The MI5 report was half a page long. And was scant on almost every detail. The Service knew about the size of the wealth because the details had been leaked via the Panama Papers. They suspected ‘the name’ to be male, for him to be living abroad and, because there was no link to major business or industry funding, for the money to have been accrued nefariously. The last update to the file was over a year ago.
Might ‘the name’ be the one conducting the NT orchestra?
She closed the file and pressed ‘reply’ to Carla’s email.
Thanks for this Carla. Get onto Service. We need something more than this. Let’s assume the unknown Brit billionaire is behind NT … providing the money. Lift every stone. Put a name to the file, and then find out where he lives. I’d like an update before COP tonight. Jane.
Jane thought she was chasing her tail. That this mystery billionaire was unlikely to have any connection with the terror attacks. But it made her feel better that at least she was looking somewhere.
Ping.
A new mail. From Counter Terrorism’s lead Inspector. It had been sent to all of the intelligence services. She opened it.
Dear Team,
Pride of Eastbourne Terrorists - Provisional Brief.
Thanks to SF we have 3 x male and 1 x female terrorists in custody. They are uncommunicative. We believe they took an uninflated RIB on board in the back of their van (stolen plates - still chasing).
Thanks to SIS we have the name of one of the men: Abir al-Rasheed. They assume the other two men originate from the same village in Eritrea and have provisional names. Action SIS. Any further details you have, post to all addressees please.
We need every assistance to confirm/find the names of the other terrorists, where they worked out of in the UK, and who they may have been working for/with.
We will be holding a meeting at NaCTSO at midday today. All addressees to send a rep please.
And that was that. The sum of a high speed RIB and helicopter chase. Four mute terrorists. Surely they knew they had little or no chance of escaping from the ferry? That they would end up in a cell facing multiple counts of murder?
What did they, or the people they work for, hope to gain?
She didn’t know. And it was bloody frustrating.
Frank would go to the meeting. She closed the email down and opened the one she’d read earlier from Frank. She was just about to start typing when Claire came in carrying a coffee. It was only 6.50 am.
What was she doing in the office this early?
‘Hi, Jane. Cold?’ Claire was at her desk in a couple of strides. ‘Really sorry about last night.’ She put a motherly hand on Jane’s shoulder.
That helped. Claire had been Jane’s PA since she’d taken over the job from David Jennings who had retired a couple of years ago. Claire had been David’s PA for a decade. She knew more about the inner workings of Babylon than anyone in the building. And, as an older woman, she was a perfectly gentle matriarch. She was always in at the point of crisis, she was always right on top of her game … and she was always kind to everyone. And they all needed that just now.
‘Yes, thanks. There are no words …’
Jane had half-glanced at the TV and stopped herself. It was muted but the ticker tape told a story that made her feel very queasy, very quickly. She reached for the remote and turned up the volume.
‘This will not be great news for the intelligence services. We have it on good authority MI6 knew the name of at least one of the terrorists who scuttled the Pride of Eastbourne well before the attack. Of course, the question that comes from that is, if they knew about the terrorist why didn’t they stop them from committing this heinous act? I think everyone in the country will want to know the answer to that question …’
Jane tuned out. She looked to Claire, who stared back.
‘Bugger.’ Claire said.
‘That’s one way of putting it.’ Jane paused for a second. Frank knew the name. He’d made the connection from looking at the footage of the terrorists just before they boarded. He had briefed Jane last night. She knew he wouldn’t have leaked the details. But, clearly, someone close to the operation had.
‘Is the Chief in?’
‘Yes. I’ve just been chatting with Susan. She reckons, like you, he hadn’t got home last night. Do you want to see if he’s free?’
Yes, please …’ Jane’s thought process was interrupted for a second time. It was her mobile; the ringtone was Moonlight Serenade. She picked it up off her desk, at same time signalling to Claire with a forced smile and a nod that they had finished.
It was Sam.
Did she have time for this now?
I must email Frank.
She swiped the green phone icon.
‘Hi, Sam. Got a lot on here. Can I help?’
There was momentary pause. Jane knew Sam didn’t like to be ignored - especially as she only ever phoned when she had something.
‘Sorry, Sam. The poop has hit the fan here. Someone has leaked that we knew the name of one of the terrorists on the ferry. This is going to take some mopping up.’
‘Did you?’ Sam, as always, used as fewer words as possible.
‘Yes, but only at the last minute, and only because Frank had been a star and found the guy whilst chasing a completely different line of enquiry.’
‘That’s your defence. No more. The truth. You can’t be bothered with judgement by the press. You have more important things to do.’
Makes sense.
‘How can I help, Sam?’
‘I’m in Italy, heading south. The Hungarian PM changed his tune about staying in the EU a few days after he got back from holiday. He had been staying in a villa which, I believe, he’d just “inherited”. It’s dodgy and I think there’s an NT connection. I need Frank to provide me with backup.’
Jane had put the phone on speaker and was rehanging her jacket. She reached for her coffee.
‘OK. Anything else? I need to get some stuff done before I head over to see the Chief.’
‘Yes. Why Britain?’
‘What?’ That didn’t make any sense.
‘Why have NT carried out their worst attack - by far - on a British ferry? Why us? I’m up to date on the three earlier minor attacks from yesterday morning: Frankfurt; Melbourne and Cancun. But why pick us? This ferry. Why not one out of Bari heading for Igoumenitsa, Italy to Greece? There are countless others.’
Jane was sat back at her desk. She had pressed ‘reply’ to Frank’s email and had started to type … but then stopped.
It was a good question.
‘I don’t know. But …’, she was randomly joining the dots, ‘... we have a suspected British billionaire, no name, in fact no details at all, who has the financial wherewithal to make these sort of things happen. I have someone on that case.’
‘OK. I’ll leave you to it. There is a pattern here, Jane. We’re just not seeing it. So, let me leave you with the perennial question: “who gains the most in a breakdown in trust and order across the world?” That’s what’s happening here. That’s got to be the major line of enquiry.’
And with that she was gone. The phone hummed. Sam hadn’t even given Jane the chance to say, ‘Be careful.’
She’d call her back later. In the meantime she liked Sam’s response to the leak. Admit it and move on. Fighting a press-fuelled rear guard action was going to help no one.
Chapter 11
Autogrill Po Ovest, Northern Italy
Sam woke with a start.
What?
Then clarity.
Motorway service station. Very Italian. Compact, clean in places, plastic table tops, unusual bright yellow decor, but decent coffee. Tick.
She had left Budapest at 9.10 am. The station had lent her a car on the proviso she dropped it at another Embassy somewhere in Europe once she had finished with it. She was heading for Calabria - the toe of Italy. It was a hunch. No more than that. She knew that’s where Viktor Molnár spent his holidays. And, until
this year, he’d rented a villa there. Now all the indications were he owned the house his family normally rented. And there was nothing ‘official’ in his tax returns or his only bank account to show he had purchased an overseas property.
It was during the last summer holiday that something had moved his political ambitions; had altered his mind on which direction Hungary was heading. His change of heart would likely have huge ramifications for the rest of Europe. Losing one country from the EU was a misfortune; losing a second might be considered careless. Leaving aside a badly plagiarised Oscar Wilde quote, Sam could only see one path from here. And that was the dismantling of the European bloc, a political pact that had kept Western Europe free from major conflict for seven decades.
What had happened in Villa Feradina? Who had got to Viktor Molnár?
How?
And why?
‘Why’ was the recurring question to which there appeared to be no sensible answer. To everything. Anywhere.
Sitting in the pokey cellar in the Embassy in Budapest, Sam could only think of one way to find out. And that was to see the place for herself. Touch it. Smell it. When the images on a computer monitor and associated data didn’t paint the whole picture, it was her fallback MO. Blunder about for a bit on site and see who she upset. Shout, and wait for the echo.
That’s what she was going to do.
She’d got as far as Ferrara, in the east of the River Po plain. According to Google Maps she was 743 kilometres from the villa. If she drove through the night she’d be there in the early hours. Which would be perfect.
Provided she stayed awake.
She’d had a couple of close shaves driving when completely shattered. A passenger had stopped her leaving an autobahn at a non-existent exit when she had been serving in the Army. And, heading south to a small village in the foothills of the Urals a couple of years ago, her Nissan Navara had driven into a ditch for far longer than was necessary before she’d woken and, somehow or other, made it back onto the gravel track.
When, a couple of hours ago, she recognised the ominous signs of overwhelming fatigue, she knew it was time to pull over before her brain switched to sleep mode. Like a computer, there were warnings but the final decision was instantaneous and taken without consultation. So she’d stopped at the next motorway service station, staggered to the loo, bought a double espresso, found a spare table in a corner of the Autogrill - out of the way, took a swig of her coffee and promptly fell asleep. Thankfully her head had pivoted backwards and hadn’t dropped onto the table. One black eye was enough.
Sam scrunched her shoulders together and pushed the back of her head against the nape of her neck. She held that position for a few seconds before relaxing and reaching for the remainder of her coffee. It was, unsurprisingly, cold. But it was caffeine.
Her journey from Budapest hadn’t been incident free. From the city centre she’d been followed by a dark blue, old-style Audi 80 all the way to the border with Slovenia. In it were two men, almost certainly TEK, seeing her off the premises. She would have done the same. Early morning Slovenia was lovely - as Slovenia was. She always thought any country that had the word ‘love’ within its spelling could only be fabulous. She’d visited once before and, leaving aside the fact it was pricey, she felt it easily met and surpassed its hidden logo.
She’d been in Italy for two and a half hours. From a driving perspective that was already two and a half hours too long. For all their supercar marques and racing heritage, the Italians all drove older, dented cars. So far she’d seen one supercar: a bright yellow Ferrari 458 and that had German plates. The Italians may love their cars, and their designers were among the very best in the business, but the Italian public drove battered cars, badly.
Why use two lanes when you can imagine a third?
That was another reason why driving when tired was currently not a great idea.
Come on then. Action.
She took her phone out of her pocket. The news.
She opened the CNN app.
First up was the latest on the ferry hijacking: 292 confirmed dead. She scanned the rest. There was nothing there she and Jane hadn’t already discussed on the phone. And there was no government response to the press questions concerning SIS having prior knowledge of one of the terrorists. Whilst that report may remain front page news for a day or so, she thought the overriding sense the security services were well behind the curve on the whole ‘neo-terrorism’ story would stay dead centre until one of the agencies had a major success.
Next was a report titled: ‘#enoughisenough - a global call to arms’. It seemed there was now a coordinated effort across the world to demonstrate to all politicians that people had had enough of the terror. Strikes were being planned and larger marches organised. Sam was initially cynical. She thought maybe fringe movements were exploiting the climate of fear to undermine governments - to forward their own agendas. But the headline acts leading the charge were not politicians or known activists. Businessmen, actors, musicians and even senior civil servants were all on social media demanding change.
In the US, for the first time in recent memory, there was a clear coming together of Republican and Democrat voters. Sam had tried to keep up to date with all of the terror attacks, and she reckoned the US had suffered six so far - the worst of which was a recent nail bomb lobbed into a restaurant in Kansas City. Outcome? Ten fatalities. It was hardly a Twin Tower moment, but the mood was the same. People were scared: black, white and brown - any race; and both red and blue - all political persuasions. The indiscriminate and random nature of the attacks was wholly unsettling. And, and this was being played out in the more developed countries, the economic impact was taking its toll. If you moved away from the headlines, such as the Dow Jones hovering just above 20,000 points - a 23% fall since Christmas, there were more fundamental numbers that were beginning to impact upon every household. The price of oil had jumped. Business and consumer confidence had dropped 15 points. People were hoarding staples, whilst ignoring big ticket items such as a new TV. Unemployment, which had been slowly dropping in most Western countries over the last couple of years, had started to rise as firms shed jobs, rather than create them.
And the outlook looked bleak.
The CNN report finished with a harrowing statistic. Since January the number of male suicides in the G7 countries had jumped by 17%.
Italy was a G7 country. The suicide statistic made Sam scan the motorway restaurant. She did a quick headcount. There were 58 men in the room. She remembered stats somewhere that showed the European male suicide rate was 11 per 100,000; higher still in the Baltic states. A 17% increase would take that figure to 13 per 100,000. She looked around the room again, this time briefly dwelling on a face and a frame.
Mid-50s. Haggard. Overweight. Wearing a suit, but not smart.
Could he be one of the two additional Europeans?
She checked herself. It was only four weeks ago that she had been staring across the room to oblivion: white soldiers lined up on the sofa. And way too much vodka and coke.
Her face flushed. She was embarrassed, even though there was no one with whom to share her discomfort.
I bloody hate this.
Tiredness enveloped her again. A touch of despair. Pointlessness. A lone, sad figure tilting at windmills. Knowing what’s best, whilst knowing nothing at all.
She closed her eyes. But sleep wouldn’t come. Not after an extended cat nap.
She should go. She stood. And then sat again, her phone ringing in her hand.
It’s Frank.
She connected.
‘Hi, Frank. How’s it going?’ She should try to sound more upbeat.
‘Hi, Sam.’ God, he sounds more tired than me. ‘I’m fine. It’s been, how would you say, “a shit time”. But I’m getting through it.’
‘Is it the four on the ferry?’ They were on an open line. Sam didn’t want to compromise herself, but still needed to communicate.
‘Yes. I wasn’t q
uick enough. I had the info on one of them a day earlier, but I needed corroboration. That took a little longer. By which time I was too late.’ He paused. ‘It really hurts.’
Sam knew how he felt. She’d help foil some attacks. And she’d messed up. She reckoned there’d be at least six people still roaming this earth if she’d been a sharper operator.
‘I don’t think you can count yourself responsible in any way. In any case, it’s how you react now that matters, Frank.’
‘What do you mean?’ He sounded lower and tireder.
‘Get to work, Frank. Do what you do. If you provide the vital piece of intelligence that brings this chaos to a close, then that’s what you will be remembered for. So, come on, let’s get to it.’ It was a half-arsed attempt to help him out of a hole, delivered without true conviction. But Sam thought it worth a shot.
Silence.
‘OK … thanks. I’ve just come back from an all-stations meeting at NaCTSO. There is currently little new news. The Service suggested they take responsibility for the ferry four and, if necessary, send them abroad. You know, a different country, different techniques. Desperate times and all that.’
Sam understood why some people would see some sense in that. But torture was not the way the British intelligence services did their business. Not now. It had, on occasion, proved its worth but there were countless more examples of how the process had backfired. One case study during her training was in the first Iraq war. A captured Iraqi intelligence officer had been ‘put under pressure’, from which two locations for chemical weapons had been exposed. Special Forces teams had been dispatched. One team found nothing, wasting time and resources. The second fell into a trap, with Republican Guards ambushing the patrol, killing one and injuring a second. They had been lucky to escape without complete catastrophe.
On the Back Foot to Hell Page 22