Wheels within wheels.
Moscow and Beijing: semi-independent stations wielding massive influence.
The best job?
No.
My job is better.
She oversaw multiple smaller stations, some with as few as two case officers, with no admin staff – blistered onto Embassies where the Ambassador was often embarrassed to have them work out of the same building. Nobody likes having spies in their midst.
She coordinated intelligence from across a fractured and war-torn region. She briefed the senior echelons of British government, the remaining intelligence agencies, the police, Special Forces and the rest of the military, on the fusion of the intelligence that came from her people. People who were in danger every day. They risked their lives meeting agents at RVs in dangerous and sordid locations. They took photographs, listened to phone calls, made voice-recordings, sifted through realms of data and, hardest of all, groomed new contacts. She knew how hard that was; a painstaking job lifting up plenty of rocks. Exposing other human beings’ mistakes and frailties. And then exploiting them.
There was some glamour. Undercover as an Embassy-badged employee, case officers sometimes wined and dined with the higher echelons of society, hoping to finger that government worker, or industry bigwig, who was ripe for turning; an indiscretion here – a bounced cheque there. It was rarely about ideology; it was nearly always about money.
But most of their agents were low level contacts. Easily bought; often unreliable. And from those agents came more information than her staff could manage. Information was raw data - like tons of gravel in a river bed. Most of the time it was dull, repetitive and unrewarding work. What they needed was useable intelligence, an often irregular occurrence - the nugget of gold gleaned from a sift of the pebbles.
Unlike Russia and China where diplomatic immunity gave SIS staff some comfort, nearly all her staff worked in broken countries, or where governments turned a blind eye to the rule of law. Every time her staff ventured outside of the Embassies to which they were attached, their lives were in danger.
Every time.
No wonder, as she looked at the mirror, she saw a different Jane to the one she remembered. Older. More haggard.
Her Mum was right. She had started to migrate south.
She was a wearer of big pants.
Ho hum.
Jane dismissed the mirror and walked around the small conference table that took up the centre of the room. She stopped in front of a traditional paper map of the world. It was big, probably three metres by one, and it was sitting just off the vertical on a wooden easel. Jane thought someone had probably had to pop out to a local art shop to buy the easel, and possibly to IKEA to get the map big enough to cover a small wall. On the lip of the easel were a couple of folios of sticky stars in two colours: blue and red.
Blue was for physical attacks; red for cyber. On the map were 47 blue stickers and 38 red. And they were distributed reasonably evenly across the map - on all five continents, save Antarctica. There was no key, or any explanatory remarks. It was just a map of what SIS had classified as neo-terrorist incidents.
Still only seven stars fell within her AO. Technically they were the ones she should be interested in. And she was. She had a new, cross-agency team trying to establish if there were any connection between the seven. Was there a theme? Could one organisation be behind the attacks? Or were they just random acts of violence and destruction, spawned from a new world order? An order where those wanting to make statements got off their soap boxes, stopped Tweeting and gathering hordes for riots and demonstrations via Facebook, and resorted to terror?
Yes, she had four of her best on the case. And so far there was no news.
But she needed to see the bigger picture. See all the dots. Get the global view. Even if her technology was from the '70s.
She peeled off a blue sticker and placed it on Singapore.
About eight hours ago in the MacRitchie Reservoir Park in Singapore, two men blew up one of the stanchions holding up a hiking attraction: The Tree Top Walk. The attraction did what it said: it allowed visitors to walk among the canopy. The highlight of the walk was a suspension bridge between the tops of the trees. Before the blast hikers experienced the world from 25 metres above the ground. After the blast, the bridge collapsed. Two people were dead, falling with the metal and wood as it plummeted to the ground. The perpetrators escaped into the park; they were still at large. One eyewitness had seen the men. She’d told the authorities that they looked like Singaporeans.
Jane stood back and rested her chin in her hand.
It doesn’t make sense.
What was their point? Why The Tree Top Walk? Sure, it’s going to make the news. You can’t bring chewing gum into city, so blowing up a minor attraction and murdering a few tourists was going to be a huge headline. Clearly you don’t mind killing people. And, by the look of things, you’re not so keen on getting killed or apprehended yourself. But they could’ve killed more. Singapore was a centre for technology. If you can put together an IED capable of bringing down a pedestrian bridge, why not remotely detonate it by mobile signal? Place a backpack in the centre of the VivoCity Mall, walk away about 50 metres and press ‘Send’. One hundred dead – maybe more?
Two dead and a broken bridge that went nowhere. It seemed pretty pointless; futile, almost.
Jane stepped back a pace and took in the whole map. She reminded herself of the attacks so far, starting in the northwest moving south and east. She pointed at each dot as she did.
‘Anchorage bar bomb, Alaska; quarry grade explosives; three dead; no one has claimed responsibility; no arrests. Cyber attack on the Vancouver City Bank; no casualties; fall out unknown or well protected by the bank; SIS assessment is one billion Canadian dollars lost in the ether; no arrests. Cancun beach shooting, Mexico; twenty-five dead; two perps shot dead at the scene - one was a local, the second from Miami – native US, Mexican grandparents; no allegiance or affiliation known; only usable int was that both men had significant debt. The Machu Picchu bombing; a large amount of homemade explosives with considerable damage to the outer wall of the temple (how they managed to get the bomb there in the first place was a mystery); bomb was remotely detonated at sunset when there was a large group of tourists in situ; thankfully the tour was in a different part of the attraction to the bomb; no fatalities, only minor injuries; no one had claimed responsibility; apart from rebuilding, the major outcome was the closing down of the temple; a number of local tour companies had gone bust.’
It took Jane ten minutes to recall everything she knew. The last in the bunch was another bar bomb, this time in Suva, Fiji. It was a small device, no bigger than a hand grenade. But it was sophisticated and had a tamper-proof digital timer. Unfortunately for those in the crowded bar, the explosives were tightly packed with ball bearings. Only two people died from the blast, but there were countless injuries as the ball bearings indiscriminately took out eyes, tore muscle and lodge themselves in fleshy tissue. Again, no one had been arrested, and no one had claimed responsibility. Fiji’s tourism, however, had taken a hit.
Jane closed her eyes.
A pattern?
No. Not that she could think of. Not in type or manner of attack. No one was admitting to orchestrating the attacks; three separate perpetrators arrested at the scenes of their attacks had claimed affiliations to seemingly fictitious terror organisations, but none of them could be matched to any known grouping. As such, there was no obvious driver. And there didn’t seem to be a religious connection.
Nor did the attacks look state sponsored. It could be Russia; they were certainly capable of laying down this sort of terror in these places. But what would they gain?
That, of course, was the question.
If this were systematic, who wins?
She didn’t know. She didn’t.
And then she remembered something Sam had taught her – something that was rooted in military intelligence. Don’t look for things
that shouldn’t be there, but are. Look for things that should be there, that aren’t.
Something twigged.
She opened her eyes.
And stared at the map.
There were dots everywhere.
Everywhere?
Try Europe.
Every country in Europe has suffered an attack except …
Jane moved closer to the map, her head centimetres from a two-dimensional, paper Europe.
What should be there, that isn’t?
She ignored the micro states: San Marino; Andorra; Monaco; Liechtenstein; Vatican City; Malta.
Should I? Yes, it made sense.
Every country in Europe had suffered a neo-terrorist attack.
Except …
She read them out loud. Slowly. Carefully.
‘Latvia. Sweden. Hungary. Switzerland. Italy.’
Did that tell her anything?
No. Not at the moment.
She was about to move onto Africa when there was a tap at her glass door. It was Frank. He waved at her. She motioned for him to come in. He did as she beckoned.
Frank was dressed like … Frank. Same black jeans, but a different t-shirt which hung over the top of his jeans. It was one she’d not seen before. It was as black as his jeans and had ‘Ask Me About My Beard’ stencilled in white on its front.
Go on then …
‘How’s your beard?’ Jane asked.
‘I haven’t got one.’ He looked confused.
Jane got it. She thought.
‘Can I help?’ She asked.
‘Eh, no, not really. It’s just we haven’t spoken since last night and you asked about the FFO? I have something on that now.’
‘Islamic terror cell based in South Ossetia?’
‘Oh. OK. You know, then.’ Frank’s tone was whimsical.
‘Yes. I do. And it’s a bit ahead of us now. The thing is I spoke with Sam the day before yesterday …’
‘What? Well I never. How is she?’ Frank’s face lit up.
Jane knew Frank had the hots for Sam. It wasn’t a surprise. If you knew Sam, you couldn’t help yourself. She was easily the most annoyingly endearing person she’d ever known. She was like a pet dog who could do so many tricks it would win Britain’s Got Talent. When it wasn’t surprising you with its latest performance, it looked at you all floppy-eared and brown-eyed, with its head on one side: a look that demanded you give it something to do – or take it for a walk.
Endearing. Loveable.
Brilliant.
Maverick.
What Frank probably knew was that Jane had a softer spot for Sam than he did.
‘Other than the fact she’s been kidnapped by the FSB and then coerced into working for them in central Russia, she’s fine.’
Frank was bobbing excitedly.
‘What, you mean she’s playing with us again?’
‘Well. No … no, actually, not no. Maybe. We won’t know until the lawyers get back to us tomorrow. It’s complicated.’
‘That’s great. And that’s why the South Ossetia/FFO question?’
‘Correct. She’s going to meet with the leader of the group – hopefully tomorrow. As a Reuters journalist. The FSB hope she’ll be able to uncover something about their intent; maybe their location.’
Jane wasn’t going to give Frank the whole story – even in Babylon, ‘need-to-know’ held good.
‘Oh. Well. Good. If you need someone here to ride shotgun – I’ve done it before, as you know. I’d be delighted.’
Frank was still excited. And he was right. He’d worked as Sam’s anchor a couple of times before, one of which almost got him killed. He was certainly up for the job … if it were needed.
‘Thanks, Frank. I’ll bear that in mind. Anything else?’
‘Eh, no. No. That’s it. Thanks. I’ll have something, a proper briefing, on the fast-track migration issue in the next couple of days, maybe sooner.’ He was making his way to the door.
‘Thanks, Frank. Let me know.’ Jane put a thumb up. It was time for Frank to leave, because she needed to make a few notes from the map – once she’d listed all the countries who had yet to suffer at the hands of the neo-terrorists.
Whoever the blooming hell they are.
Appartamento VI, Via Mortelle, Naples
The light was doing the tango on his ceiling. Gareth’s blinds in his bedroom didn’t close properly, so the Naples night was an accompaniment to his waking hours. There were shadows and colours, and colours and shadows. Even on the fourth floor the light from a passing car’s headlights somehow managed to force their way in through the cracks. And the constantly changing, green neon sign of the apothekry from across the road posted a kaleidoscope of lime on his ceiling. And the noise. It was movie script stuff. If he could concentrate long enough to separate words from cars, from scooters, from cats, from industrial sounds, like the hum of air conditioning, he could write the opening of a decent film noir.
But whatever his imagination could script, it wouldn’t get anywhere close to what he’d been through over the past four hours.
The brown paper; the box; the note.
And the eye.
Just horrific.
And then Giorgio.
Oh, Giorgio. Wherefore art thou …
Shakespeare wasn’t his thing. Wherefore art thou, along with, Alas poor Yorick I knew him well, and, Once more unto the breach dear friends, and we’ll fill this gap with our English dead - or something along those lines - were the extent of his Bardisms. But he knew Shakespeare wrote tragedy. And the old man would have had to have his imagination in overdrive to quill the past four hours.
You couldn’t have written it.
Gareth hadn’t known what to do with, nor what to do about, the eye - in the fluid, in a bag within a bag, out of a box, wrapped in brown paper. Once he’d sorted himself out he’d gone straight to the bin in the kitchen and put his foot on the lever to open the lid. The double-plastic bag monstrosity hung from his finger and thumb grip, ready to join last night’s supper.
Then he thought better of it.
He went back to the toilet, where he’d just spent an uncomfortable five minutes. The seat was up. He started to untie the granny knot that held the bags closed. Then he stopped. He didn’t want to open the bag. He didn’t know why, except it would release the thing into the atmosphere. Maybe only for as long as it took to tumble into the pan, but it would have escaped - momentarily. And what would happen if it didn’t flush? And kept bobbing around, looking at him? He have to pick it out. And …
His stomach had turned again at that point. Thankfully relief was close at hand.
In the end he put the bag and the note back in the box of socks and loosely wrapped it in its original brown paper. He found a rubber band to secure the wrapping and put the thing behind the sofa. He wanted it somewhere close, so it wasn’t hidden in the depths where it could multiply and create havoc. Or, worse still, disappear … and then pop up again on his kitchen table. But he also didn’t want it on display, staring at him.
And he hadn’t wanted Giorgio to find it. He didn’t want his rashness, to pursue Matteo Monza against all advice, to upset their relationship. Not tonight. Not after spaghetti alle vongole and his plan to talk, and to listen. To replace physical intimacy with closeness borne from understanding. To learn more than just the location of his g-spots.
He’d tell Giorgio about the package later. Tomorrow. That was the plan.
But it was now tomorrow and none of that had happened. Having put the package behind the sofa he had helped himself to a bottle of Peroni and had the longest hot shower in history. Cleansed, but not completely free from distracting images, he’d opened a bottle of Nero d’Avola and started cooking.
Nearly all pasta dishes take no more than 20 minutes to make. Knock up a sauce, this one with fresh clams and cream, cook the spaghetti el dente, throw the sauce in with the spaghetti, toss and serve. In his case, out of the pan. He’d planned to leave cooking the spaghe
tti until Giorgio had crossed the threshold, so it wasn’t overdone. In the interim he’d spent the time mixing a dressing, chopping and dicing the salad, as well as making the table look nice.
The problem was ... Giorgio didn’t arrive.
10.30 pm. 11.00 pm.
He’d SMS’d him at eleven; the restaurant might have asked him to stay behind to help with some chores. There was no reply.
He waited.
At midnight he’d phoned Giorgio’s number. There was no response.
He now felt panicky. Since their first night together, he and Giorgio had texted each other three or four times a day. Not hearing from him since lunchtime was unheard of.
He prepared another SMS:
Where are you? Really worried. If I don’t get a reply within 5 mins I’m walking to the restaurant. Hope u r not in a ditch. Luv. G xxx
He pressed ‘Send’. The word ‘now’ appeared next to his text. It had been sent and received.
He sat at the kitchen/dining table like a distraught housewife waiting for their husband to return from a long day at the office. He had his phone in his right hand. He stared at it.
It vibrated. SMS from Giorgio. Relief flooded through him. He opened it.
Am not coming. I will not see you again. Do not phone or message. Giorgio xxx
Gareth had stared at the phone - for five minutes.
He’d then prepared three different texts in reply to Giorgio’s. And sent none of them. He’d walked round and round the room. He finished the bottle of Nero d’Avola. Made himself a coffee. Then another.
And every time he looked at Giorgio’s message, it read the same.
Which didn’t make any sense. Last night they’d had a wonderful evening together. Giorgio had left for work this morning after coffee and ‘you know what’ for breakfast. Before he left he’d kissed Gareth with a bruising intensity, holding his mouth on his for an eternity. He left as a lover. Gareth had no doubt about that.
On the Back Foot to Hell Page 9