says, giving her a nod. He addresses the whole group. ‘Listen up, everybody. I am Detective Chief Inspector Casburn from Counter Terrorism Command.’
There are rumbles of surprise throughout the cabin as the passengers digest this information.
‘This officer,’ Casburn says, looking at the man hovering in the doorway, ‘is agent Nic Flynn.’
He’s been followed by a man in his late twenties, also in civilian clothes, but his are all about blending into the background: jeans, sweatshirt, olive green zip-up jacket with hood, with scruffy black shoulder-length hair and dark, watchful eyes. Wolfe recognises a spook when she sees one. MI5, probably, and almost certainly not named Nic Flynn.
‘We have reason to believe that Kevin Knox was murdered. To further our investigation you’ll all be interviewed.’
Heatherton pipes up. ‘You think Vitaly did it?’
Wolfe detects a hint of self-satisfaction in his tone and it sickens her.
‘Yushkov will be questioned, as will all of you.’
‘So he’s not under arrest?’ she asks.
‘Don’t interfere, Ms Wolfe.’
‘Why’s SO15 involved?’
‘You don’t really expect me to answer that.’
‘I thought you were searching for—’
Casburn gives Wolfe a warning look and she stops herself just in time. So whatever is going down here is more critical than finding Kabir Khan.
‘Because of your special cargo,’ announces Casburn, ‘you are being flown direct to Brize Norton. You’ll board an RAF Hercules and your statements will be taken on board. We have clearance to fly at low altitude. Dr Heatherton and Dr Matthews, please come with me. I imagine you would like to supervise handling of the crates.’
‘Yes, certainly would,’ says Heatherton, but hesitates before he undoes his seatbelt. ‘Now?’
‘Yes, please go with Nic. Your bags and equipment will be transferred across too.’
As Heatherton and Matthews head for the exit, Price stands up.
‘And what about me?’ she demands. ‘I’m Dr Stacy Price, senior sediment scientist. I must be with the canisters at all times.’
‘Of course, Dr Price. Please go with Nic.’
Wolfe watches the three scientists leave. Sinclair clutches his scruffy daypack to his chest as he stands. He’s trembling. A tiny bear dangling from the bag’s handle jiggles.
‘And me?’ he squawks, barely able to speak. ‘I . . . I’m T . . . Toby Sinclair. Environmental microbiologist.’
‘I’m sure three supervisors are enough, sir. All the rest of you, please come with me. There’s food and drink on board. You’ll be quite comfortable.’
Wolfe slings her backpack over her shoulder and charges down the aisle. She grabs Casburn’s shoulder as he turns to leave.
‘Dan, what are you doing here?’
‘My job, Olivia.’
‘Which is?’
He tilts his head and stares hard into her eyes. ‘Investigating the murder of a British subject overseas.’
‘Don’t give me that flannel! You’re counter-terrorism.’
‘Keep moving, Ms Wolfe, you’re blocking the way.’
She steps aside to let the others leave and watches them cross the hangar’s floor and board the Hercules. She and Casburn are the last to exit the Twin Otter.
‘It’s about the bacteria, isn’t it?’
‘Time to move, Olivia. We’re on a tight schedule.’
As Wolfe reluctantly leaves the BAS plane, the Hercules’s engines roar into life. She spots the RAF circles of blue, white and red at the tail end and the back is open as the wooden crates are loaded into the cargo hold. Her path from the Twin Otter to the Hercules is hemmed in by two rows of armed military personnel. Wolfe stops.
‘And Vitaly? Please tell me you’re not leaving him here.’
Casburn jerks his hand towards the Hercules, his irritation beginning to show. Wolfe reluctantly walks on. He escorts her.
‘Are you taking him to another county?’ Where torture is normal interrogation practice.
Casburn chews his Nicorette loudly and doesn’t answer.
‘Yushkov saved my life.’ She stops, unsure how much of the conversation between Yushkov and Grankin she should tell him. Will he then suspect Yushkov is being blackmailed by the Russian SVR? ‘If there’s a killer amongst us, I don’t believe it’s him.’
Her voice trails away as she notices men in camouflage gear, carrying heavy packs and M16s, jogging over to the same Twin Otter she’s just vacated. The small plane is being refuelled and a new pilot is already doing a pre-flight inspection.
‘Where’s the SAS going in a British Antarctic Survey plane?’
Tight-lipped, Casburn shakes his head.
‘Are they going to Camp Ellsworth?’
His expression doesn’t alter but he lifts his chin slightly, as if somebody standing just behind her has made eye contact. Finally, she’s found his tell.
Wolfe has her answer.
25
RAF Brize Norton
Vitaly Yushkov is not on the RAF Hercules. Nor are Casburn and Flynn. After an eighteen-hour flight, with one stopover for refuelling on Ascension Island, a gruelling police interview, and several fruitless attempts to extract information on Yushkov from the officers on board, Wolfe just wants to go home, take a shower and sleep. But she knows she has a story to write. Unless she can engender a public outcry, she fears Vitaly Yushkov may never be heard of again.
It is dark when they land at RAF Brize Norton, Oxfordshire. Wolfe and Harvey are escorted across rain-soaked tarmac to a silver BMW saloon, inside of which sits a plain-clothed officer who will drive them home. He doesn’t need their addresses; he knows where they live. Wolfe watches Heatherton, Matthews, Sinclair and Price wearily climb into a mini-van for their journey to Cambridge. The samples are in a transit van, accompanied by two plain-clothed officers, heading for the Clinical Microbiology and Public Health Laboratory in Cambridge. Her mobile rings: it’s Casburn.
‘I’m asking you nicely not to make public Yushkov’s detention or the escort you’ve just received.’
‘I didn’t sign the non-disclosure agreement,’ Wolfe says. The scientists with her on the flight caved and signed.
‘If you want my help in future, it would be wise to co-operate with me now.’
‘I can’t do what you ask.’
‘Don’t make me your enemy, Olivia.’
The threat is clear. She swallows.
‘Why are you holding a civilian at an overseas military base?’
Casburn sighs. ‘Moz will hear from us.’
‘Moz will back me.’ She barely takes a breath. ‘Does Yushkov have a lawyer? He has the right to legal representation.’
Casburn snorts. ‘Yushkov’s really got under your skin, hasn’t he? Tell me, Olivia, is it his rights you’re interested in, or have you fallen for the Russian’s biceps?’
‘A cheap shot, Dan, even for you.’
He cuts her off.
Harvey leans close to her in the back of the car. ‘I didn’t sign it either. The Beeb can deal with legalities. The story’s too bl
oody good.’ He counts on his fingers. ‘Treason, espionage, murder by a former Russian. This is the career break I’ve been waiting for.’
‘You assume Vitaly is guilty. He may be innocent.’
‘Well, the police obviously think he is. That’s good enough for me.’
‘How did they get a gag order so fast?’ Wolfe paces up and down Cohen’s over-heated office. ‘Wake up a judge?’
She hasn’t been home yet. She asked the driver to take her straight to the Post in King’s Cross and called an emergency meeting with Cohen and Negus, their general counsel.
‘That’s exactly what Counter Terrorism Command has done,’ says Margaret Negus, nodding, her centre-parted mousy hair so fine Wolfe can see her pink scalp. ‘Which means that whatever they suspect Yushkov has done, or was planning to do, it must be pretty serious.’
Negus might look like the cliché of a spinster librarian in her black round-neck cashmere sweater, pearls, and her grey wool skirt and wire-rimmed glasses, but she is tougher than old boots. She’s got Wolfe out of tricky lawsuits in the past and Wolfe trusts her judgement.
‘On what grounds?’ Cohen asks, slapping his palms down on the desk.
‘A threat to national security.’
‘That old chestnut,’ mutters Cohen.
‘How restrictive is the order?’ Wolfe asks.
‘Very. We can’t publish anything about Yushkov’s detainment, your escort to the UK, or what you saw at Mount Pleasant, which includes the SAS boarding a BAS plane,’ Negus replies.
‘Sheesh!’ says Cohen. ‘And the BBC?’
‘The same,’ Negus says.
‘So, no story,’ says Wolfe, folding her arms and leaning against Cohen’s desk. ‘It must be big, though, otherwise why interrogate him overseas?’
‘The Falklands are British territory, so if Yushkov is still there, he’s technically on British soil,’ Negus points out. ‘But I get your point. They won’t be scrutinised in quite the same way as if they held him here.’
‘I’ve tried to find out where he’s being held - the Foreign Office, Home Office, Ministry of Defence, SO15, RAF. Nothing. I’m being stonewalled.’