The Kompromat Kill

by Michael Jenkins

  As he was walking down the track, Sean thought about the body. They hadn’t seen this large torso being moved in the warehouse when they were monitoring the CCTV cameras – so it must have been on the vehicle when it arrived at the port. Could it be the body of one of their team who went rogue? Or someone who had crossed them? Did it really matter?

  Before Sean walked the site, he had tasked Jugsy with monitoring the log cabin and the approaches to the cache area using split-image technology that would allow the Avigilon software to monitor both sites from the single UAV stationed in the sky above. The UAV only had two hours loiter time left so Sean and Swartz had to act quickly to find the cache of explosives and fit tracking devices in them.

  The light was beginning to drain from the day as Sean fiddled with his earpiece that provided the radio coverage from Jugsy, who was sitting in the Mercedes van about three kilometres away. Sean listened carefully to the gravelly voice coming through the earpiece as Jugsy guided him towards the exact part of the track where the men had either dug or concealed their bomb-making equipment. The radar signatures relayed to the imagery screens had showed three black blobs below a large tree canopy, which the optical imagery couldn’t view.

  Sean walked cautiously, checking the landscape for any telltale signs of hidden movement detectors or cameras hidden in the undergrowth or the trees. He was fairly certain there weren’t any – his experience of doing similar jobs in the past told him that. But he couldn’t be sure. Plus, he didn’t know if booby traps had been laid near the caches, wherever they were hidden.

  ‘Can’t see any markers at all, can you?’ Sean asked Swartz, who was following a few metres behind. The dirt track was lined with trees on both sides with wild grass and plants breaking up the natural undergrowth.

  ‘Nothing yet mate. Keep scanning, we’ll find a clue soon.’

  The terrorists would have chosen this site carefully. Were the caches buried? Or were they concealed in the undergrowth of the small ditches?

  Sean looked for any ground disturbance. For footprints. For unusual-coloured grass. Unusual branches or logs concealing a clue or acting as a signpost to a buried hoard. Were there any markers cut into trees, as he had once seen on a job in Kosovo? Or small blobs of paint, like in Bosnia?

  ‘Let’s walk it again,’ Sean said. ‘All I can see are footprints on the track but no sign of them ever exiting it.’

  ‘They must be using indicators somewhere mate. What’s the best physical feature they could use?’

  ‘Something obvious that we’re not seeing. We need to get a bloody move on with this light fading.’

  Sean decided to walk down the extreme left-hand side of the track this time. He moved a few large stones along the way, noticing they would be useless as markers as they were too easily moved. Then he looked back at the trees. ‘Come on you bastards, I know you’re somewhere. How have you hidden them?’ he muttered indignantly.

  Then he saw it. He was looking at the tree branches above head height. It was a marker alright. A small nick in a tree branch. Close to the core of the tree on the root branch itself. ‘Fucking hell Swartz. Come and look.’ It was two feet above head height and skilfully placed.

  ‘Great bloody spot Sean. The hide will be just below the nick I bet.’

  Sean looked for any ground sign or disturbance. Fuck all. Not a thing. He grabbed a trowel and started digging in the layers of grass just below a slight incline leading away from the tree. He scraped away the loose earth with his gloved hands, using the trowel occasionally and being careful not to disturb anything that might be a trap. Still nothing. He stood up, brushed his knees down and lit a cigarette.

  ‘Look at this,’ Swartz shouted, now standing about ten feet away and pointing at a different tree. ‘Another fucker here. It’s small - and this one is painted blue inside the cut.’

  Sean wondered what was going on. He had been on operational search missions for decades. He had used different methods to search for the buried corpses of missing diplomats and murdered agents in Central Asia. But this was a first. A couple of tiny markers, a splatter of paint, but no stash? What was going on?

  Sean moved to the second tree and looked below the blue marker. What was the significance of the colour? Explosives? Or weapons? Or cash? Then he remembered the body. They would have had to have concealed the body too. He looked at his watch. He knew he had precious little time before darkness fell and the UAV would be out of power, leaving him exposed without any top cover to spot anyone approaching their position.

  ‘Have a look further down the track - find all the markers you can,’ Sean said, grabbing another tool from his rucksack. A small hand-held metal detector. Back on his hands and knees, he probed the areas around and below the two markers. Not a fucking thing. No metallic content. Irritated, he stood up and wiped his brow. What the hell had he missed? He put his mind into that of the Iranian terrorists. ‘How would I have marked this up and provided an indicator?’ he said to himself.

  ‘Another two down here Sean.’

  ‘Keep finding them – what colour?’

  ‘One is unpainted, another is blue.’

  ‘Strewth. What’s going on?’

  ‘Got it, you bastards,’ he shouted, waving to Swartz. Sean walked to the other side of the track, turned around and lined the marker up with his eye so that it was perpendicular to the track. He looked down. No other markers on the ground. Then he looked behind his feet. Just the smallest amount of ground disturbance with a few patches of dirt and mud that were slightly different in texture and colour. Enough to explore further.

  He used the metal detector again, hovering it an inch or so above the ground. It alarmed. A small beep. Then another one. Metal.

  ‘Found it - they’ve buried the caches on the opposite side of the track to the markers.’

  ‘Neat,’ Swartz said cheerily. ‘Now be careful for fuck’s sake.’

  Sean dropped to his knees and began to carefully feel around the area for any wires, or batteries or anything that might indicate an explosive booby trap.

  Nothing. It seemed clear. Sean started pulling the top layer of mud away using a three-inch paintbrush to scrape away the last of the topsoil. His heart rate rose as he spied a blue circular lid. He scraped away the rest of the mud to reveal the curving lip of a plastic vessel below the blue lid – the plastic container had a half-inch metal band and a clip to keep the lid in place.

  ‘Bingo. Check around the other side of the container, Swartz. We need to be sure there isn’t a pressure-release switch on the lid – I’m not going to take the cover off until we’re sure and we’ve checked every container.’

  Finally, after checking all seven caches, Sean returned to the first one to remove the cover. It was intensive work. Patient work. Careful threat-assessment work. But now was the time for the cover reveal.

  He lifted the lid carefully, holding his breath. He held it an inch above the blue plastic container, a fifty-gallon container, while Swartz checked underneath it using a small branch, feeling for any wires that might cause a booby trap to go bang if the lid was lifted too high.

  With a nod from Swartz, Sean lifted the lid and peered inside. Cellophane-wrapped boxes, just as he had seen in the warehouse.

  He moved to the second container, where the blue notch was the marker. They followed the same ritual, lifting the lid and checking for booby traps inside. Cellophane blocks this time. Square blocks of explosives. Sean swabbed the container, the lid and the cellophane with his explosive-swab equipment to allow him to identify the type of explosive.

  ‘Bloody hell, look at this one,’ Sean said, peering into the third container linked to a green marker. ‘Small fucking suitcases.’ There were two of them. Each about two foot wide by one foot high. Black leather ones, similar to those used by airline pilots. Sean pulled one of them out and opened the two clips at the front. He placed it on the ground to study its contents.

  He took a moment inspecting the inside of the suitcase and the
n took a few photos. ‘I haven’t seen anything like this before, have you?’

  ‘Looks high-tech,’ Swartz replied, peering over Sean’s shoulder, both of them puzzling over the advanced componentry and struggling to fathom its exact working mechanism. Sean knew he’d need to get expert IED assessments – what he did know was that this was high-grade componentry, manufactured to exacting standards and that only state-sponsored actors could design, procure and assemble. An aluminium frame fitted snugly into the suitcase, inside which a single professionally bored cylinder sat. A silver container with a myriad of different wires connected in series to the cylinders and a set of electronic circuit boards. But Sean couldn’t see a power unit. Maybe they’d add that before it was prepared for final targeting?

  He began to check inside the device to see if there were any traces of explosives. It was a partially constructed IED with high-grade telemetry but missing the explosives and power unit.

  ‘Pass me the DNA swabs please Swartz,’ Sean asked, now using a pen torch to conduct his forensic work. ‘Start fitting the tracking devices and I’ll finish up here.’

  Chapter 20

  Istanbul

  Nadège Soulier walked through the central bazaar of Istanbul, a conflicted woman. She was one of Iran’s foremost spies, at the very top of her game and a genuine star of the MOIS intelligence regime. But she was struggling. Struggling to keep her emotions in check the older she got. For she suffered with emotional intensity disorder. A complex type of post-traumatic stress disorder that caused an affliction at the very core of her being. It bled deep into her soul. She knew the condition well, knew her triggers and even knew her route to salvation. But she could never grab it if she remained an MOIS commander of overseas intelligence operations. She needed another world in order to heal herself. A world of wealth, modelling and glamour.

  Feeling trapped, she had self-diagnosed her condition over many years, recognising that she was a high-functioning example of people with the disorder. The type of personality that was often fast-tracked through the ranks to become captains of industry, political leaders and chief officers of many a large corporate. Such people excelled at winning. At hiding their traits, at hiding their disorders. Rarely would they stay in a relationship long enough for anyone to get close to them to see exactly what lay behind the mask.

  Nadège was dressed in a white sleeveless dress that was cut tight at the waist and linked to a hip-accentuating bodice and a softly pleated skirt running down just below the knee. She wore a white headscarf, classically draped to show only part of her hair, with the front buttons of her dress done up sufficiently to ensure a modicum of conservative modesty as she graced the metropolis. She wore expensive perfume and her Chloé Marcie handbag matched her cream-coloured high-heeled sandals. For all to see, she was wealthy and classy.

  Nadège meandered through one of Istanbul’s indoor malls, slowly making her way to the end of the concourse, where she stopped to admire the expensive Louis Vuitton handbags in the window of a small family-run business. She checked her headscarf in the mirror, applied a little more red lipstick and ambled into the small store.

  ‘İyi günler,’ the elderly owner said, revealing a huge smile and two gold teeth in place of his upper incisors. ‘How may I be of service madam?’

  ‘I’m just browsing for my mother today. Nothing in particular.’ Nadège turned to adjust her headscarf in the wall-mounted mirror and picked up a black handbag.

  ‘The finest top-grain leather from Italy, madam. Would you like to take some tea?’

  With time on her hands, Nadège felt she needed a little calmness, which in her life was rare. ‘Thank you. I shall,’ she replied. Nadège was shown to a small iron table with a crocheted tablecloth. Tea in a small glass was brought and a small plate of Turkish delight accompanied her drink.

  Nadège had been born to a wealthy Lebanese family whose father was an Iranian spy. Her mother had been a devoted wife and mother of four, with Nadège her favoured and youngest child. She was the baby of the family and remembered her mother telling her year after year that the baby of the family would become the star. She did. She followed in her father’s footsteps from a young age to be recruited into the MOIS as a teenager. Yet, despite this, she had never lived in Iran. Yes, she had trained there. Often in the mountains, often in military camps, often battling with brutal instructors in unarmed combat. Occasionally being beaten badly by instructors who took no prisoners. Nadège excelled and became the person in whom many senior officers put their trust. And yes, she did sleep with many of them.

  Nadège shivered as she recalled her early days, sitting now in an Istanbul store wondering what she should do next. Can I continue? Should I run now? She was tired with all the confusion her mind presented to her on an almost hourly basis. The confusion of her condition haunted her. Why was she like this? What had caused this? She knew many of the answers, and had lived her life by controlling her emotions, but occasionally the triggers were so deep that they led to her most evil episodes, where she would retreat from life for weeks on end.

  She knew her condition would one day kill her. Most probably by her own hand. She had to feed her narcissistic soul to keep a grip on her mind. Her vain inner self needed to be fed by being the best at what she did. Only total perfection would suffice. Addictions were the meat of her life and Nadège fed those never-ending addictions with shopping, drug-fuelled sex and a delicacy that gave her the most absurd gratification - killing.

  Nadège sipped her tea and crossed her legs gracefully. She looked to all the world like a wealthy and happy woman. But she was burning deep inside as her affliction continued to plague her. She hated having to keep the facade up.

  Nadège slipped her hand inside her handbag which concealed the silver trinket that held her anxiety pills. She opened the lid and took one out. A small yellow pill that she swallowed whole. She leant forward, placing a hand momentarily on the table, and took a piece of Turkish delight from a three-tiered silver tray. She drank some hot Turkish tea, and then ate another piece of Turkish delight. She took her hand mirror and looked at her face. A face characterised by immaculate make-up, perfectly groomed eyebrows and a beautiful light brown complexion. She turned her head from side to side, puckered her lips and gently applied some lipstick.

  I’ll finish this mission and then that’s it, she thought to herself. No more. She had long planned her escape from espionage and the clutches of the Iranian regime, and her destination, if ever she could pull it off, was Ecuador in South America.

  ‘Teşekkür ederim,’ she said to the elderly gentleman. ‘Thank you for indulging me.’

  She looked at her watch, becoming impatient now as she waited for her contact. A contact who had been provided by her Russian handler for the next stages of a mission that would propel her into notoriety.

  ‘Your car is waiting outside madam,’ a voice said in perfect English. She looked up to see a man dressed smartly in a beige jacket and dark blue trousers.

  ‘Shit,’ she said, trying to contain her shock. She sat bolt upright, processing the familiar features of her contact. A man she had not seen for many years but who she recognised immediately as Sean Richardson. She threw the lengthy drape of her headscarf across her décolletage and marched briskly out of the shop.

  ‘What the fuck?’ she said, stopping to confront the man who had followed her outside.

  ‘Hello,’ the man said. ‘I had no idea it would be you I’d be meeting.’

  He looked shocked too, Nadège thought briefly. She stared with disbelief at a man she had not seen for over eight years. A former lover. A Brit. And there he was, standing right in front of her after all these years. Looking very sheepish.

  ‘Blimey,’ the man said. ‘I never thought I’d bump into you again.’

  Sean Richardson smiled broadly and offered his hand. Nadège looked at it and started to laugh. A barrage of memories flooded her mind. Given that her emotions were dysregulated, she really wasn’t sure what
she was feeling, or if she should feel it at all. Such was the confusion her mind produced on a daily basis. But she thought for a moment that she liked it. That feeling of meeting an ex-lover many years on.

  Her high-functioning emotion kicked in. The darker, more suspicious, side came first. Her eyes narrowed. ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked, now grimacing, looking to find an explanation. ‘Have you done this on purpose?’

  She watched as the man bent over slightly, laughing and gesturing with his hands. She liked his smart haircut and neatly trimmed beard. And she always liked a man in a white shirt. He smelt nice too.

  ‘Yes of course, I’ve come halfway round the fucking world to bump into you as a contact and I’ve been stalking you for years.’ Nadège watched him hold his arms out, as if to say ‘you caught me lady.’ She didn’t like the fact that he was still chuckling.

  ‘What’s more, I can see why you’re suspicious Nadège. Especially as you did exactly the same to me by trying to recruit me all those years ago.’

  ‘Touché,’ she said, beginning to smile again. ‘Yes, well, that was work as you well know. Is this your old work?’

  ‘I don’t work any more. I was sacked. I’m your contact for what you want now - and I now…’ A pause. ‘I, er, make a living in other ways.’

  ‘What ways?’

  ‘Erm, I sell stuff and my wares,’ he said cheekily. ‘Bodily wares.’

  Nadège felt the redness spread across her face. She remembered how Sean had always had a way of doing this to her. Making her feel happy and alive with just the normality of life but having a good laugh beyond the treacherous world of espionage. He was teasing again. She could see it in his eyes. She felt her subconscious mind remind her body of the intimate and volatile sex life they had once had, a distraction from the highly stressful lives they led.

  ‘Well, I’m not sure I want to buy any stores from you. It’s bound to be a set-up. I must be getting on,’ she said, marching down the street, eager to kill this off quickly. Far too risky, she mused, but could it be true? Maybe he had been sacked? She could deal with him, she thought. After all, it might be a nice distraction from the confusion she was living with.