The door opened. A man Sam didn’t recognise came in. He was casually dressed: jeans and a sweat top. He was carrying Sam’s rucksack.
He and the shouty man had a conversation. Sam didn’t speak Hungarian but picked up the odd word. She was to be released now. That’s all that mattered.
Shouty-embassy man turned to her.
‘Come on, Miss Green. We have to get you out of the country. Now.’
He was through the door first - chivalry obviously lost on today’s diplomatic corps? Sam followed on, collecting her bag from the man in the jeans and the sweat top. She didn’t pause to say thanks. She needed to find space. To breathe fresh air.
‘There’s a plane to London at 8.15 pm - that’s in two hours’ time. We’ve just got time to make it to the airport. Come on …’
Shouty-embassy man was five steps ahead and his pace was quickening. He communicated with a casual glance over his shoulder. Sam was in tow. She was moving quickly - a light at the end of the tunnel now in view. But she didn’t overly rush. She didn’t want him to think he was in charge.
Three corridors and two metal doors later and they were on the street in downtown Budapest. Sam had no idea exactly where - she’d not rehearsed the map - but it was no further than an hour from the airport.
She stopped at the bottom of a small flight of steps. Shouty-embassy man was ten yards ahead. He pinged his key fob at a Discovery three cars down. Its lights flashed.
‘Come on Green. You’ve got a flight to catch. Come on!’ The passenger door was already open on the Disco. He was pointing at it insides.
Sam ignored him. She took a couple of deep breaths. And closed her eyes for a second. Then she reached into the side pocket of her rucksack and picked out her phone. Thankfully it still had some battery left. She found Jane’s number on speed dial and stabbed at it. It rang twice; Jane picked it up.
‘Sam! Good to hear from you. How did South Ossetia go? I’ve had a read-out from Moscow. But no detail.’ Very Jane. Straight in.
Sam didn’t have chance to reply. Shouty-embassy man was at her shoulder.
‘Green, I told you to get in the car!’
‘One second, Jane.’
Sam dropped the phone to her side and looked at the man. He was red in the face, turning to blotchy. He had a touch of spittle on the end of his bottom lip. He was about to say something else when Sam raised a finger and pushed it to his lips.
‘Shhh,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m on the phone.’
The man pulled his head back.
‘What the …?’ More spittle.
Sam turned away so her back was between shouty-embassy man and her phone call.
‘Hi, Jane. Sorry. I have an irritating guy from our Hungarian Embassy here.’ She shot a quick glance up and down the road. ‘I’m going to put you on speaker for his benefit.’
There was a pause. Jane’s cogs were dealing with Sam being in a new country.
‘Sure, Sam.’ Loud and clear.
‘Who’s that on the phone?’ Shouty-embassy man had come round the front of Sam. He was even more red and more blotchy. She was convinced his tie had dropped a further couple of centimetres.
‘South Ossetia was fine. I’ll call you with the details when we’re at the Embassy …’
‘We’re not going to the Embassy, Green, we’re going to the airport!’
Sam had had enough.
‘One second, Jane.’ She sighed a nasal sigh. ‘Look. Me and my ex-boss from Vauxhall are having a conversation about matters of national importance. In a second you can drive me to the Embassy and I will get out of your hair.’ Not that there’s much of it. ‘In the meantime, be a good chap and give us time to talk.’
That was too much for shouty-embassy man.
‘I don’t know who you think you are, but I’m the Third Secretary. And I couldn’t give a damn who you are talking to. You’re in my country and I’m taking you to the airport.’
He put his hand on Sam’s elbow. Sam inwardly flinched. The last person to get within her personal space hadn’t survived the fire.
Calm.
Jane chirped up.
‘Hi. Who am I speaking to?’
Shouty-embassy man was at a loss. Who should he speak to?
‘Uh. It’s Ralph Lansom. Third Secretary. And who is this?’
‘I can’t give you my position over an insecure line, Mr London.’ Did Jane get his name wrong on purpose? ‘But rest assured I out rank you and your Ambassador. And, you may not have heard but we have an ongoing situation in the North Sea which requires my best attentions. Now, be a sport and let me and my operative finish our conversation in private. Then take her back to the Embassy. I will have spoken to the Ambassador by the time you get there, and he will sort all this out. Happy?’
Sam pulled her arm away from shouty-embassy man. He shook his head, bewildered.
‘Yes, yes of course. Mind you I will be speaking to the Ambassador about this. Whoever you are.’
‘Not before I do, Mr London. Rest assured. Sam? Take us off speaker please.’
Sam did as she was asked.
‘Where were we, Sam?’
‘Ossetia was fine. I’m in Hungary. I was picked up by the TEK at customs. I think there must have been a leak between my Moscow contact and Budapest. I was set up. I was looking into the activities and background of Viktor Molnár. Again, I need to talk to you on a secure line, but I’m pretty sure there’s a link between his recent behaviour and the ‘neo-terrorism’ threat. It’s obscure, almost unbelievable, but somehow I think there’s a clear connection. If I’m right it might help you identify a common cause, unless you have one already?’
There was a pause on the line.
‘That’s interesting, Sam. Do you think the FFO might be part of the NT scene?’ Jane asked.
‘Yes, obscurely. It’s to do with Viktor Molnár’s “leaving the EU” speech the other night. At one point he used exactly the same language as the man in South Ossetia did when he was describing their future. Exactly the same words. There’s no way it could have been a coincidence. And I think my prelim investigations in Moscow set in train a series of events which led to me being arrested.’
‘OK, Sam. Get to the Embassy. I’ll speak to the Ambassador and clear your stay. And I’ll get in touch with “B” and ask her team to give you whatever assistance you need. It’s late here now and I have a bag of things to do. Unless there’s something key, phone me tomorrow?’
‘Sure, Jane, sure. And, Jane?’
‘What, Sam?’
‘Thanks.’
‘No probs. Just stay safe - and help us. We need some oblique thinkers. Currently we’re running into a minefield with no identifiable safe route. And the mines are getting bigger and more deadly.’
‘Will do, Jane.’
Sam hung up.
She looked over her shoulder. Shouty-embassy man was sat in the driver’s seat of the Disco. He was on his mobile.
She sighed. She was only just beginning to feel human again. And she desperately needed something for her headache, some coffee and access to Budapest’s SIS files on Viktor Molnár. She really hoped she wasn’t to get any more shit from the blotchy man with the tie at half-mast.
53°51'59.4" N; 3°12'41.3" E, North Sea
The lounge area had quietened. After the initial uprising once the external doors had been locked, two men and a woman had taken control and the untuned orchestra of screams and shouts and cries had died down. Toffer thought the three were probably off-duty British military who had realised someone needed to get a grip of the braying crowd before it descended into Animal Farm. The three of them had quickly brought order to a group of hugely distraught people who needed someone to grip the chaos.
‘Will you quieten down!’ One of the men, who had stood on a chair, had raised his voice.
The cacophony continued.
‘SHUT UP!’ It was the military woman. Her female scream piercing through the noise like a javelin. She was shorter than
the man, so had made it onto one of the small round tables in the centre of the room. Toffer thought she had looked incredibly natural … born to lead.
Her scream had dampened the noise.
The woman had control.
She continued.
‘Help - will - be - on - its - way. Soon.’ She spoke slowly, seemingly aware of the multilingual audience. ‘We - need - to - remain - calm. We don’t want to attract unnecessary attention to ourselves.’ She pointed to the two bodies by the bar. ‘We have seen what these people are capable of.’ She paused.
God, she’s good. Even Sophie and Amy had lifted their heads from his chest.
‘Has - anyone - got - a - blanket? A rug? To cover the bodies?’ She looked around the room. There was a murmur from Toffer’s right. A man had a picnic rug. He was making his way through the crowd.
‘Good. Thanks.’ She let the man get on with putting together the makeshift morgue. ‘Next - we - need - to - establish, sorry, find - an - area - to - use - as - a - toilet. Toilette.’ People had remained calm. They waited to see what would happen next.
One of the military men had moved to a corner of the lounge area. He picked up a couple of movable chairs and formed a small enclosed area next to the bulkhead. He stood on a chair and pointed at his creation.
‘Toilet. Toilette. Baño.’
Toffer thought three languages was impressive.
The crowd naturally looked back at the woman. She was alone now. The second man had moved behind the bar.
‘We will run the bar. Please - only - one - person - une - personne - from - any - family - at - one - time. We may be here a while, so we must make the food and drink last.’
Toffer looked at the man guarding the bar. He had a crew cut and his blue polo shirt only just held his large frame in place. Nobody was going to argue with him.
The woman then continued with some encouraging words. They would all be OK. Provided everyone remained calm. We were in this together.
That was six hours ago. Nothing else of note had happened. The two terrorists had not returned. Nobody had been shot. People had found their own spaces and a bizarre routine had set in. People used the toilet area - which stank to high heaven, even from this distance - and a steady stream of mostly men had formed an orderly queue at the bar and taken away food and drink for themselves and, where they had them, their families. There had been no harsh words. A refugee camp came to mind.
Amy and Sophie were back in their respective chairs and Toffer had found a space between them on the floor, giving up his chair for a pregnant woman; her partner initially sitting on the chair’s arm, before making himself comfortable on the floor. People were keeping themselves to themselves, but there was a growing sense of camaraderie.
The ship was pitching a bit and Toffer thought if they were under steam, they weren’t travelling very quickly. Ten minutes ago he’d been for a stretch around the lounge, which was two-thirds windows, one-quarter bar and the two locked exits. All he could see outside was black. There was no horizon and no lights. That was no surprise as the sun had disappeared a couple of hours ago. But he expected to see something, surely? A ship? A lighthouse?
But there was nothing. It felt oddly surreal, almost unbalancing. It was as if the ship had been transported into space. He suspected cloud cover blocked out the stars, so there was no help there. There was nothing tangible to hold on to. Gravity was the only certainty.
He’d just sat down and had started to try to get some sleep when he heard a noise that sent his brain into spasm.
It was a quiet noise. Distant.
But deadly?
Beep. Beep. Beep …
It was remorseless.
He could be wrong. It could be anything. There must be tens of different warning noises on a boat this big.
Beep. Beep. Beep …
He could be wrong.
I must be wrong. Please may I be wrong?
Beep. Beep. Beep …
He couldn’t disassociate the sound from the picture in his head. A huge slab of orange and white metal - on its side in the water.
He was old enough to remember The Herald of Free Enterprise. The 6th of March 1987. Just outside Zeebrugge. A car ferry with hundreds of passengers had sailed out of the Belgian port … with the car deck doors open. Water had breached the entrance - an open chasm. The ship’s crew had tried to close the doors, but it had been too late. The boat tilted. The cars, coaches and lorries had followed that lead. The boat was on its side in minutes.
He couldn’t remember the death toll. But he did remember the boat had not sunk completely because it had rolled onto a sandbank. It was almost submerged; but not fully. Lots of people had died.
During the day. Right by the coast. On a sandbank.
They were out of sight of land. Who knew where?
Beep. Beep. Beep …
He could be wrong.
He remembered much of the detail because a friend of his had been on the boat.
And, just once, he’d told Toffer the story.
And once had been enough. For both of them.
His friend had been separated from his wife - she had been sitting at a table (probably in the bar area, like where I am now?) - and he had gone to the duty free. He’d told Toffer that once the boat had tipped and he’d got his bearings, he’d battled his way to the bar.
Which was under water.
His friend remembered where his wife had been sitting. He’d half-walked, half-swum in that direction - he recalled that the water had been perishing. And filthy. Brown freezing liquid, plastic plates and cups.
An upturned body.
His wife’s table was under him then; beneath the water - which was rising.
He’d dived down. Three times. He’d found his wife. She was caught by the table which had moved and pinned her to a bench. Her eyes had been open.
She’d blinked.
His friend had found strength he didn’t know he had. He’d pulled and pushed - his lungs bursting. Something moved, but not enough.
His wife had shaken her head. Go! Go!
She had closed her eyes.
And opened her mouth.
Toffer had read somewhere that drowning is the nicest way to die. Just breathe normally and let your lungs fill with water. You pass out before you feel any pain.
Breathe normally?
His friend had found one last monumental effort.
His wife was free.
They made it to the surface - he had taken multiple short breaths, his wife lifeless in his arms.
He was a strong swimmer. He pulled and dug and swam and, eventually, walked. And dragged.
They were now above the level of the water; at an angle, standing on the wall which was sloping precipitously, the windows, which were letting in light, now an oblique ceiling.
His friend knew CPR. But first he had to get rid of the water? He should have known what to do. Why didn’t he know what to do?
Then a Frenchman slid to his side. He took control. The man rolled his wife over, put his fingers in her mouth and slapped her back. Water dribbled from her lips.
The boat tipped! It was almost completely on its side. Water rushed about. Their world turning upside down.
All three of them slipped back into the water, His wife headfirst.
His friend’s description of the next ten minutes had been frantic - a story told in panic. He and the Frenchman had pulled his wife from the water again and rested her on her back next to a diagram of the innards of the boat. They worked as a team. His friend had held her body steady whilst the man tried to breathe life into her.
It lasted a minute - maybe two?
And then magic. A cough and a splutter. Sick - all over the Frenchman. More coughing.
Tears from his friend, both then and as he retold the story.
And hugs … briefly ...
… and the final escape, climbing up and over the furniture that was screwed down. He’d implored the Frenchman to move on. V
ite! Vite! The Frenchman had acknowledged his shout, and he’d quickly got ahead.
His friend had dragged his wife, and she had helped where she could.
Eventually they’d made it to an opening - a window above them smashed, shards of glass framing freedom.
And there was the Frenchman. He had his jacket off which he used as a makeshift barrier between the broken glass and the escapees. He held his hand down. Voici! Allons-y!
His wife made it first, after two attempts. His friend second, glass ripping at his side.
They were free. Out on the side of the boat. It was almost horizontal, lying flat in the water. His friend had turned around slowly. He described the indescribable. There were fifty or sixty people on the side of the boat, huddled together in small groups, sitting amongst portholes, rivets and orange paint. In front of him was the horizon. Behind him were … cliffs. So close you could almost touch them. His friend recalled people on the top of the cliffs looking back at him. He couldn’t make out their faces, but he imagined their horror.
Terror and death - because they hadn’t closed the bloody doors.
Beep. Beep. Beep …
Toffer looked around. Someone who was sleeping on the floor had woken. Their eyes met. They looked confused; trying to establish the source of the noise.
Creak. The boat shifted unnaturally.
Toffer suppressed panic.
Creak.
His leg was wet.
What?
Cold tea was dripping off the table from an upturned plastic cup.
Drip, drip, drip.
Beep. Beep. Beep …
The warning noise seemed louder.
And the angle of the boat was definitely not right now. He couldn’t get the image of coaches straining on their tyres a few decks below out of his mind.
Creak!
The ship moved. It really moved.
And the screaming started.
Operations Room, Port of Dover, UK
Frank fought fatigue. It wasn’t late, just after 10.30 pm, but it had been a long week and sitting waiting in a warm room for something to happen was sapping.
He’d got nothing back from the MTMT team. Everyone was searching for the three men and the woman; more accurately for where the group might have been working out of and, ultimately, who they might have been working for. The SIS team in Eritrea had been given the heads up on Abir al-Rasheed and any entourage. Frank thought the obvious approach was to get in a 4x4 and scoot on down to the village. And then keep asking questions until you got the right answers. However, as Jane had pointed out on the phone earlier, that may well uncover some of the background, but it would blow any semblance of cover SIS might have in that region of Eritrea. ‘Quick and dirty’ would’ve been understandable if they were rushing to prevent a terror attack. But they weren’t; it was already in train. What they needed was a longer-term strategy. One that guaranteed they would find out who had sought out that particular village and those particular men … and why. According to Jane that required patience. And procedure. Apparently SIS ran an agent high up in the Eritrean police force. He would be contacted … and questions would be asked.
On the Back Foot to Hell Page 19