On the Back Foot to Hell

by Roland Ladley

  But something happened. In August. His mood changed. He became more belligerent. He curbed the press, shutting down left wing newspapers and websites. Both Twitter and Instagram had been turned off, although if you were clever enough you could bypass the government blocks. His language had changed. His anti-EU rhetoric escalated. And then, the night before last, he let the world know that Hungary was leaving the Union.

  We are a people. We will not be defined by the vagaries of others.

  The words rung in Sam’s ears.

  It was no coincidence.

  Someone had got to Viktor Molnár, in the same way they had played Kutnetsov. It was part of a script; words on a page. It wasn’t ideological. It wasn’t that the Hungarians and the Ossetians were following the same creed. They weren’t inspired by a common purpose.

  It was a script. Shared by someone to two different people. Two people who were being asked to say things they didn’t necessarily believe. They had to be told. And, whoever had briefed them had got lazy. They’d not checked the wording of the two handouts, probably sent at different times.

  Two leaders. Separated by thousands of miles. One script.

  It was a mistake. The person in the centre of this had messed up. Possibly for the first time.

  And that was key.

  She had to find the link.

  Come on.

  Sam stood. She held herself steady as her legs woke from their own independent slumber. And then she made her way out of the staff room and found the desk she’d been allocated the night before.

  Ten seconds later her monitor was alive and she was all focus. She had a bullet point list in front of her. She scanned it. It was a reminder as to what she’d distilled so far: the perceived date of when Viktor Molnár had changed demeanour; a bank account with multiple statements; tax returns; a list of the prime minister’s appointments over the past three months; his family details - a wife and two grown up children; his house - a satellite overhead; and a few key sentences lifted from his last ten speeches.

  It was nothing.

  Nothing.

  Sam clicked on her SIS temporary email account. Her inbox dropped down. Earlier she’d pinged one of the local case officers who was running a cabinet minister in the Hungarian government. She’d asked if he had any idea why the prime minister had had such a dramatic change of heart. The case officer had been out of the building, but had responded within the hour. He was as bewildered as everyone else. She sent him a reply, asking if there were any signs Viktor Molnár was being bribed, or had been bought.

  She’d had nothing back. Yet.

  Money. It’s about money.

  Sam had 84 monthly bank statements and three annual tax returns. She’d been through them once already

  It’s about money.

  She opened all of them again and worked chronologically; a line at a time.

  It took her 15 minutes.

  Nothing.

  Wait.

  She started again, taking more notes.

  Twenty minutes later she had something. It was small; probably nothing. But worth further interrogation.

  First, coffee.

  The resultant mug from the staff room was out of one of those pseudo-espresso machines. The ones that force water through a metal-cased sachet. The result wasn’t bad, but the unrecyclable by-product of metal and plastic had always soured the taste for Sam.

  Whatever.

  She had work to do and caffeine to consume.

  She narrowed down her investigations to the three tax returns and three months of each year: March, April and May. The numbers were telling a story. They were.

  Possibly.

  She finished her coffee. And then started again.

  Probably.

  Ten minutes later she closed the spreadsheets and statements. And opened a new tab. In it she typed: Villa Feradina.

  There it was. Four entries down.

  She clicked on the link.

  A pink-painted, medium-sized archetypal Italian villa stared at her. It was nothing overly grand - certainly not your Gladiators Tuscan villa, perched on a beautiful hill, surrounded by rustling fields and approached by a cypress tree avenue. But it was substantial - and neat.

  And it was where Viktor Molnár and his family had spent two weeks every summer for the last seven years - maybe longer, if she’d had the records to check. The prime minister’s bank statements showed a payment of around £2000 in Hungarian Forints to an Italian villa company on the same day every year from 2011 until 2017: the 31st of March. There was a small inflationary increase each year. Viktor Molnár had used it as a tax ruse. It allowed the family to pay for the villa in the previous year. The expense was reported in the following tax return as ‘an occupational retreat’ and was set against income. Sam wasn’t an accountant, but she thought that may have been pushing the boundaries of fiscal honesty. But, it was hardly something he could be blackmailed for.

  However, this year was different.

  There was no 31st March payment. In fact there was no obvious payment at all. Not even multiple transfers that might add up to somewhere close to £2000.

  And yet, this year, the family had holidayed in the same villa for the same two weeks last August. As they always did. She knew that because earlier she’d scoured both the Hungarian and Italian media. She’d found a video clip of Viktor Molnár outside the main gates of the villa. He’d been talking to an Italian news reporter about something uncontentious. It was the same villa as Sam had on the screen in front of her. Sam was sure of it.

  No payment.

  No £2000.

  A free holiday?

  Maybe.

  Maybe not. Maybe it was something much bigger. The language the reporter had used painted a picture of its own. Sam had asked the local SIS mainframe to translate. The translation hadn’t been perfect, but the reporter had finished his exchange with, ‘Well, President Molnár, how do you like your new holiday home?’. To which Viktor Molnár had replied, ‘We love it here.’

  Your new holiday home.

  And that wasn’t all.

  There was nothing in any of the bank statements that indicated the family may have spent, Sam reckoned, in the order of 300,000 Euros on an overseas property. However, there was a single line in his latest tax return which didn’t make sense. It read: Overseas property transfer. 36,000 Forints. Sam did a quick exchange in her head: Hungarian Forint to British Sterling. That was about £100. For an overseas property transfer? Hardly the right amount to buy a large pink villa in southern Italy.

  She pushed back in her chair. Tiredness again was the overriding sensation.

  The last hour begged so many questions. Among others … did Viktor Molnár now own a pink villa in southern Italy? If so, how could he afford it? Sam wasn’t sure she was going to find suitable answers in a basement in Budapest. And with a PNG tag, she was hardly welcome to wander the streets.

  So, what now?

  She’d leave some questions with the team here - maybe speak to Frank.

  In the meantime ...

  … next stop, Calabria.

  Fatebenefratelli Hospital, Rome, Italy

  Gareth came to differently from last time. There didn’t seem to be any detachment. His mind and body were as one. He didn’t open his eyes immediately, but spent a few seconds registering he was who he thought he was. He remembered bits of his last foray into consciousness; mostly the pain. But that had subsided. Now it was a ‘thud’ at the back of his head, rather than a piercing scream which he hadn’t been able to cope with.

  ‘Gareth?’ It was his mother’s voice. ‘Gareth? Are you awake?’

  He didn’t open his eyes. Instead he smiled.

  That broke his mother. Sobs and cries amongst, ‘We thought we’d lost you! Say something. Please.’

  Gareth opened his eyes. And closed them. And then opened them again.

  It took a couple of seconds for his new world to come into focus: hospital; machines that go ‘ping’; drips; a wi
ndow.

  His mother.

  ‘Hi, mum.’

  ‘Oh … Gareth.’ She half stood and leant forward to give him a hug. In her excitement she got caught up in the drips.

  ‘Sorry. Oh, Gareth. How are you feeling, love?’ She’d managed to disentangle herself from the tubes and was now in full embrace mode.

  ‘Fine, mum. Just fine. Thanks. Bit of a headache. What happened?’

  His mum sat back down, keeping hold of his hand. Her smiling face then lost its shine.

  ‘You were attacked. In Rome. Someone hit you. Hard. On the back of your head. They broke your skull. The doctors …’ She faltered.

  Gareth was computing all of this. He remembered the museum. And then ... nothing.

  He moved his free hand and reached for her forearm. He smiled his biggest smile.

  ‘Don’t worry, mum. I’m fine. Everything’s going to be fine. Really.’

  Will it?

  ‘Was I robbed?’

  ‘No, love. It’s very strange. In fact the person who hit you, left you with something.’ Her face was still one of consternation.

  His dad came into the room. Gareth saw relief spreading across his face. And his mother’s too - as though she’d been rescued by the cavalry.

  ‘Hello, son. How are you doing?’

  Gareth smiled again. Those were the kindest words his father had said to him for as long as he could remember.

  ‘Fine, dad. I’m just fine. Look, mum was saying I wasn’t robbed. That the person who hit me left me something. What was it?’ His face switched between his mother and his father. She looked up at her husband. He back at her. The exchange was fretful.

  His father took a breath.

  ‘It’s probably a gay thing, son. Something or someone you might have upset.’

  Gay thing? What the …?

  ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, dad. What do you mean a “gay thing”?’ A soft question hiding his frustration.

  His father turned and picked up a card that was on a side table. He handed it to Gareth.

  Who looked at it. And then flipped it over. And looked at it again. It was a familiar message.

  Leave him alone.

  Same message, different outcome. They had followed him to Rome. They had attacked him. They were very serious. More serious than a horse’s head on his pillow. They had come close to killing him. They had cracked his skull. His mum and dad had come over to Italy to be at his bedside.

  ‘What day is it?’ He asked.

  ‘Tuesday.’ His dad replied.

  He’d been out for ….?

  Gareth closed his eyes and breathed out.

  It was over. He’d get out of hospital and go home. Back to Swansea. Back to his humdrum life. That’s what he’d do. He’d give up on Naples. On Mateo Monza and the Mafia. It had been fun ...

  Buzz.

  A phone. Receiving a message.

  Is it mine?

  His mother and father’s mobiles didn’t get messages as far as he remembered. Even if they did, their phones were ancient. They wouldn’t give a buzz alert.

  Who’s trying to get in touch?

  ‘Mum. Where’s my phone?’

  His mother stood and looked around. His dad had beaten her to it. He gave her the phone, and she handed it to Gareth.

  It was his mobile which had buzzed - a tiny green LED flashed. He unlocked it with a swipe and was greeted by two things. First, it had almost ran out of battery. Second, he had 15 missed calls and 13 unread messages.

  He swiped and dabbed, ignoring his parents; his mother looking earnestly on.

  Shit!

  The calls and messages were all from Giorgio.

  He opened the latest message.

  It read: Plze, G. We need 2 talk. I’m in trouble. Xxx

  Headquarters SIS, Vauxhall, London

  Jane was cold. She’d forgotten to turn on the heating in the office and as the temperature dropped outside, her very small part of the building had followed suit. She was standing by the gizmo which controlled the air conditioning. It read 18 degrees. She knew that wasn’t cold … it was just that she’d fallen asleep on one of her soft chairs and her body’s heat had tried its best to warm the room to a more respectable 21 degrees. As a result, she felt like a hot water bottle in the morning: cold and clammy.

  She pressed the ‘up’ arrow. A small number in the corner of the light-green and black display rose northward. It got as far as 30 and refused to budge any higher.

  That should do the trick.

  She reached for her coat which was hanging on a traditional wooden stand in the corner of her room. As she did she caught the muted television picture; she’d left the set on whilst she’d slept. It was closer to dawn in the North Sea than here in central London, but the cloud base there was low and heavy. The picture was of greys and blacks. There was no ferry. Just a foreign tanker, a couple of circling helicopters and some debris. Earlier, before she had fallen asleep, one TV expert predicted a normal human being, whatever that was, wouldn’t survive more than nine and a half minutes in the water before succumbing to hypothermia.

  Those caught inside the ferry as it went down would have drowned well before then.

  The SBS had got on the ship before it had capsized. Two Marines had made it to the bow door override controls on the bottom car deck and had managed to partially close the door, which slowed the water ingress. Unfortunately one of them had been hit by a sliding truck. And the second had died trying to save his colleague’s life.

  It had taken the ferry 40 minutes to sink. In that time the SBS had found and released the two main groups of passengers who had been locked in the family bar and the restaurant. Early live SBS headcam footage, which Babylon had had access to, painted an eerie picture of empty corridors. That was until the Marines had released the passengers. Then all hell had broken loose.

  P&O had 942 passengers and crew registered on the ferry. Reports currently showed that six passengers and four crew, including the captain, had been shot by the terrorists when they initially hijacked the ferry. Five hundred and seventy three people had made it out onto the side of the ship and had been airlifted to safety - which, considering the conditions and the number of available winch capable helicopters, was an extraordinary figure. The RAF LO in Dover said that the final Chinook load carried 114 civilians - in an airframe designed for 55. The pilot had described the journey home as ‘harrowing’. The SBS had picked up 43 out of the freezing water in their five RIBs, which itself was a hugely difficult operation. Every inch taken by a civilian was one less for a returning Marine.

  The remaining passengers and crew had gone down with the ship. The images were not shown on TV, but Jane had watched the ferry make its final turn, upend itself and then slip beneath the surface. As it did she was reminded of 9/11. The terrible shots of people throwing themselves off the Twin Towers, rather than suffer the pain of burning to death. The ship’s motion catapulted some; others slipped; some hung on for dear life. The numbers were nowhere close to being reconciled, but so far the reports detailed that 87 bodies had been collected from the water. Everyone else was still lost.

  Still standing motionless by the coat stand with her jacket in her hand, she found herself bowing her head. She wasn’t a hugely religious person - but just then she did mouth a quick prayer.

  …

  On, on.

  Jane threw her coat over her shoulders and moved to her desk. Before she sat, she caught sight of herself in her trusty mirror - the one that never lied. She looked rubbish; bedraggled. She needed a shower and her teeth were crying out for some minty freshness. Her own needs would have to wait. She had a long list of things to do.

  First was to check her emails.

  She’d had 27 in the two hours she’d been away from her desk. All of them were important. She opened the one from Frank.

  Hi.

  Things not good here. SBS down 17 Marines, including the squ comd. They’re saying it’s the worst casualty ra
te of any SBS operation, ever. They’ve lost fewer in Iraq and Afghanistan combined. Horrible.

  There is little else I can do here. I need to talk to you about the Mersa Fatma three. Something’s been bothering me that might help. Best to talk face to face. I’m on the 8.15 out of Dover unless you tell me otherwise.

  F xx

  Jane didn’t know what to do, or say. She reckoned that 17 Marines was about one-in-ten of the squadron. That was a huge hit rate. She tried to imagine how she might cope if it had been her team. They’d struggle to fill the gaps and operate effectively; she hardly had enough people to do the jobs that needed to be done when they were at full strength. And that would be without the emotional impact that would reverberate around the desks if they lost so many.

  What a horrible thought.

  What a horrible day.

  Next she opened up an email from her team in Asmara, Eritrea. They’d arranged to meet with their senior police agent at 10.00 am local. If nothing came from that meeting then they’d hot foot it down the coast and see what they could find with cascons (casual conversations) in and around the village.

  Seven emails down was a briefing from Carla, the analyst she’d asked to look over the UK Treasury’s version of the Forbes rich list - to see if there was anyone on that list who might be keen to set in train a nine month reign of terror. She scanned the four page brief.

  Jane recognised seven out of the top 20 names: internet company founders, businessmen and a media mogul. The rest were, to her, faceless. Unknowns. Carla had annotated those on the list matching the Forbes equivalent. What Forbes couldn’t show were the multi-billionaires who employed people to keep their wealth hidden. Carla had highlighted these, the non-Forbes names, in red. There were 17 among the top 100 who you wouldn’t find without insider knowledge. Four of them were in the top 10.

  Three out of those four had names. People who, if you Googled them, would register somewhere. According to Carla they were a Swiss banker, an Indian industrialist and an American in the pharmaceutical business. The fourth had a current worth estimated to be £73 billion. That particular slab of money had no name, although the Treasury suspected the culprit to be British. Carla had included a link to a Service file. Jane clicked on it.