‘Where do you think the FFO will be in a year’s time?’ There was no refill of tea. The meeting was drawing to a natural conclusion.
The question caught Kutnetsov off guard. It was as though he’d not thought it through. As though there was no campaign. It was violence for violence sake.
‘An Islamic Ossetia - with an expanded border to the north, beyond The Caucasus Mountains.’ The words came from behind her - from her driver. Raspy and steel-edge.
The power behind the throne.
‘Yes, exactly.’ Kutnetsov added quickly. ‘An independent Islamic country. Bringing together all of the brothers.’
‘And you will be their spiritual leader?’ Sam was pushing it now. She knew Kutnetsov was uncomfortable with the balance of power in the room.
‘Of course! Why not?’ He was indignant. Like a child reminding everyone who owned the only bicycle. ‘It’s time for you to go now. I think that’s enough. I’m tired.’ He stood quickly. Sam let him stand. Unbalance him further. Then she did the same.
She was bored of his bravado - and his access to five 120 millimetre mortars and more rounds than were necessary.
‘You will report this? All of it?’ He snapped at her.
Sam was heading for the door where her driver was standing, holding the hood. She needed to get out of there before she said something that forced him and her driver to interrogate her. Inquisitor becomes inquisitee. She stopped by the door, turned and offered her hand.
‘Of course. My editor will make my report available on the international feed within 24 hours. And then we’ll see which news agencies pick it up. I’m sure there’ll be a lot of interest from Russia and Central Asia.’
He smiled tentatively. And shook her hand … then she was hooded.
‘You can ask questions now.’ Sam checked her watch. She and Vlad had been in the room with the mirror for 40 minutes. It was definitely time for another coffee.
‘The whole thing sounded really strange, as though he wasn’t an ideological terrorist at all?’ Vlad asked.
‘I think that’s right. He’s a front. And what’s pissing me off is I can’t make out why. And, if you discount the old man and woman, I only saw two of them. Kutnetsov and the driver. And there was another thing …’, Sam paused.
‘What was that?’
‘The iconography was all wrong. I’ve studied terrorist locations before. And they’re much more basic. Stark. Bleached. There might be the odd picture of Mecca hanging on the wall. Maybe a likeness of Mohammad, although hard-liners don’t like to second-guess what their prophet might have looked like. But not much else. Last night there was a poster of a mountain range. There was a painting of a local scene with a farmer and an ox. Above the sink was a calendar. It was unmarked, but at its top was the logo for a garage - like you and I might have in our kitchen. And the food was too grand, and there was too much of it. It all very … well, Western. It wasn’t right. As though they’d hired the village hall and been told not to mess with it.’
Vlad didn’t say anything for a second.
‘So, if they’re not Islamic terrorists, then what’s their point? Why plan to bomb a nuclear power plant in Russia?’ He asked the obvious question.
‘I don’t know. Unless …’ Sam paused.
‘Unless what?’
‘Unless they’re not terrorists as we remember them? Maybe they’re part of this whole neo-terror shenanigan. You know. Terror for the sake of it?’ It didn’t make much sense to Sam, but it was an option.
‘Well whatever they are, we need to track them down before they create the worst nuclear disaster since Chernobyl.’ Vlad had stood. He’d taken Sam’s cup and now picked up his own. ‘Can you find it? The village hall?’
Sam looked at Vlad and smiled to herself. She really liked him. She trusted him; she always had. She was glad she had taken the assignment. And having had a couple of hours sleep and with another coffee, she’d be ready to help him further.
‘Maybe. I’ve got some markers. One or two details which might help. What I need is the best satellite imagery you have of the area. Maybe 120 square kilometres of where you picked me up? Can you get that?’
‘Sure.’ He paused as he opened the door. ‘Can you get onto your people? You and I both know the CIA have much better definition photographs. And they’d probably be more up to date. Whatever, I’ll get on to my team. We’ll have any imagery that’s available in the system on my desk before we touch down in Moscow. OK?’
Sam didn’t say anything. She just nodded. She’d get in touch with Frank now. She was sure SIS would get her the images.
As the door closed she put her head back in her hands and closed her eyes.
She hadn’t told Vlad about the abuse.
What would be the point?
And she hadn’t told him what had happened when she’d been dropped back at the first house.
Still hooded, her driver had taken her to the front door where, now with dawn struggling against the gradient of the mountains, she’d been met by the old man. He’d shown her in and pointed to her stuff which was still lying on the table. It was all there - except she was 10,000 roubles short.
‘Where’s the rest of my money?’ It was tired question. She knew where it was. And she knew she wasn’t getting any of it back.
‘Expenses.’ The man smiled a toothless smile.
Sam raised her eyebrows, collected her stuff and put it in various pockets. She picked up her phone last and texted Vlad.
Come and get me. Please. S.
‘You’ll take me back to where you picked me up?’ She asked the old man.
‘Da.’ He looked ready to go.
Sam thought for a second.
‘Where’s the old woman?’
‘Sleeping.’ He pointed through the second door.
‘I need to use the toilet.’ Sam asked.
The old man pointed to the same door.
‘Be quiet. She doesn’t like to be wakened. And be quick. We need to go.’
I bet she doesn’t.
Sam tentatively opened the door. It led into a single room that was partitioned with a curtain. She was sure the drapes rippled with the old woman’s snores.
The loo was a further door ahead. She could just make it out in the half light. As she opened it she spotted two orange and rust gas cylinders to her left, half hidden by some old wood and newspaper. One had a hose leading back the way she had come. Probably to the cooker.
She opened the loo door and pulled it to - leaving just enough of a gap for some light. She dropped her trousers and peed.
Finished, she sorted herself out and didn’t flush.
Back in the partitioned room and with a real desire not to wake her abuser, she stopped by the gas cylinders. At first she didn’t know why. And then the devil whispered in her ear.
Sam gripped the tap of the cylinder that didn’t have a hose attached. She twisted it a half-turn. The smell of LPG was instant - as was the high pressure whine of escaping gas. Quickly she twisted the tap so it almost closed. The whine slowed to a hiss, but didn’t stop
Then she was through the door to the main room, shutting it swiftly behind her.
‘Let’s go.’ She said.
Joint Intelligence Committee (JIC), Whitehall, London
‘Well, Tristram, what have we got?’ The chair of the JIC, Grahame Mills, shot the question across the table to Tristram Michael, the Director General Capability of The Security Service - better known as MI5. Within the rarefied atmosphere of the UK’s intelligence services the title was abbreviated to ‘The Service’. Between them and SIS the more colloquial terms ‘Box’ or ‘Thames’ were often used. Jane preferred ‘The Service’, and it had stuck with her. Whilst most of her colleagues referred to SIS, or MI6, as ‘SIS’, she was very fond of using SIS’s Vauxhall address ‘Babylon’ to describe where she worked. There was still plenty of discussion as to how that term had come into use. SIS’s headquarters was a modern, pink-block pyramidal structure r
ight on the Thames. It was built in a 1930s modernist style on the site of the old Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens. And whilst there was little foliage hanging from the stepped structure, it didn’t take much imagination to transport yourself back over millennia to Mesopotamia - and spot the connection. Babylon worked for her, so she forgave anyone for using any term they wished for SIS or MI5.
Tristram Michael - no decorations, which Jane thought probably hurt as he’d been in The Service since Oxford - had an open tablet in front of him. He tapped at it and the briefing screen at the end of the teak oval table burst into life. The opening slide was The Service’s logo, a blue crown and portcullis perched on a lion, surrounded by a circle of hieroglyphics that Jane had never attempted to decipher. Tristram swiped at the screen and the first slide appeared. It was an empty map of the UK.
‘This is what we have.’ He nodded to the screen - and paused. ‘Before you ask for my resignation, let me explain. We have a verified threat, that is three separate unconnected sources, of a planned Level 4 or 5 attack on the UK’s infrastructure. Within the next 48 hours. The three sources are all “gold” and their handlers are working them into a frenzy to try and establish exactly what “UK’s infrastructure” means. There is no attributable organisation, no links via the Prevent programme and nothing from our city centre open-connections, mosques and similar. It’s all blank. It’s as though whatever is being planned is being enacted by a new grouping, maybe one of the neo-terrorist cells - spawned out of thin air.’
‘When did you get corroboration?’ Grahame Mills again. He was both a Companion of The Most Distinguished Order of St Michael and St George, CMG, and had been awarded an OBE earlier in his career. Impressive, though hardly a chestful.
Stop it - that’s two more than I have.
Jane was distracted. It was a heady meeting of ‘greats and goods’. No matter how many times she crossed the river to attend the JIC she was always on edge. Apart from being the youngest in the room, she was also the only woman - other than the scribe, who sat off the table. Her name was Susan. When the weight of what they were discussing made her shoulders ache, Jane sometimes wondered what it must be like to have less responsibility - such as Susan. But that thought never lasted long.
She attended the JIC on behalf of C. She was the senior operational director in Babylon and, whilst C did attend on occasions, The Service and SIS both sent second-tier officers. It wasn’t a case of belittling the committee, it was more that Jane had a better handle on the detail of operations, certainly in her AO, than C. It made sense for her to attend.
‘Last night. Hence this emergency meeting.’ Tristram continued. ‘I know all of our teams have been talking, but the PM wants a brief before lunch. We need to get out heads together and come up with something.’ Tristram opened his hands to the room. ‘Before I go on, has anyone got anything?’
First up was Mike Bevill, Head of UK Communications at GCHQ (no post nominals - yet). He raised his hand.
‘Just to clear our deck. We have nothing. Sorry. The thing is, we’ve been awash with chatter since Christmas. Non-specific, highly threatening and in the UK, apart from the Rochdale bomb and the Glasgow supermarket shooting, none of it materialised. Hoaxes - wishful thinkers. That sort of thing. With all the noise we could well have a feed that might be linked to the threat, but there’s just too much going on. It’s a case of wheat and chaff, I’m afraid. And our services abroad are not much better. Sorry. Again’
‘What about Counterterrorism. Bradley?’ The question from Grahame was to Bradley Smyth: Head of Counterterrorism Police. An OBE and the Queen’s Police Medal - for gallantry.
That’s impressive.
Bradley Smyth was a touch older than Jane, but still younger than everyone else in the room by about a decade. He always looked permanently tired and ready to bite anyone’s head off. His reputation, on the other hand, was different: considered and calm.
‘We gave Box the first of the three leads. We’ve been working together on this. It’s a girl, out of Dagenham. She’s on the job, but is high class enough to mix it with some money. She has clients in the City, as well as some extremely well paid low-life. The talk is of something new; something different. The place is abuzz with speculation. Even the hoods want to know what’s coming. It’s unprecedented. Like some sort of reality TV show. And it’s only come to a head very recently.’
Jane would be asked next, and then Brigadier Johnny Walters CBE DSO MC and bar - Director Special Forces. The CBE was for hard work at a senior level. The DSO - Distinguished Service Order - for leading a large number of Special Forces soldiers on dangerous operations. And the MC - and bar. Two Military Crosses; one level down from the Victoria Cross. That’s bravery under fire. Twice. And the Brits don’t give out gallantry medals without very good reason. Jane had seen Johnny in his dress uniform. As well as the three major decorations he had two rows of medals from every conceivable conflict the UK had been involved in in recent years. She’d heard he was the Army’s most decorated soldier. That was impressive.
‘Jane?’ Grahame asked.
‘Nothing from overseas. We have a number of foci: next week’s Botswanan election for example. The view is that the original attack was a one-off, part of the NT’s (neo-terrorism’s) network of spreading random terror around the globe. Also, in conjunction with the intelligence services of India and Argentina, we’re still mopping up yesterday’s attacks on the hydroelectric plant north of Patna, India, and the extraordinary arson of a major ranch in Reo Negro province, Argentina. That attack, which killed 850 cattle, has, we think, an NT marker: expect the unexpected. So, sorry, we have nothing to add to the detail. Other than, whatever we are looking for, think outside the box.’
Grahame nodded. He looked across from Jane.
‘And Johnny? Anything from Special Forces?’
‘No.’
Not even a shake of his head.
Jane knew that was coming. Not that Johnny had nothing to add, it was just if he didn’t he wouldn’t elaborate unnecessarily. Why use ten words when one will do.
‘So …’, Grahame summarised, ‘... what am I going to tell the PM?’
Tristram raised a finger.
‘I hadn’t quite finished.’ He swiped on his tablet. The map of the UK was now alive with colour; lines and dots all over the map. ‘It’s difficult to get in the mind of these particular terrorists as we have no idea who they are, or what MO they might use. Stepping back from the here and now we at The Service have come to the same conclusion as SIS. ‘Neo-terrorism’ is a coordinated phenomenon. Pulled together by some extraordinary global power. Could be the Russians, although unlikely. Could be a cartel of some form …’.
‘With the aim of?’, Grahame interrupted. ‘There must be an ambition to all of this?’
There was a pause. Jane filled it.
‘Not sure. But our profilers have developed a sophisticated mind map which leads to one of two possible conclusions: revenge or money. They’ve dismissed ideological.’
That drew silence from the team.
‘Revenge?’ Johnny eventually asked.
‘Someone, some party, with money and resources …’ Jane continued, ‘... is going out of their way to punish the world for having being blighted in the past.’
Jane looked directly at Johnny.
He scoffed. ‘That’s fantastical. Something from a Bond movie. Has anyone given Daniel Craig a call?’
A thin smile then broke on Johnny’s face. If his comment was meant to be cutting, Jane didn’t let it sink too deep.
She continued. ‘We’re currently looking at the world’s 100 richest individuals. Take Reyansh Ahuja, the Indian billionaire, for example. He’s in the top five. He recently lost badly in the Indian elections, his wife died last year of cancer and he has no children. He has made countless bitter comments in the Indian broadsheets about the state of his country. He’s a possibility.’
Jane smiled for the Director of Special Forces, and added, ‘And C�
��s got an interview with Daniel this afternoon. Pierce and Roger have slots for tomorrow morning.’
There was a chuckle from around the room.
‘OK, everyone. Let’s park that for a second.’ Grahame pointed at Tristram. ‘Finish what you started.’
‘We have, as Jane suggested, thought outside the box. The schematic shows what we would attack if we wanted to create the greatest havoc, for the least effort. Something extraordinary. Headline catching. Pulled off by a team of two, maybe three, no more. But with plenty of access to cash.’ Tristram swiped again and much of the colour disappeared. What was left was an overlay showing the regional airports.
‘Air travel. If you ignore the London based internationals, we have 38 regionals that fly internationally, that is those where you can travel overseas on a passenger plane with capacity of over 100 - say a 737. To make an attack, all you need is fifteen grand. With that you can buy yourself a gen-two heat-seeking missile from the black market. Another twenty will get you a handheld simulator. So you can practice before firing the real thing ...’
‘You mean, like a US Stinger or Russian SA-14. Both fire-and-forget, heat-seeking missiles, launched from the shoulder?’ Johnny asked dryly.
‘Yes, or the UK’s defunct Blowpipe.’ Tristram added.
‘Indeed.’ Johnny again. ‘You have to understand they are notoriously difficult to use. It seems simple enough: acquire the target in the optics, place the crosshairs on the fuselage and fire.’ Johnny made the noise of a missile leaving the tube. ‘The missile heads off to the target and if it’s lucky it recognises what it’s heading for is hotter than the surrounding sky and tracks using infrared. But nine out of ten missiles go rogue, unless they are in the hands of a practiced operator. It’s about the launch. You should try keeping a fast moving jet in the crosshairs. It’s a real skill, although I grant you that 737s are pretty sedentary.’ He paused, as if thinking. Then, ‘And at 25,000 feet the target is too high and too far away for both the shooter and the weapon - so you’re looking at placing the operator close to the airport. Maybe within a couple of klicks.’
On the Back Foot to Hell Page 13