On the Back Foot to Hell

by Roland Ladley

  And could Frank match any of the photos taken by the SIS team with the three relatives who were now doing God knows what in the UK?

  He got to work.

  His first job was to investigate every database that might help piece together how Abir al-Rasheed got from Eritrea to the UK; uncover his route. Establish a pattern the others may have followed: a refugee camp here; a point of entry there.

  He opened the SIS mapping software on his central screen. It was Google Maps based, but included a number of layers that Cynthia could launch. She could show things like crime statistics, terror cell analysis, data-access points to allow for interrogation of other countries intelligence networks, and other links to commercial detail such as hire-car data and airline manifests. Plus many others.

  He looked to the MTMT on his right hand screen. He separated and dragged until Eritrea was at the bottom right corner of the screen and the UK, top left. The blue transit lines told their story – showed the available routes. Frank counted … and then stopped counting at 15 east/west transits. There were far too many permutations to consider.

  He pushed back on his chair.

  What now?

  He took a more pragmatic approach. He reduced his options to three: longest time at sea; least time at sea; shortest route.

  The first took Abir al-Rasheed from Eritrea by boat up the Red Sea, through the Suez Canal, across the Med to southern France. And then by vehicle north, cross-country through France to The Channel. Frank tried to imagine the journey. What would it be like? How many times would you want to swap vessels? Wouldn’t that length of boat journey take longer than two weeks?

  He did a fag-packet calculation: 4,500 kilometres at 15 knots. Almost 300 hours, and that was without getting off and getting onto a new boat. It was too long.

  He dismissed it for now.

  The next was overland – Sudan, Egypt, Israel, Syria, Turkey, Bulgaria … he stopped there. Already there were too many borders to cross. Too many people to bribe. Too many chances to get caught. Too long.

  Finally, and by now he was thinking he was wasting his time, he looked at the shortest route, assuming a vehicle was quicker than a boat. He used his finger as a trace and called out under his breath,

  ‘Overland. Sudan – Libya – Tunisia. Sea journey across the Med. Where to? Italy, yes, that makes sense. Then into France – and ... the UK.’

  He reckoned that getting from Eritrea to Tunisia overland was easy provided you had some firepower and were prepared to bully your way through. It was all pretty lawless: Sudan, Egypt, Libya, Tunisia; although you could miss out Egypt if you drove through the Sahara. With money, a couple of trucks, some uniform and guns, it wouldn’t be unworkable. And it would be quick? He Googled it: 5,200 kilometres to Tunis if you used decent roads. At 40 kilometres per hour, that would take about a week’s driving.

  Now the sea route.

  The MTMT showed that refugees often travel northeast from Tunisia and hit the Sicilian coast even though they weren’t as welcome on the island as they were on the Italian mainland. But it was a shorter journey at sea. However, since the new anti-migration government were in power, landing anywhere if you are remotely refugee-like was close to impossible. So you’d have to travel more incognito. Say, a fishing boat as crew.

  Or on a container ship?

  Frank wasn’t quite sure why that thought hit him. But …

  … container ships were big. Easy to hide on. Most have multinational crew. Probably easy to bribe. And container ships berth at bespoke docks. That were well controlled. With fences and guards. But less random. Easy to bribe the dock staff?

  Try it.

  He asked Cynthia for the latest list of container vessels to sail from Tunis to Italy.

  It took her less than 30 seconds.

  In the last two weeks 52 container ships of all of shapes and sizes had left Tunis and berthed in Italy.

  Make some decisions.

  He discounted those that had sailed from Tunis in the past five days; anyone travelling would need that long to make it across Europe having landed in Italy. The list was shortened to 34.

  Frank then crossed off those that had travelled via Valetta, in Malta. If he were planning this, he’d want to make a direct route and not have to berth at an intermediary. He was now down to 29.

  Italian mainland, west coast only. A shorter route. He ignored Bari, Ancona. Ravenna and Venice, which were Adriatic ports. They were east coast.

  Now there were only 17.

  He spent the next 45 minutes looking at port logs which Cynthia provided for him. It was a long shot – actually the fact he’d restricted the list to just container ports when you could land any small craft along Italy’s massive coastline and disgorge a couple of passengers, was a long shot. But he had to start somewhere.

  And that’s what he did for a living. He started somewhere.

  He stopped at ship 14. He needed a pee; and a hot drink.

  Five minutes later he was back with his Goofy logo’d mug and a steaming cup of Red Bush and soya. He started again.

  Boat 15.

  A small 13,000 tonnes container ship - the Marks Cross, flying the Guatemalan flag. It was carrying all sorts of products, mostly fruit, from West Africa. It had sailed from Tunis 12 days ago and had berthed at Gioia Tauro, a relatively new port on Italy’s shoelaces, two days later. Frank checked the map. It was the shortest time at sea, if you ignored Sicily, from Tunis to the mainland. Check.

  The Marks Cross inventory was uninteresting. The list was predominantly bananas, coffee, pineapple and mango. But there were eight passengers who boarded at Tunis and alighted at the port. Their names were a mixture of nationalities, and none of them came anywhere close to Abir al-Rasheed. He wasn’t surprised. Unfortunately there were no photographs. He’d have to email the Embassy in Rome and get one of the SIS analysts to do some digging. He could wait.

  He then tapped an overlay tag on the monitor. The AISE’s (Agenzia Informazioni e Sicurezza Esterna – MI5’s Italian cousins) terror and criminal incident list for the whole of the Calabria washed over the screen.

  Bugger.

  He wasn’t expecting that.

  Chapter 6

  Vladikavkaz Airport, Vladikavkaz, Russia

  Vlad placed the cardboard cup on the table in front of Sam. It was mid-sized. The type Starbucks serve their ‘small’ Americanos in. But this wasn’t Starbucks. This was the Russian equivalent. Micro-coffees were the norm. Thick, treacle-like liquid that tasted like nothing you could describe. Sam had had the same in Afghanistan, and, as she thought about it, Turkey. You might as well inject caffeine into your veins and smear your teeth with creosote.

  But it was just what she needed right now. Caffeine. And warm liquid. Even if it were just a thimbleful.

  ‘How did you sleep?’ Vlad had sat opposite her. Either side of the table. As if he were going to interrogate her.

  Which he is.

  She looked around the room Vlad had acquired on arrival at the airport. He’d flashed his FSB card and barked. Minions of minions had rushed about as if the Queen had dropped in. Five minutes later they were in a small back room with polyprop chairs running down two sides and, in the centre, a table with a red and white chequered vinyl top with two further chairs. Two doors - in and out. No windows - just a two-way mirror. And two shitty cups of coffee.

  Their return flight to Moscow was in an hour and a half’s time.

  Plenty of time for a debrief.

  ‘Did you put sugar in this?’ She replied. She was too exhausted for pleasantries.

  ‘Yes. Three as you asked.’

  Good.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Did you sleep well?’ Vlad’s tone was soft; genuine.

  Sam had slept continuously since she’d got in the Vesta three hours ago. The choice wasn’t hers. It had been a very long and stressful night and her brain had shut down as soon as she felt the warmth of the car’s heating.

  ‘Yes, thanks. Sorry. I co
uldn’t keep awake.’ Sam finished her coffee. She put the cup down, and then moved it so it sat perfectly in the centre of one of the chequered squares. She didn’t get it right first time, so she adjusted it - until it was right. She looked at Vlad’s cup. It was misaligned. She fidgeted in her chair, and then stared at the mirror.

  ‘Is someone watching?’ She asked casually.

  ‘What? You mean, “who watches the watchers?”. I bloody hope not, or someone will be out of a job.’

  ‘Juvenal.’ She was staring at his cup again.

  ‘What?’ He replied.

  ‘I read it somewhere. It’s actually, “Who watches the watchmen”. But it’s a good point. He was a Roman poet.’ Why was she mumbling on about nothing? Vlad had a job to do. She knew that.

  Tiredness?

  Apathy?

  Lows after a high? That happened to her a lot.

  Come on.

  ‘You’ve got a recorder?’ She asked

  ‘Sure.’ He reached into his pocket and took out a Dictaphone. He turned it on.

  Sam put her elbows on the table and rested her chin in her hands. And then she let it all come back to her. Moment by moment. Word for word.

  ‘After you dropped me off, I was taken to a house which I know I can find again, although you’ve probably got it from the mobile’s location. An old man. I can describe him. No blindfold. I have the car details.’ She gave the make and registration number. ‘I was searched … by an old woman,’ she stuttered; closed her eyes and held back tears. Would they have been tears of anguish? Or tears of frustration. Never mind. Push on through. ‘Same again. I can describe her. I had to leave everything behind except my notebook and pen.’

  ‘It’s a good job you’ve got a retentive memory.’

  She opened her eyes.

  ‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘About 30 minutes later I was picked up by a third man. Who I can also describe. Younger. More brutish. The car was a Mark II Ford Focus. Dark in colour. I couldn’t get the registration number.’ She didn’t add she was still in shock having been assaulted by the woman. The act had temporarily done something to her brain. ‘I was hooded. We drove for 32 minutes, give or take. I have no idea where to. I tried to remember the route, but he was clever. We could well have ended up back at the same place. Or close to. It was up and down, round and round. I didn’t see the outside of the building - he kept me hooded until I got inside. In fact I only saw two rooms inside the building. Not much, I’m afraid.’

  Sam stopped. Everything was compartmentalised. She’d done track one. She now needed to do track two.

  Vlad was sitting perfectly still.

  ‘Any chance, with decent imagery, you’d be able to follow the route? Find the place?’

  ‘Wait. Don’t put me off. Let me finish everything and then you can ask questions.’

  She started again.

  ‘The main room was the size of a small hall. There was a simple but fulsome spread of food laid on for me on a table at one end, against the wall. Chicken legs. Cut ham. Soda bread. There were some casual chairs and a second, dining, table. A kitchen in one corner.’ Sam pointed around the room they were in, as if in comparison. ‘The other half of the room was set out a bit like a throne room. There was a large ornate chair, painted poorly in gold and red, against the far wall, a coffee table with fruit, and two standard wooden chairs facing the “throne”. That’s where the interview was going to happen. The room had three doors - again I can sketch it for you - and two heavily blacked out windows. One of the doors led outside. It was half-paved; no blind. A second was the one I came in through. And the third, by the feast, led to, let’s call it, “the mortar room”.’

  ‘So they’ve got the mortars?’ Vlad interrupted.

  Sam sighed and gave him a withering look.

  ‘Sorry.’ He added.

  ‘I’d asked countless questions of the first old man and then the second driver on both the journeys, but they didn’t talk - other than issue orders. Once in the room I had my hood removed and was told to eat by the second man. I asked him when I was going to meet Kutnetsov. He said I’d meet him once I’d eaten.’

  Sam stopped again. This time it was to reach across the table and move Vlad’s cup so it was in harmony with the table top. It was doing her head in.

  She thought as she spoke. She could do that. She could recount something whilst thinking about something else - the next sentence, or another thing she might need to sort in her brain.

  The whole thing had been a bizarre experience. All, she reckoned, three hours of it.

  First was Kutnetsov. He certainly wasn’t your regular Islamic terrorist.

  She’d eaten - on her own - at the dining table. It seemed polite and, following the Army’s maxim of ‘eat when you can’, it also seemed sensible. Whilst she scoffed, and made a mental note of every inch of the room, the driver had paced impatiently around the hall.

  After half-an-hour Kutnetsov had made a grand entrance. He was all big gestures glitzed with smart jeans, Nike sneakers, an open-necked shirt, off-white bomber jacket, gold necklace and sunglasses. Sam reckoned he was late-thirties, slim but strong, crew-cut dark hair and a minimal beard.

  And he came in alone. No entourage, less her driver who stayed with them.

  ‘You must be Varvara Koslov?’ Good Russian with an accent she thought was southern Ossetian. He thrust out a hand, showing off two heavy gold rings. ‘So good to meet you.’ He continued. Sam shook his hand. ‘Please, please, sit.’ A sweeping arm movement pointing to one of the chairs by the ‘throne’.

  He let her get ahead. She sat - but he stood by his chair. And then, with a grandeur that almost made Sam laugh, he sat. Then it came to her. It was if Sacha Baron Cohen was playing the leader of a terror cell. Reuters journalist meets fake freedom fighter; but she had seen through his disguise.

  Don’t worry, it’ll be my secret.

  They spoke for over an hour. Sam didn’t recall every word for Vlad. Just the salient points. They’d spent most of the time talking about him. His childhood. His schooling. His country. His parents and his brothers. He even told her that he liked The Beatles. ‘You know. Love, love me, do.’ Sam had nodded. If only you knew. It was like being on a chat show - she was James Corden. And he was, well, some celebrity there to promote his new TV series.

  And then, with a glance over Sam’s shoulder to her driver, and as if he remembered he was responsible for killing 25 people with a bus bomb in Moscow, he changed tack. The benign banality ceased. Now he was all bravado and menace. Although in an Ali G fashion.

  It started ideologically. For Vlad, Sam recounted what she considered was the odd key phrase. Word for word.

  ‘The world has forgotten us. We will not be forgotten. We are a nation not defined by the imposition of other people’s boundaries. We are a brotherhood. Ossetian Muslims live here. And there. Everywhere.’ His unbounded geography accompanied by plenty of hand gestures. He paused in thought, as if remembering something important. ‘We are a people. We will not be confined by the vagaries of others. We will do as we wish. We will do what is right. We will march. And we will fight.’

  Up until this point Sam had only asked the odd question to keep him talking. She’d made notes as Kutnetsov had talked, although, unless someone sucked her brain out with a straw, she didn’t need notes. But it seemed the right thing to do.

  ‘And you were responsible for the Moscow Bombing?’ She interjected.

  His eyes lit up in recognition.

  ‘Yes. And there will be others. We have weapons and expertise. We have guns and killers.’

  They continued for another half an hour. Sam interrogated him on the size of the FFO, which Kutnetsov seemed to make up as he went along. And then change. She moved onto weaponry, likely MOs, timings - targets.

  ‘You think I’m stupid?’

  Well …

  ‘We have targets. But I will not share this with a journalist.’ And then a light came on upstairs. ‘We have one big target …’
He stood as his hands demonstrated a large explosion. ‘... yes, we have a big target.’ And then, abruptly, he sat. It was like watching a kindergarten nativity play.

  Another glance behind her. ‘It could be anywhere. Anywhere!’, as though he’d just shared state secrets. This time Sam glanced over her shoulder and found her driver. He had a face of granite and looked much more like a man who would pull the trigger than Kutnetsov.

  She looked to her front. Kutnetsov seemed to understand what was going through Sam’s mind.

  ‘Come, let me show you.’ Action was required.

  The next 20 minutes was an armoury display. Sure enough the FFO had five 120 millimetre Podnos mortars and 453 high explosive rounds. She’d counted. In the corner of the ‘mortar room’ were 12 pallets, each of which carried 40 rounds. There were 27 empty spaces – probably rounds fired at the Russian Army checkpoint, and maybe a couple for practice in the local forests. In addition there was a wooden rack holding 14 AK47s, 15 cases of Russian Army 7.62 millimetre shorts - each of which carried 600 rounds, and three pistols of varying makes. The AKs looked in good nick, as did the mortars. The pistols, not so much. But that wasn’t an issue. Pistols with a top-loading magazine rarely seize unless the spring in the magazine had gone soft.

  Sam made appropriate noises and asked some journalist-type questions.

  ‘Aren’t those green tubes, mortars? How do they work exactly?’

  What was amusing was Kutnetsov made up most of his responses. He overplayed the mortars’ range - by double, as he did the explosive effect of a single high explosive round on a well-built structure. Mind you, 453 rounds landing within 100 metres of each other would do a good job of bringing down a nuclear power station. As he spoke Sam again felt the presence of her driver, over her shoulder. He was clearly the power behind the throne.

  Why had they chosen Sacha Baron Cohen as their front man?

  After the weaponry display, and now at God knows what hour of the morning - Sam had left her watch with the woman and there was no clock in either room - they had ‘tea’. Her driver did the honours; there was a sink and a workbench by the outside door. She and Kutnetsov retook their positions: throne and questioning seat. The tea was served in small china cups; no milk, but already heavily sugared. Sam was running out of puff, so she was glad of the sugar infusion.