The Kompromat Kill

by Michael Jenkins

  Sean walked out of the warehouse into the bright sunshine, holding his hands over his eyes to shield them. Just as he did, the bomber grabbed him from behind, smashed him to the ground and held his arm tightly behind his back.

  Sean turned his neck, spitting out blood as he watched Nadège plunge a needle into his thigh.

  Within thirty seconds he was unconscious.

  Chapter 37

  London

  London was baking hot. It was a blistering afternoon that saw Parliament Square and Westminster bedevilled with throngs of tourists clogging up every pavement that Jack tried to navigate. Parliament was now resembling a mini-fortress, with a multitude of steel barriers placed around it to protect the home of democracy from lorry bombs and terrorist attacks using vehicles. Even Big Ben looked tired of it all, its torso now firmly draped in scaffolding and tatty white-plastic covers. Jack winced at the prospect of the green lawns of Parliament Square being ripped up to make way for a new concrete eyesore that the London Mayor had recently proffered.

  Something had gone badly wrong with our country, he thought to himself, as he walked past the main gates where, two years earlier, a lone, unarmed policeman had been stabbed to death by an Islamist terrorist. Jack still couldn’t quite comprehend how the entire gated area had been left in the hands of a lone policeman, with no armed response at the post, and that the terrorist had simply driven across Westminster Bridge and hurtled into pedestrians before crashing into the gates and finally stabbing PC Keith Palmer. Jack stopped briefly to survey the scene. The police post now had four heavily armed CO19 police officers, each carrying an MP5 carbine with a Glock pistol holstered on their thighs.

  What if the Iranians had this place as one of their targets, he thought? Or one of the many shopping centres in London? What if they were successful with multiple attacks on London over days? Or weeks? The country would turn into a nation under siege and at war. A dark war, with the public having no idea how a state-sponsored threat might materialise, and with the Russians and Iranians potentially acting together to create mayhem.

  The British public were not used to direct war or never-ending attacks on home soil. Yes, they witnessed it from afar on their TVs from places such as Yemen and Syria, but could they survive such ongoing attacks? Could the British psyche win through, despite being subjected to military lockdown and martial law? Food in short supply, cyber-attacks on critical national infrastructure crippling lighting and heating in homes, cashpoints not working and Tubes grinding to a halt. These were the thoughts of Jack that day. Thoughts that would haunt him if his plan went wrong. It would leave the nation belly-deep in a hybrid war that he had failed to curtail. Such was the burden he bore.

  ‘It’s a little bit worse than that, sir,’ Jack said, as he answered the first question the Cabinet Secretary threw at him. Jack had been asked to meet Sir Justin Darbyshire on Birdcage Walk to update him on the strategic and operational strands that Jack was running.

  ‘I assume you have things under control right now Jack?’ The question had been posed whimsically. By ‘things’ he meant political damage and no further risk to the security of British citizens from Iranian strikes on the UK. By all accounts, the Joint Intelligence Committee and its Chairman had assured ministers that everything was under control and that no immediate threats to the UK mainland were prevalent in formal intelligence reporting.

  Jack squeezed his lips and stopped when he heard the last sentence. ‘As I said, sir, it’s a little worse than the formal reporting at the JIC.’

  ‘Much worse, or a little worse Jack?’

  ‘Much worse I’m afraid.’

  ‘Mmmmm. Well, let’s walk and talk about that. Campey has been comforting ministers. He likes to keep control of matters without making ministers panic.’

  ‘A fair approach if he hasn’t got any substantial intelligence I’d say.’

  ‘I agree Jack. Now. When do we share your intelligence my boy? I am seeking your advice on the way forward now.’

  Jack pondered on that question as they walked silently for a moment or two. The circumstances were so grave now that the impending threats couldn’t just be spun away without the nation preparing properly. Jack knew he held the highest grade of intelligence, which the other agencies didn’t yet have. And he didn’t have enough actionable intelligence to bring interdiction operations to bear against the protagonists. But he did want Sir Justin to prepare the government for what might emerge from under the hybrid cloak of the Russian GRU and the Iranian MOIS. He was worried, however, that Sean had gone quiet because his burst transmissions from Armenia had stopped.

  ‘I think you’ll need to get Number 10 alive to the fact that they need to make some more immediate preparations,’ Jack said, awkwardly trying to evade the low sun over Sir Justin’s shoulder.

  Sir Justin was a tall man, a good six foot four, and was now draped in his winter beige coat with black collar. A very civil service type of attire. Their own uniform. The autumn sun and the glistening leaves falling from the trees drew Jack’s eyes to Buckingham Palace as he prompted the senior civil servant to speed up for the appointment Jack had made at the MOD building.

  ‘How bad is it Jack? I’ll start to coerce the right people, the trusted ones that is, to get things in place.’

  The invitation Sir Justin had extended to Jack had simply said a catch-up chat, nothing more. But Jack had responded and suggested that they should walk first before having a look at PINDAR. This fitted with Jack’s plan to start getting the nation prepared. PINDAR was the country’s most top-secret bunker, located right below the gargantuan Ministry of Defence building on Whitehall. This was the opportunity Jack needed. The chance to brief a high-ranking civil servant, knowing full well that Sir Justin had the charm and skill of a mastermind, someone able to shake things up in government and make things happen with speed at Number 10.

  ‘D used to bring me here occasionally,’ Jack said, as their autumn walk, with dark shadows trailing behind them, came to a halt at the MOD entrance. ‘He liked to make sure all of our equipment was maintained and working, and that we were prepared. I can’t be sure that the UK is a main target but, trust me, sir, I believe the Iranians are about to unleash hell on someone and, if it’s us, I want us all prepared.’

  Hundreds of tourists and commuters walk along Whitehall in central London every day, from the House of Commons to Trafalgar Square, past Downing Street and the imposing Ministry of Defence headquarters. What these passers-by did not realise is that, beneath the pavement, deeper than the London Underground's District Line, is a huge bunker, kept secret for over four decades, and codenamed PINDAR.

  MI5 had a secure area of operations within this colossal bunker to enable it to continue to conduct its missions and provide direct intelligence to senior generals and ministers. If Sean’s ground operation failed, and the Iranians successfully detonated an improvised nuclear device in the UK or Europe, it would be from here that Jack and Sir Justin would operate. The thought made Jack shiver.

  PINDAR took five years for the bunker to be completed in 1992, fitted out with the latest communications systems, including a huge situation room with video-conferencing equipment designed to protect its inhabitants during and after a nuclear attack or during civil unrest.

  Jack entered through the first of a series of huge bomb-proof steel doors, which were held open by multiple iron hooks. There was a small cadre of staff keeping everything running and performing their own day jobs. The day-to-day custodians of the bunker.

  ‘I assume you’ve had the tour, sir,’ Jack asked, as he walked through the narrow corridors to the main briefing room.

  ‘Yes, but a long time ago Jack.’

  ‘You’ll remember the bunker is fitted with bunks and accommodation for hundreds of staff and there are catering facilities on each level all designed to support operations for many months.’ Jack turned right at the end of the corridor, past a breakout space nicely surrounded by greenery and plants with a small runnin
g-water wall feature just beyond it.

  Jack led Sir Justin into the main briefing room, which had been upgraded to include the most modern elements of digital communications, all linked by satellites and with images displayed on multiple large screens around the room.

  The centrepiece was a 3D model of Whitehall and its environs sat on a long table draped in a blue cloth. This was placed in the centre of a U-shaped set of tables that could fit thirty senior staff around it, with seating behind for another forty staff. In front of the U-shaped tables were two lecterns for presenters and behind them were a cluster of six high-definition screens that could simultaneously display live imagery from satellites or drones, and a series of high-grade maps that included overlays showing nuclear radiation or chemical plumes from terrorist CBRN strikes or bombing raids.

  Sir Justin took his coat off and leant forward, placing his elbows on the table. ‘OK Jack, it seems you’ve plenty to get off your chest, and I’ve got one most important matter to cover with you. No better place than a nuclear bunker eh?’

  Jack smiled, unclipped his briefcase and placed a dossier in front of Sir Justin. The Kompromat dossier.

  ‘I hope you’ll allow me some time to brief you, Sir Justin. I’m afraid we’re at quite a critical juncture in my operation right now and it’s quite important that you know the lion’s share, so that we can agree the next steps.’

  ‘Call me Justin, for God’s sake man. Good news and bad news I assume?’

  ‘As always, Sir Justin. Bad news first is probably best.’ Jack stretched across the table to grab the remote control for the digital projector, which he switched on. He tapped a few buttons on the audio-visual console, which displayed a map of Turkey and the Middle East on the top-left screen and a picture of Sean on the lower-left screen. He tapped another button and a picture of Nadège appeared too. Next came some flashing dots hovering on the maps. The yellow flashing dot looked to be smack bang in the middle of the deserts of Kuwait, and a second cluster of flashing blue lights were centred on Munich, the capital of Bavaria.

  ‘As you know, all our Court operators are deniable,’ Jack said, watching Sir Justin scrunch into his leather chair, deep in thought. ‘If we take down any of the terrorists it will be non-attributable, allowing you to keep the political trust of our allies.’

  ‘You’re using mercenaries, you mean?’

  ‘Well, everyone else calls them ‘cut-outs’ or ‘proxies’, but yes, mercenaries if you like. I like to refer to them as loyal veterans who have given, and continue to give, great service to our country.’

  ‘I see,’ Sir Justin said, clasping his hands. ‘And the flashing dots? Terrorist cells or tracking devices?’

  ‘The cluster in Munich represents bomb-making equipment. It’s where the Iranian cell have moved their equipment before transferring it to their target cities. Our operator, who you can see on the bottom-left screen, is a former intelligence officer leading a Court team to track and trace the cell. His codename is CHIMERA. His mission was to try and find details of the sleeper agents lying in wait in this country and we’re now watching to see where the bomb-making equipment moves to.’

  ‘Any ideas on the targets?’ the Cabinet Secretary asked, looking Jack in the eye. ‘European cities? Brussels? Ourselves?’

  ‘We’re not sure yet, but their modus operandi has been to move equipment from Turkey, through the Balkans and onwards to their final destinations. My guess is that the operational cells will make their way to Munich to collect the equipment and from there they could move to a number of cities. My fear is multiple coordinated attacks across the EU. There are ten very sophisticated high-grade IEDs plus two suitcases that we think are designed to function as nuclear devices.’

  Jack still didn’t know if the Iranian cells had acquired other quantities of uranium beyond the sale of the artillery shell he had set up. There was enough uranium in that shell for two small suitcase devices. What he did know is that he had MI5 working day and night to watch all UK ports and airports to see who was leaving the UK and who might be arriving in Munich.

  ‘We can’t get this wrong Jack. If we have good intelligence we can bring lots of other nations in on this. We don’t have to do this alone.’

  ‘I’m afraid we pretty much do Sir Justin. Can you imagine the civil unrest, the uproar, the panic if citizens knew there were nuclear terrorists on the loose and planning a strike? There would be mayhem across the papers, and mass panic. What would you want to do with your family if you knew your city was the target? Now multiply that by millions of people. If this leaks out, it’ll be chaos. And that’s my problem. If we share this intelligence I can guarantee it will leak out quickly.’

  ‘OK, I take your point Jack, you’re right. But we need to be bloody sure we can handle this.’

  ‘I agree, sir.’

  ‘How then?’

  ‘With trusted people. Our Court teams and a helping hand from some close friends over the pond. One of whom is ready to talk to you now.’

  Jack flashed up a screen, ready to accept a video-conference call with Laura. He tapped the video button on the console and Laura’s face appeared on the screen from the American Embassy in Lambeth. ‘I can see you Laura, can you hear me?’

  ‘Loud and clear Jack,’ she replied, in her rapturous Californian accent. ‘Nice to see you guys.’

  ‘I’ve got Sir Justin with me Laura, are you able to give us a brief from your side?’

  ‘Sure. Wait just one minute.’ Laura disappeared from the screen as if she was picking something up from below her. She popped back up and said ‘Hi’ to Sir Justin. Then she held up a photograph of the American National Security Advisor – John Redman.

  ‘We have him where we want him Sir Justin. For as long as he’s in post we now have leverage on the way the US President will tackle Iran. The Kompromat that Jack unearthed is sealed and operational. The President trusts his NSA more than anyone else in the Whitehouse and now’s the time for us to shape the landscape for the way we go forward. But we need you Brits working towards that too.’

  Sir Justin looked astonished. ‘Kompromat? What Kompromat?’

  ‘I’ll explain after the call Sir Justin,’ Jack said, smirking. Sir Justin’s face was now ashen with shock. ‘What this means is that Redman will push the President to re-engage with the Iranians on the nuclear deal. That will give us more diplomacy to buy us time.’

  ‘Exactly right Jack,’ Laura chipped in, with a beaming smile on her face. Attractive and engaging, she had a way of getting senior politicians and civil service staff to come around to her way of thinking. She exuded trust, using compelling arguments. ‘We’re playing this with two very structured plans Sir Justin. If you’ll allow me, I’ll explain.’

  ‘Thank you Laura,’ Sir Justin said, in his agreeable Oxbridge accent. ‘Any more shocks for me? I have a feeling I know what I need to do after this call.’

  Laura laughed as she pulled her hand through her hair. ‘I run the European and Asian operations for the CIA Special Activities Division and we work closely with Jack’s Court team. We’re going to run two strands here: a political strand and a tactical paramilitary strand. I only hope we have enough time to close down the Iranian terrorist cells before our political strand kicks in.’

  The CIA Special Activities Division is one of the most secretive and potent organisations in the world. Within SAD there are two separate groups: the Special Operations Group, SOG, for tactical paramilitary operations, and the covert political action group.

  The SOG is a department responsible for operations that include high-threat military or covert operations that the US government does not wish to be overtly associated with. Much like The Court’s members, their paramilitary operations officers and specialised skills officers do not carry any objects or wear any clothing that would associate them with the United States government. If they are compromised during a mission, the United States government will deny all knowledge. Exactly the same as with The Court. SOG is g
enerally considered to be the most secretive special operations force in the United States.

  ‘Our political teams are not far away from creating the conditions to overthrow the mullahs of Iran,’ Laura continued. ‘We all prefer that option to what we are seeing right now. Cold war 2.0 is being used by the Russians to get Iran to create carnage across the West with its terrorist arms. It’s bad all round and that’s why we’re going to use the Kompromat to get at Redman. The Kompromat allows us to continue with our covert operations to overthrow the Iranian regime and to start to get the US looking as if we’re engaging diplomatically. It’s a feint.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Sir Justin said, looking shocked. ‘You’re a pair of scheming rascals but I like what I’m hearing. I do however have a pension I’d like to keep so I’ll need some assurances on all of this.’

  ‘It’s risky, but we have all our teams in place ready to go. Political and paramilitary. To be frank with you Sir Justin, if we go to other nations with this, they’ll screw it right up.’

  ‘I like your style Laura. Now, is all this deniable if things go pear-shaped?’

  ‘Yes. That’s why we’re working with Jack using our covert teams to stop this. Two plans. One to interdict the terrorists using our teams, the second, if we fail, is to make sure conventional counterterrorist teams can deal with the aftermath. What we can’t do is rattle the EU and get conventional intelligence agencies involved now. They’ll fuck it all up.’

  Sir Justin was mildly shocked but smirked at Laura’s swearing designed to produce an effect. She was good. Damn good. ‘OK, I get it, let’s run it then. I’ll get amongst our minsters so that they’re saying the right things and make sure we’re prepared if it all goes tits up.’