Failsafe Query

by Michael Jenkins

  As he mulled over his presence, Sean sensed trouble when he stepped out of the shadows. The hairs on the back of his neck gave him an overwhelming sensation, strong enough to taste, that danger was present – a sensation he had honed after years of living right on the edge. His sixth sense kicked in as he glanced over his shoulder and saw the shadows grow closer to him. It took a split second for him to realise the danger to his life. And to the person he had hidden in the flat.

  ‘Shit,’ he muttered under his breath, turning to confront the approaching men. His eyes were drawn to the pistol in the hand of the smaller man, low down close to his thigh, and shadowed from the incandescent light behind. He heard the sirens of police cars in the distance, tossed his cigarette away and shrugged his shoulders. In that split second, the sounds around him waned, his breathing calmed and a vacuum of air exploded as he instantaneously made a half turn and crouch, drew the Glock from the back of his jeans and fired a double tap of nine-millimetre rounds straight into the chest of his immediate adversary.

  Sean hit the ground. His eyes focused on the second man, whose muscles and body appeared freeze-framed. He fired another two rounds, which pierced the man’s neck. The cordite lingered in the air, a pleasurable smell for Sean, and he rolled over, sprang to his feet and fired another double tap of rounds into the twitching body. He glanced behind before setting his eyes on the half-glazed double doors providing quick passage to the safe house where the General was hidden. He ran with detonating speed to the doorway, knowing the chasing men would be on them both quickly. Death was coming – he felt his leather bomber jacket ride up his back as the air swelled around his frame, eyes firmly fixed on that door handle – every second was vital as he ran, and ran. He heard the crack, thump and sharp piercing whistle in the air as the first shot went straight through his jacket collar, before ricocheting off the wall. A second round crashed through the window. Sean hit the ground, slammed the door shut, bolted it at mid-level and crawled rapidly to the ground-floor flat located immediately behind the far staircase.

  His heart was pumping as he squatted down, moving quickly to the entrance door and imagining his next moves – exactly as he had rehearsed many times before to ensure he was fully prepared in the event of compromise. He placed the key firmly in the lock, twisted it, opened the door and shouted to the General at the top of his voice in Russian and English:

  ‘Poydem, Poydem. Get out, Get out!’

  Unhesitatingly, and acting on the prompt, the General burst into the kitchen and out onto the veranda, initiating the well-rehearsed escape plan.

  Sean pulled the green dual-core wire that held a small stainless-steel pin. It detached itself from the white box fixed to the wall in the entrance hall, the green light flashed and Sean felt a sense of relief as the victim-operated improvised explosive device armed its electrical circuit. The peroxide-based explosives he had mixed were contained in a three-inch projectile that would shower the torso of anyone initiating the pressure mat with searing blades of copper fragments.

  Sean sprinted to the kitchen through the external door to the veranda and jumped straight into the square manhole, before lowering himself to the concrete floor of the large power duct below. A quick grapple with the manhole cover saw it click sweetly into place as he simultaneously grabbed the head torch hanging on a hook next to his shoulder. He slipped the torch over his head and, in a crouched position, looked up to grab the kernmantle rope, pulled it down to below his feet and clipped it to a silver ring on top of the small box of explosives that was rigged with a high-explosive detonator. He had primed the booby trap to make sure anyone opening the manhole cover would be showered with ball bearings from the explosion, which would simultaneously collapse the walls of the tunnel.

  He made a final adjustment to the rope, ensured it was fully tense, turned and followed the General’s route down the narrow tunnel of the power duct on his hands and knees. He was now a third of the way down the tunnel, swatting the odd rat out of his way as he made progress, and sweating profusely. He then heard the thunderous explosion behind him.

  Sean pictured the person who had doubtless stepped on the large doormat when entering the flat, which concealed the pressure plate below it. He expected that they were either dead or writhing in agony from the burning copper and blast wave they had initiated as they entered the flat.

  Grimacing, Sean made his way to the end of the tunnel and climbed out of the exit into the moonlit park situated some distance across the road from the decrepit complex of flats.

  He pulled out a transmitter from his sleeve pocket, pressed the small embossed button and looked into the dim and dark distance at the police activity and flashing blue lights next to the complex of flats they had escaped from. A wry smile spread across his rugged face as he saw the flash and heard the bang of the initial explosion and then watched as the ensuing fire took hold of the flat they had left. The incendiary devices had worked a treat.

  Sean looked to check the General was safe and in one piece. He was a senior Uzbek Army general and a prime intelligence source that Sean was recruiting. A man of vital significance to his mission.

  The General stood up, brushed himself down and patted Sean on the back. They retreated into the woods.

  Chapter 2

  Almaty, Kazakhstan, 2001

  Cold dark shadows everywhere. Moonlight sparkling on the mountain ice. Almaty’s glacial backdrop of the Tien Shan mountains cast a mysterious aurora above the city that night. Sean glanced at the snow-clad peaks high above the canopy of the grey suburban streets, pulled the door shut and turned the iron key twice. He checked its resistance.

  Mist in the lane. Bitter cold in the air. Sean stood cautiously in the shadows, having showered and changed into a casual suit, ready for an appointment he would rather not have to fulfil. He wondered who had targeted him that day, who this next adversary was and reflected on how a change of job and fortune had led him to this curious part of the world, on a very odd mission, with General Yuri. He knew it had been a very close call that afternoon and that someone was onto him and General Yuri.

  Satisfied he had secured the General after their narrow escape, Sean waved to the taxi as it gradually appeared through the early evening fog and made his way to the British Embassy house on the outskirts of the city. Despite his clandestine mission to nurture his very senior Uzbekistan Army intelligence source, he had awkwardly been invited by the Embassy staff to the house of the Defence Attaché.

  Sean had travelled the world extensively in his role as a British intelligence officer. He was athletic, slightly tanned, adorned with slightly greying wavy brown hair, now in its long mode in a ponytail, and had the rugged features of an outdoor man. He was a tough, no-nonsense operator with a blend of charm and guile to suit his quiet but determined persona. Highly skilled, adept, harnessing a fierce loyalty and with talented spy tradecraft, he was quick-witted and comfortable amongst different people, cultures, languages and customs, and with the hidden perils his service brought.

  This was different though – he was distinctly uncomfortable and wary of his new surroundings behind what was once the Iron Curtain. What made it precarious was that he was conducting a deniable operation, leaving him to the mercy of the secret police if he was caught. There would be no British Embassy sponsorship or diplomatic saving grace here.

  Sean was introduced to Graham Morris, the Defence Attaché, a large man with short grey flecks of hair, who was wearing a cavalry officer tie.

  ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sean.’

  ‘You too, Graham,’ Sean said as they shook hands.

  ‘It’s a strained time for us all at the moment,’ Graham began. ‘Especially with the relative unknown of what our American friends will do next. I have a funny feeling it could get rather busy over here.’

  ‘I think you’re exactly right,’ Sean said assuredly. ‘This is probably the beginning of an awkward time for us all over the next year or so – it could get very fruity.’

&n
bsp; ‘And all the rumours suggest Afghanistan and the other ’stans will become the focus for us now?’ Graham smiled, having posed his rhetorical suggestion.

  Sean paused and took a sip of his Georgian red wine. ‘In truth, it all looks pretty ominous now that the US Secretary of State has said he wants regime change in Afghanistan and the Middle East.’

  They talked of the rumours and Sean continued to provide a nuanced appraisal of the geopolitical and military activity happening in Washington and London after 9/11.

  ‘So, what brings you all the way over to Kazakhstan then?’ Graham asked.

  Sean, dressed in a tailor-fitted light grey suit and white shirt with navy blue tie, had prepared his responses before this moment, knowing it would come. He took a caviar blini from the Kazakh waitress stood at his side and answered, enjoying the company of senior Embassy staff.

  ‘I’m passing through Almaty and onwards to Tashkent, so I thought I’d grab the chance to visit the Embassy staff and get a few briefings here before I meet up with your opposite number in Uzbekistan.’

  ‘Sounds very sensible, Sean.’

  ‘I need to know the ground and the situation over here better. Get more streetwise, so to speak,’ Sean said. ‘Jon Bellingham in Moscow suggested I ought to make a quick visit to catch up with you guys on local and regional matters.’

  Sean could see in Graham’s eyes that he wanted to ask more about his mission – knowing full well that Graham understood military protocol by not asking too deeply about another officer’s mission and intent. It was unwritten military etiquette not to probe too intently with those who might be working on sensitive matters.

  ‘We always called him Jonny “Two Vests” Bellingham,’ Graham said. ‘He had an affinity for wearing two vests under his shirts in the cold Embassy offices in Moscow.’ They both laughed.

  ‘The nickname must have stuck then – he did the same at the staff college where we served together all those years ago,’ Sean said with a grin. ‘We always called him J2V for short.’

  ‘Shrivenham?’ Graham inquired.

  ‘No, we both went to staff college in Quetta.’

  ‘Quetta in Pakistan? Wonderful place. Seems you’ve had a few exotic postings in your career.’

  ‘Occasionally. And quite a few tedious ones too.’

  ‘Indeed. Just as it is tedious for me to be hauled away now to make small talk with the masses. This is quite an enjoyable discussion.’ Graham was escorted by his staff to meet some of the other dignitaries and guests for the evening.

  Sean enjoyed the social break and felt at home in such convivial settings. In his work, he was immersed in fast-paced covert operations across the globe and lived off the adrenalin of clandestine service. It was an honourable and satisfying job, despite the enemies he had made and left in his trail. There was always danger, and for the rest of his life he’d always be looking over his shoulder.

  He turned and walked a few steps to admire some of the Central Asian paintings on the long corridor wall and pondered momentarily. He reflected on the complex journey that had lulled him into this dubious deniable operation following the terrorist event of the century on 11 September 2001. It occurred to him that he was caught up in a new game of fast-moving intelligence and he had little idea of how his world might change as he began his unprotected mission across Central Asia.

  Exactly two weeks earlier, Sean had been sitting in a high-level intelligence community meeting at the MI6 headquarters at Vauxhall Cross in London. His mind drifted back to that day.

  He had raced down Whitehall, clutching a small black briefcase under his arm, and grimaced as the wind-lashed rain worked against him. He knew he would be late for the daily meeting of those involved in providing human intelligence updates to the Prime Minister and the government’s COBRA committee.

  He arrived at the meeting, made his apologies for being late and sat next to his boss, an experienced hand of fifty-two years, who was addressing the agent-running representatives of MI5, MI6 and Defence Intelligence.

  Sean normally didn’t take much notice of the GCHQ representative, who was oddly not present. But in his place at the end of the table sat an attractive female, who he assumed was in her mid-twenties, and to whom he nodded as a gesture of welcome. Sean briefly glanced at her name card in front of her. Samantha Braund. He memorised her name, then smiled wryly at the remaining souls who knew him well and passed his boss a note. The senior MI6 officer paused, scanned the note and continued to chair the meeting.

  ‘I’ll ask Sean to explain this note in a moment. In the meantime, I can’t stress enough how our particular niche specialisms are now vital to shape the Prime Minister’s next steps.’ The team were the leading officers involved in Operation Cloud-Hawk who, somewhat unusually, provided direct human intelligence to the chief of MI6 and, subsequently, the PM.

  Sean laid his briefing notes out on the table and took a sip of water as the chair continued. ‘These are high-end stakes for us all now following the 9/11 attacks and I needn’t remind you all how the Americans are spoiling for war, not just in Afghanistan but on several fronts now.’

  Sean glanced at his notes and zoomed into an area he had marked with a yellow highlighter. As well as the US plan to invade Afghanistan, the recent cross-Atlantic missive suggested that Iraq was now high on the agenda for regime change. He continued to listen to his boss, knowing full well he’d be on a plane the next day as part of a high-tempo intelligence operation needed to satisfy the strategic imperatives of the PM and the US President.

  ‘Washington and London are very concerned about weapons of mass destruction ending up in the hands of these Al-Qaeda terrorists now,’ the chair continued. ‘Especially given their previous threats to use them. Radiological and nuclear terrorism is now seen as a very prospective and catastrophic threat. I need all the teams to gather intelligence quickly on how far Al-Qaeda has gone in realising this aspiration – above and beyond what we already have. We need to be talking to every agent regularly on this and I’m expected to get something new to 10 Downing Street very soon.’

  He paused. Then he moved his chair back slightly and turned to his left. ‘So, Sean, what do you have for us?’

  ‘Well sir, the Americans are moving quickly after 9/11 and want us to collect intelligence on quite a mix of threats.’

  ‘Related to weapons of mass destruction I assume?’

  ‘Indeed sir. They’ve been very specific. And I’ll start some of this work when I arrive in Moscow tomorrow, before I move into Central Asia,’ Sean said. ‘They have substantially changed our objectives. They want us to find direct evidence that Iraq is buying special nuclear materials on the black market.’

  Sean grimaced at the change of mission and brought his mind straight back to the reality of the cocktail party at the Defence Attaché’s residence – and the paintings right in front of him.

  He had learnt much from General Yuri in the two weeks since that meeting in London, and the intelligence didn’t fit with what the Americans wanted.

  He walked along the corridor, admiring the art. He mulled over the words of his boss and the complete change of direction sanctioned by Washington and the PM.

  Why were the Americans so disorganised in their thinking? Why the speed rather than precision? Was this about conjuring up intelligence? As he pondered these questions, he became engrossed in one particular picture on the wall. He marvelled at a portrait of Sir Alexander ‘Sikunder’ Burnes, who was one of the most accomplished spies Britain had ever produced. Burnes was dispatched by the British Government when the Russian and British empires collided in Afghanistan and they needed intelligence urgently. They dispatched Burnes to get it. Burnes’ desert missions resonated with Sean.

  ‘Dark seduction of intelligence gathering,’ Sean mused. He smiled at the irony. Would his own mission harvest some of the modern-day intelligence that was now vitally needed? And what would come next from the Americans? He knew this was likely to be a long, protracted and dis
parate intelligence effort to put such a jigsaw together. More pressing for the Americans though was to close down the jihadi efforts in Afghanistan first – before taking the fight anywhere else, he thought. He felt sure this new Central Asian great game would keep him trapped for a long time.

  ‘Sean, come with me – I’d like to introduce you to someone,’ Graham said. The Defence Attaché turned and beckoned Sean to follow him across the room, past the low, square coffee table and over to the large French windows with a large balcony.

  ‘This is Dominic Atwood,’ Graham said, introducing Sean to a tall, lean man in a dark grey suit. ‘Dominic, this is Sean. He’s passing through and works in the old War Office building in the same field as you. I’m sure you both have similar business over here, so I’ll leave you chaps to have a chat. I need to welcome the British Ambassador to Russia, who is arriving shortly with my ambassador.’

  Although they didn’t talk about the sensitive and classified work they were conducting separately in Central Asia for post-9/11 intelligence, both men were working on the same broad, but highly complex, intelligence question. Sean, a defence intelligence officer seconded to MI6, was operating illicitly, trying to establish key contacts and sources that could provide information on the radiological and special nuclear material racketeering that was happening across Turkey, the Caucasus and Central Asia. Concerns remained that such material could end up in the hands of terrorists from the former Soviet states who still retained cold war nuclear weapons on their land, and had numerous unsecured sites holding radiological material. And his new objective from Washington was to find evidence that such materials were being surreptitiously harvested by Iraq.