On the Back Foot to Hell

by Roland Ladley

  ‘We think so. Say within a 2-mile radius. Not too close. Not too far.’ Tristram added.

  ‘And, in terms of terror, we’re talking reliving nine-eleven.’

  Tristram nodded, waited for the gravity of Johnny’s comment to sink in and then swiped at his tablet.

  A different set of dots appeared. Jane recognised them immediately. They were the UK major power stations.

  Tristram continued. ‘Moving on. This is a schematic of all of the UK power stations over 1,000 megawatts. Same sort of detail in terms of attack, although you would need to spend less money. Possibly a handheld anti-tank rocket fired at a nuclear power plant. Maybe a couple. Finding the radioactive core is not too difficult. Google would give you that if you looked hard enough. However, the shooters would have to be very lucky to affect a nuclear catastrophe. The core is very well protected. But ... if they had an insider with detailed knowledge of the site they could target the waste area. If they were lucky they might be able to disperse some contaminated material.’

  Jane raised her hand.

  ‘Yes, Jane?’ It was Grahame.

  ‘If we’re short of resources, which depending on the number of slides Tristram’s got, I guess we will be, I’d discount an attack on a nuclear power plant.’

  ‘Why?’ Tristram asked.

  ‘Because what we’ve learnt so far is if you ignore small time bombings, shootings and vehicle attacks, NT never strikes twice. Their major targets are all different and left field.’ She paused for a second. ‘We’re currently in liaison with the Russian FSB about a possible attack on the Novo Voronezhskaya Aes nuclear plant, north of the Caucasus Mountains in southern Russia. The MO is very likely to be mortars. On that basis I’d discount an attack on a UK nuclear facility for copycat reasons. However, I wouldn’t dismiss mortars as a weapon of choice. They’re easy and cheap to procure - and can put down a lot of firepower, really quickly. As we know the IRA used to make them in their garden sheds and weld them to the back of a flatbed truck. Ignore a nuclear plant. Don’t ignore mortars as an attack method.’

  Jane had spoken with Sam on the way over. She was just about to get on the plane and fly to Moscow. It seemed her trip to South Ossetia had been a success … in that she had got in and out again without injury. Sam’s line was that the FFO were a pack of cards, short-term funded and resourced by whoever the NT kingpin was. She was unconvinced of any ideological rigour behind their existence. It would be just another terror attack. And a significant one too. Sam had added that she was unsure if the FSB agreed with her. But Jane and Sam concurred that the FSB needed the FFO to be a functioning Islamic terror group because it added grist to any heavy-handed action they took in the region.

  The room agreed with Jane’s prognosis, and nuclear power plants were removed as potential targets.

  Over the next ten minutes Tristram threw up slides of motorway services, major malls, train lines and sidings, all local government hubs, and major ports. All in all there were 237 potential targets. They then discussed recommending closing down some of the targets for 48 hours until the threat window closed. Choices included regional airports and some major train routes. But they quickly discounted any such action.

  ‘And what about the current threat level?’ Bradley asked the group. ‘As at now it’s at SUBSTANTIAL. Do we raise it to SEVERE, or even CRITICAL?’

  The committee knew the decision would be the Prime Minister's, but they had to offer a recommendation.

  ‘I’m going to recommend SEVERE when I meet the PM in about an hour.’ Grahame concluded. ‘But, I’m also going to ask you, Bradley, to call a press briefing. Give the public as much as you need. Sixty million eyes on the case will help a lot.’ He paused for a second, then added, ‘Do we have any choice?’

  Grahame let the question hang for a couple of seconds. But there were no dissenters. An alert public were easily the best intelligence service.

  ‘Before I close the meeting, has anyone got anything else?’

  Jane was tempted to talk through her work from the printed map in her office. She now had a list of the countries which had yet to be subject to an NT attack. There were 42 across the world. Twenty-four hours ago there were 43 but, after yesterday’s Argentinian ranch attack, that had been reduced by one.

  At her own meeting this morning one of her team had pointed out that one effect of the last six months had been a gradual reduction in the value of the world’s stock markets. The Dow Jones had dropped by22% since May, and that was against very strong economic data. Markets liked certainty; they hated turbulence. She thought this was important.

  ‘It might be worth keeping an eye on the markets.’ Jane said. ‘The Dow is currently just over 21,000, that’s down 15% this year. And the FTSE is significantly below 7,000 for the first time since January. If, say, the NT motive was financial, it might be worth the Treasury or GCHQ looking at who’s buying as the market drops, as opposed to who’s selling. If you drive the price down with global terror, and then buy at the bottom, you could make 25% overnight?’ Jane didn’t think it was a stupid idea.

  ‘But is 25% enough? How much has it cost the NT mastermind so far? He, or they, need to recoup his cash - and some?’ Tristram interjected.

  ‘It’s a good point, Jane.’ Grahame raised his hand to stop the discussion. ‘Let me finish with a tasker. Rough order stuff. Jane, I want SIS to cost the terror attacks so far. Assuming the NT network can hire the staff, shooters and bombers - how much money would you need to buy terror at this level of intensity. And, maybe if you match that with one of your disaffected billionaires, you might get lucky? Happy, Jane?’

  That made complete sense to her.

  We’re on it.

  MAXXI Museo nazionale delle arti del XXI secolo, Rome, Italy

  Gareth checked his watch. It was 2.30 pm. He needed to finish up. If he were lucky he could get back to his apartment before it was late. First, though, he wanted to spend a final five minutes with Extinction, one of Mateo Monza’s very best works.

  He was sitting on a concrete bench, surrounded by white concrete walls lit beautifully by natural light from the glass ceiling. It was the perfect gallery. For the perfect picture.

  For the uninitiated, Extinction was just splodges of primary colours on a huge canvas. Swirls and straight lines. Big blocks of red, and swathes of royal blue. But there were also blacks and whites. Yellows and greens. It was a cacophony of colour.

  Squint your eyes and you could pick out a coastline. Maybe a field and some farm animals. A mountain here. A valley there. Or, it was all of humanity - all colours and creeds - mixed together? The global village on one canvas.

  If that were the finished article then it was a very well executed picture. A map of everything. On a grand scale.

  But that wasn’t all. Mateo had added something else. More accurately taken something away.

  The canvas had been slashed - in six places. Like it had been vandalised, but the museum had decided to leave it hanging where it had been attacked. A desecrated masterpiece.

  But the knife had been wielded by Monza. To make a significant point.

  It showed the world - but at the same time portraying its demise.

  Death of the humanity.

  Extinction.

  It was genius. And Gareth let it sink in for a few seconds more.

  …

  I must go.

  He stood, picked up his well-weathered satchel which he threw over his shoulder, and headed for the exit. As he passed works by Enrico Del Debbio and Vittorio De Fao, he revisited last night’s trip to Giorgio’s restaurant.

  It had been completely fruitless.

  Nothing. Not a dickie-bird.

  It was as though Giorgio had never worked there. He’d pestered every member of staff he could find, but they’d closed ranks.

  ‘No, scusa.’

  Sorry.

  Nothing.

  It didn’t make any sense. None at all.

  After 20 minutes the manager had ask
ed him to leave, and ushered him out of the restaurant. He was being a nuisance. Asking too many questions.

  On the street he turned to take one last look at the restaurant. The manager, who on first meeting seemed like a really nice man, had stood in the doorway with his arms crossed. Sweat was dripping from his brow. He was agitated. Upset.

  Then he mouthed, dimenticalo.

  It had taken Gareth a few seconds to translate.

  Forget him.

  Forget him?

  Gareth couldn’t forget him. He couldn’t forget his passion - his love. And he couldn’t forget the mysteriousness of everything that surrounded the last twenty-four hours.

  He couldn’t.

  But he could be distracted. For a short while.

  He’d found a suitable gallery. One within a train’s ride of Naples that allowed him to get near to Mateo Monza. To soak up some of the atmosphere. To be energised by his work. To enable him to overcome any fear he had. And to allow him to start to unpick the question he’d set himself for his dissertation: The Mafia’s involvement in Italian art.

  He was being irresponsible. He knew that. He should leave well alone. He knew that too. That’s what they’d told him to do. Them; whoever the hell they were.

  The manager and the staff of the restaurant. They’d joined the list of ‘them’.

  But, do you know what? Fuck them.

  Fuck them.

  He wouldn’t be terrorised by a bunch of Mafia lunatics. He had lost his love. Gone.

  But he had found Extinction.

  He now had something to fill some of the void.

  So, fuck them. All of them.

  With added energy he passed through the museum’s entrance hall and skipped down the steps into the harsh light of Rome’s mid-afternoon sun.

  Which way?

  Left. About 100 yards to the nearest metropolitana, and then connect to Rome’s Termini station, and a train home.

  He felt strong. Alive. Invigorated.

  But he didn’t make 100 yards.

  He hardly made 20.

  As soon as he left the museum, a Vespa carrying a pillion pulled up behind him. The passenger, with a rucksack, got off. As he did he pulled out a short baseball bat from this sack.

  Gareth sensed something wasn’t right; something peripheral. But it was Rome. It was busy. Cars. People. Scooters. There was noise and movement. Sounds and colours.

  What was that?

  A scream from across the street?

  And then an overwhelming sense of pain.

  Fuc…! His mind didn’t complete the expletive.

  The bat smacked the back of his head as such a rate it cracked his skull and sent his brain into vibration; soft tissue against hard bone. Capillaries broke and blood seeped into spaces it wasn’t meant to go.

  An image. Colours. Primary. Everything. The whole world.

  Slashed.

  Someone with a bat that seemed to glisten in the sun.

  Then the colours were gone. All was dark.

  The man with the bat was unrecognisable. Mid-sized and unremarkably dressed. He wore a full-faced helmet with a tinted visor. His approach was casual. Arrogant. He had time on his hands.

  So much so that before he jumped back on the scooter he placed a small rectangular card in Gareth’s satchel.

  It read: Lascialo solo.

  Leave him alone.

  Chapter 7

  Headquarter of FSB, Lubyanka Building, Moscow, Russia

  Sam stretched her back and closed her eyes. What a day. She’d been sitting on her backside for over eight hours. Vlad’s interrogation. The three-hour flight. An hour in Moscow traffic. And now two and a half hours into - she didn’t know how long - a mad dash trying to find the ‘village hall’.

  Vlad had been as good as his word. On arrival at FSB Headquarters she’d immediately had access to some decent satellite overheads of the area around last night’s drop-off point. The images were ten days old, but the resolution was good enough for what she needed. As a precaution she’d phoned Jane before she’d boarded the flight to Moscow. She’d updated her on her meeting with Ali G and asked if she could put a bid in for some SIS imagery. Jane had quizzed her in some detail about her ‘interview’ - and Sam had gleaned a few things in return. Jane couldn’t elaborate too much as the line was insecure, but apparently things were coming to a bit of a head in the UK and what Sam had given her might well be useful for an emerging threat in the UK. The upshot was that Sam should liaise with Frank and ask for what imagery she wanted … within reason. Each 100 square kilometre overhead came via Langley and cost SIS $1500. Jane wasn’t prepared to give Sam a blank cheque.

  Her chat with Frank had been a frenetic combination of, ‘God, it’s good to speak to you, Sam. How are you?’, and, ‘Look, Frank. I’ve got a plane to catch. If I give you some lat and longs, could you get me the best imagery you can of a 1600 kilometre square box? I need normal and IR.’

  Frank was a sweetheart and a superb analyst. He was also uber-reliable and worked outside any boundaries he’d been set. He’d been electronically at Sam’s side through some of her most difficult moments with SIS. And had never let her down.

  Frank told her the overheads would be with her by midnight tonight - Zulu. That would make it 3 am tomorrow, Moscow time. Sam was pretty convinced she’d still be awake, or at least attempting to stay awake, at that point. Unless she was lucky and the Russian images gave her what she wanted.

  She focused back on the screen. Unfortunately the FSB hadn’t yet been issued with high-definition monitors. But, as she’d begun her analyst's life looking at printed black and white photographs using a handheld magnifying glass, being able to zoom in with a mouse and having half-decent image correction software to sharpen any pixilation, was definitely a bonus.

  Sam had decided to search a forty-by-forty kilometre box, centred on where Vlad had dropped her off. She reckoned, as the crow flies, the farthest distance to the old man and woman’s house was five klicks. Then, if you drove at twenty klicks an hour - the speed her second driver would have managed on the local roads - it gave a maximum arc of an additional 15 klicks. That had formed a clear image in her head: forty-by-forty it was.

  She’d used an e-gridding tool to break the available mapping into kilometre squares; 1600 blocks in all. She’d discounted anything north of the Russian border - that had removed 273 blocks. Using the FSB’s terrain overlay she was able to strikethrough a further 1125 blocks where the gradient was too steep for habitation.

  That left 202 blocks, each one kilometre square.

  She’d got that far within 30 minutes of acquainting herself with her new office - a pokey room with a single door and a window that wouldn’t open. The view was of the Lubyanka’s quad. It was hardly inspiring stuff.

  Vlad had booted up the computer and assigned her necessary access. Then he wheeled himself out and returned with a thermos of coffee and some rubbish Russian biscuits, made of sand and lard. But it was sustenance for now.

  ‘Have you found where you were first taken to? The house with the old man and woman?’ He’d asked whilst peering over her shoulder as best he could with his limited movement.

  Wait.

  She was concentrating - and raised a hand to shut him up. And, come on, she’d only been on the system for fifteen minutes …

  … but she was close.

  ‘There.’ She pointed at the screen. ‘This is the route we took.’ Whilst keeping a finger on her right hand marking the location, Sam used a finger on her left hand to plot out the drive.

  ‘If you hover the mouse pointer on it and right-click, you’ll get coordinates. And we can then check those with what we got from your phone.’

  I know.

  Sam moved the mouse, clicked and read out the lat and long of the house.

  The one with the gas cooker and the leaky bottle.

  Her brain instantaneously went to mush. She felt her pelvic floor slacken and she was petrified that she was going to wet hers
elf. It was all too much. She needed proper sleep in a proper bed. She needed normality. A life away from abuse, violence, guns and terror; where she didn’t feel the need to try and kill another human being with liquid petroleum gas.

  Get a grip. The woman’s not worth it.

  Vlad seem to notice Sam’s short descent into the abyss. He scribbled down the coordinates on a scrap of paper he had in his hand. When he’d finished he rested a hand on her forearm.

  Focus resumed. Just.

  ‘Are you going to do something with that now?’ She didn’t look away from the screen.

  ‘Yeah. Sure. I’ve got a team on standby. If your two old people are there, then they can be interrogated … and, how do you Brits say? “Bob’s your uncle?”’

  She caught his smile from the corner of her eye.

  Sam stopped looking at the screen and turned her head to face Vlad. He was washed out; as on edge as she was.

  She hesitated.

  ‘I’m not sure that’s the best thing to do. You’ll spook them. There’ll be some form of immediate contact procedure. Hit the house and the mortars will be on the back of a Kamaz before you have time start pulling their fingernails out …’

  ‘We don’t …!’ Vlad protested; Sam interjected.

  ‘Whatever. Give me five hours. Have your team on standby for a dawn raid. Either I’ll have the coordinates of the village hall by then, or your people can take out the old folks’ home.’

  Vlad thought for a second. He clearly wasn’t convinced. He had a target. He had the men. It made complete sense to him. A large magnet was pulling the two together. And subtlety wasn’t FSB’s strongpoint. Bigger the problem, bigger the hammer.

  ‘OK. OK.’ He looked across at a non-existent clock on the wall. ‘We’ll have them ready to move at 3 am.’