On the Back Foot to Hell

by Roland Ladley

  She had been saved by the bell.

  Sam quickly wiped her tears with the sleeves of the Buffalo Andy had now lent her on ‘long-term loan’, and picked up Frank’s phone. It showed a secure email from GCHQ.

  ‘It’s from the Doughnut. Are you happy I open it?’

  ‘Sure.’ Frank gave Sam his passcode. She unlocked his phone.

  The email was titled: Hungarian PM’s Swiss itinerary. It took Sam a few seconds to read it. She then found the button she’d played with earlier - and repeatedly pressed it until the satnav came back onto the central screen. She reached forward and pressed the ‘Where To?’ icon.

  ‘What’s it say?’ Frank asked.

  ‘GCHQ have pieced together Viktor Molnár’s summer travel from his trip to Switzerland.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He bought a train ticket at Geneva airport to Visp.’ Sam was typing the Swiss town’s name into the Range Rover’s sat nav.

  ‘Visp?’

  ‘It’s in a Swiss valley; mid-south.’

  ‘Have you been there before?’

  ‘Once.’ She’d finished. The little men in the Range Rover’s computer were working out how best to get to the pretty town in southern Switzerland.

  ‘Go on.’ Frank pressed.

  ‘It’s the Swiss mainline station where you hop off and catch a connecting train to Zermatt.’

  ‘Am I supposed to know where Zermatt is?’

  ‘It’s the car-free town at the bottom of the Matterhorn.’

  ‘Oh.’ Frank didn’t seem much the wiser.

  ‘You know, the Toblerone mountain. Shaped like a pyramid.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Bless him.

  Mamma Angela, Via Palestro, Rome, Italy

  Jane checked her reflection in the glass door to the restaurant. She had an errant, dangly strand of hair falling from her forehead. She used a finger to stick it behind an ear. She pursed her lips and then squeezed them together, rolling the top over the bottom, then pursed them again. Her reflection was more tonight’s menu, which was being elegantly displayed in a silver frame on the warmer side of the door, than Jane’s face, but it was enough to get a picture. She knew she looked travelled and exhausted. No amount of thinly applied make up could disguise that.

  Life was tough and then you die; as her father always used to say.

  She pushed open the door, looked to the ornate bar on the left wall of the restaurant and spotted Linden. He was wearing, unnecessarily as she’d met him dozens of times before, a baseball cap. She smiled to herself - and then overtly as he turned, caught her eye, stood and raised a welcoming hand.

  Linden was Jane’s favourite. He was around six-foot, attractive in a preppy way, always wore tasteful, but not expensive clothes, and had a shallow east-coast accent that resonated an Ivy League education and a decent middle-class upbringing. He’d sadly lost his wife to cancer ten years ago and had two late-teenage children. She’d seen a photo of them on his desk. They looked well-behaved and washed-behind-the-ears. And - not forgetting - he was the Deputy Director of the CIA at 48, having originally spent eight years as a Marine.

  He outranked her by at least one rank, and by a factor of ten if you considered the size of the CIA against the number of staff who worked for SIS. But he never once let that show. He’d always treated her as an equal, even when they’d first met and she was just a senior case officer standing in for David Jennings, her previous boss.

  And now, here in a city steeped in romance, he had worn a Crimson Tide cap as he quipped he would. He must have made a special effort to make that happen - unless he had a box of hats covering all of the NFL teams in a drawer in his office. Maybe he did this for all the girls?

  Who was she kidding? They were both professionals. They were both up to their shoulders in an Orwellian, global crisis that could bring down governments - his and hers included - and he had followed through on a joke he’d made to a foreign colleague a few hours earlier. She’d have done the same.

  But that didn’t stop her stomach from fluttering as they cheek-kissed.

  He offered her the stool next to his. She took it.

  ‘Drink?’ He asked, the accent was raspberry ripple and chocolate sauce.

  Large gin and tonic - without the tonic. No ice.

  ‘Coke, please.’

  Linden, who had taken off the cap and placed it on the bar, ordered her drink.

  ‘How’s London?’

  Good question.

  She’d checked with Claire before she’d left her hotel. The genuine, well-behaved 1.8 million protesters in London had made their point and most of them had headed home, causing all sorts of travel disruption. However, there had been a full-scale riot in The Strand, led by a mixture of antifascista and a couple of hundred indeterminate thugs who had come for the violence … and the spills of the looting. It had taken the police a couple of hours to disperse the crowd; they hadn’t moved on easily. The police had had to use horses and teargas. She’d seen some video. It was something out of the Troubles in Northern Ireland from the `70s.

  That seemed to have sparked off smaller, but just as violent skirmishes in five of the poorer London districts. The worst was in Lambeth where an orchestrated crowd of around 500 had ambushed the riot police. To begin with they had attacked the police with Molotov cocktails; a couple of policemen had needed treatment for burns. Then the crowd had pulled back into a high-rise estate. Naively the police’s shield-line had followed them, with the less well-protected, but much more mobile ‘snatch and arrest’ teams sheltering behind the line. As one of the arrest teams skirted around the shield-line to grab a ring-leader, pre-positioned rioters had dropped breeze blocks from a fifth-floor balcony. One of the policemen had taken a direct hit and had been killed instantly. Seconds later the crowd had dispersed, reformed in a local high street, this time as a group of looters, and had taken the shops apart until police reinforcements had arrived 20 minutes later.

  Although the death of the police officer had yet to hit the mainstream media, it hadn’t stopped the news reverberating around the Met’s frontline staff. As a result, and against very clear orders from above, the police had become heavy-handed. An hour ago Guy’s hospital in central London had reported an influx of civilian casualties, many with breaks allegedly caused by baton swipes. If the rioting and looting didn’t run its course in the next couple of hours, Jane feared for what the city would look like in the morning.

  There were similar reports of violence in Liverpool and Glasgow.

  And Paris. And Munich. The list kept growing.

  In Warsaw, alt-right supporters, with red flares and carrying red and white Polish flags, had set fire to a block of flats in a city suburb where there were known to be a preponderance of Syrian and Afghan immigrants. The number of casualties was, as yet, unknown.

  London was bad. But so was everywhere else.

  ‘Not good, Linden. I’m afraid. It’s the Brixton riots all over again, but this time it’s not a race thing. It’s frustration - which is understandable - being exploited by anyone with a grievance and a desire to smash a window. I have to say we’re maybe two hours away from calling in the Army.

  ‘Sorry. We have the National Guard stood by in 15 states. But we don’t feel so bad about deploying them as you Limeys do. I think we’ll be able to keep a lid on it.’

  Jane’s drink arrived. She took a sip. And then continued.

  ‘Unless we find out who’s behind the NT attacks, it’s just going to get worse. As you know, our government is surviving with a tiny minority and the PM’s leadership is constantly being challenged. I go to bed most nights not knowing who will be in charge when I wake up.’

  She took another sip and then noticed Linden had his suitcase with him.

  ‘Have you not been to your Embassy?’

  ‘No. Straight off the plane. I wanted to have a face to face with you. See what you’ve got and agree tomorrow’s approach with AISE and the ‘Ndràngheta. We need to press them hard.
If your case officer’s reports are accurate, then, if nothing else, they’ve murdered a British citizen. And, if we follow your lead about the source of the NT attacks, then we’ve got to bust the ‘Ndràngheta right open - as soon as we can. Even if you’re wrong, and I no longer think you are, that can’t be a bad thing?’

  ‘Have you any corroboration, other than the FBI’s call that the Seattle pipe bomber originated from Libya?’

  The bartender was back. The conversation stopped. He pointed to a table across the room.

  ‘Il tuo tavolo è pronto.’

  ‘Grazie.’ Linden replied. He waited for the man to move away. ‘Our team in Tunis have established a link between your four ferry terrorists and a Tunisian. His name is Karim Beji. He’s a local hood with fingers in a number of pies. They pulled him in a couple of hours ago. He’s very jumpy. At the same time we sent in a team to his apartment. They found drugs, money - euros and dollars - and a second passport.’ He stopped, opened his hands and nodded. He was suggesting she completed the briefing.

  ‘It’s Italian?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s pretty unusual. Tunisia is an ex-French colony.’

  ‘Correct. Anyhow, Langley have matched the passport to movement. He travelled to Gioia Touro - on the same container ship as your team.’

  ‘Goodness. So he’s the movement kingpin between Tunisia and Italy.’ Jane took a sip of her drink.

  ‘Correct again. We have two of his phones. The SIMs have been opened. We expect the home team to have phone records, etcetera, in the next 12 hours. I’m guessing we’ll be able to find a link to the ‘Ndràngheta, or a link to someone who has a link to the ‘Ndràngheta, real soon. No. I’m with you Jane. This has the Italian Mafia’s sticky fingers all over it.’

  Linden stood, and offered a hand in the direction of the table.

  Jane was about to get up when her phone rang.

  She took it from her handbag. The screen displayed a single name: Sam.

  ‘Excuse me.’

  Linden nodded.

  ‘Hi, Sam. Kinda busy. Can we talk later?’

  ‘Put the news on.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Whatever you’re doing, put the news on. And then cancel all of our rush-hour trains.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘There’s been a train crash in Melbourne. And a second, an hour later in Shanghai. Both were passenger trains. They’ve hacked into the signalling infrastructure, I’m sure of it.’

  Jane put her hand on the mouthpiece.

  ‘Linden. Can you get your phone out and bring up CNN. Or something?’ She put the phone back to her ear.

  ‘Sam, we can’t just stop the trains. There’s enough chaos as it is?’

  There was silence from her phone.

  Then, ‘Look, Frank and I are into something here. We can’t do any more than we are. Stop the bloody trains!’

  ‘Jane?’ It was Linden.

  ‘Yes?’ She was caught between two conversations.

  ‘There have been three train crashes. Melbourne, Shanghai and, just now, Mumbai. They’re working their way across the globe. It seems the sun rises and the trains fail. Commuter stuff. Am I wrong?’

  No, Linden. I don’t think you are.

  46°00'23.8" N; 7°43'13.1" E, Matterhorn, Switzerland

  Frank was breathless. He wasn’t overweight, but he wasn’t fit. He kept himself in shape by eating the right things and walking everywhere. But the air felt thin; as though someone had sucked out a lot of the oxygen and replaced it with something much less useful, like nitrogen - or carbon dioxide. And Sam’s pace was relentless. She was ahead of him and slightly higher, on a track that snaked its way up the valley. He could pick out her silhouette against the side of the mountain and, with the moon as bright as an overhead lamp, her shadow danced on top of the freshly fallen snow. They had emerged from the treeline about ten minutes ago. A couple of minutes before Sam had let him catch up.

  ‘How are you doing?’ She’d asked.

  ‘Just great.’ He lied.

  ‘Not far now. I reckon about 800 metres, maybe a klick. No more. And it’s path all the way.’ She had tried to sound positive.

  ‘It’s fine.’ He lied again.

  She’d nodded and sprinted off into the distance.

  Having taken the train up to Zermatt, which turned out to be like Mayfair in the mountains, they’d stopped in a bar, had a couple of beers and ordered raclette. The bill would have fed a family of four for a week in Slough. He would have been happy to put the tab on Op Peacock’s expenses, but Sam had insisted on paying.

  They were just about to find a hotel when Carla had phoned. She was excited. In the space of five minutes she’d had two notable intelligence successes. First, Freddie Derwent’s Bentley had been found. That is, a parking permit bearing its number plate had come to light. It was in a secure, underground garage in Staldenried, just short of the train station to Zermatt. The fact that they’d managed to find anything had been a surprise to Carla. SIS had no operatives in Switzerland - the country forbade it. And it took any violation of that rule extremely seriously. The country’s ‘neutrality’, strict obedience to rules and regulations, and somewhat secretive administration made it unnecessary and unattractive for any non-Swiss intelligence force to warrant a presence in the country. Carla’s success was, therefore, a bonus.

  Second, and the reason why he and Sam were tabbing up the mountainside, was a live mobile signal had been intercepted by GCHQ. Originally they had been tasked by Carla to look for any signal intercept on any of the Op Peacock accounts in the Cayman Islands. That instruction had been much too broad to expect success. After Frank had narrowed that down to any account with a Cumbrian association, they had picked up a Swiss mobile number that, over the last day and half, had been passing data instructions to one of the accounts. The transactions had been all low-level - thousands of dollars, not millions - but the signal was live and the Doughnut had triangulated its position to a small corner of Switzerland: 1500 metres south of Zermatt, in the valley leading to the base of the Matterhorn.

  Whilst Frank had been dealing with Carla, Sam had been watching the TV in the bar. They were covering a Champion’s league match. Engrossed in his conversation and taking notes on a small pad, he’d paid little attention to the football until Sam had grabbed him by the elbow and pointed to the screen. The footy was no longer being shown. Instead the Swiss channel was showing footage of two train crashes. One in Australia, the other in China. As he finished his conversation with Carla, Sam had got on the phone to Jane. He overheard Sam say, ‘Stop the bloody trains!’ before she’d hung up.

  What is happening?

  He briefed Sam on Carla’s int and, after a quick conflab, Sam had dashed across the street - with him in pursuit - to a late-opening mountain equipment shop. In ten minutes she’d spent an eye-watering sum of money on some gear that was better suited to a hike in the mountains than his jeans and her new running shoes. He’d bought a hat and a pair of gloves. And kept the bill. He couldn’t afford not to put the exorbitant sum against the op code.

  Then they were off. Sam striding ahead with her phone’s GPS providing the directions.

  That was 40 minutes ago.

  ‘Shhh! Get down!’

  Sam had stopped about ten metres ahead. She’d gone down on one knee. He found a boulder on the side of the track and knelt beside it, his lungs and legs thankful for the rest.

  Up ahead on a ledge was a mountain hut, no bigger than a small garage. The moon picked out its shape, lighting up one side of a chalet-style roof, the snow on it reflecting moon-blue back to an enveloping graphite sky. There was a small chimney, but no smoke. The hut had a door, a small, deep window on the front aspect - which glowed a dark amber - and a snow-covered bench out front. The mountain rose sharply behind. Any trekking from here would have to be left to the experts.

  Sam was beckoning him forward.

  Keeping low, he made his way to h
er side.

  ‘There’s a light. There could be someone in there. Have you got a mobile signal?’ Sam was whispering. He had no idea why he hadn’t considered it before, but all of a sudden he felt uncomfortably nervous. His stomach did a little turn.

  He took his mobile out of his jacket. He had five bars of 4G. How Swiss.

  ‘All good.’ He whispered, showing Sam his phone.

  ‘OK. If Carla’s not in, get Babylon’s duty officer on the phone. Tell them what we’re up to and keep the phone live. If anything happens they’ll be able to pick it up.’

  That sounded like a good idea. So, as Sam crawled ahead, he phoned Carla. She picked up and he whispered what they were up to. She replied that she’d put the phone on speaker and, not to worry, there were eight of them in the office and they’d be round her phone like wasps on an open can of coke in no time.

  He wasn’t sure if that made him feel any better.

  Sam was at the hut. She didn’t try the door. She was looking inside the window. She paused there for a few seconds, before disappearing around the back.

  He waited.

  Nothing.

  ‘What’s happening, Frank?’ A high-pitched question all the way from London.

  ‘Nothing. Shhh.’

  He kept looking to the hut, but it was getting more difficult to see. The moon had disappeared behind a cloud. He squinted his eyes, hoping to get a clearer view.

  Not a dicky bird.

  I can’t stay here.

  With his phone in one hand and his other pushing off rocks so he could stay low, he shuffled his way to the hut. Once there, he stood and put his back to the horizontal logs that made up the front wall of the hut.

  His heart was pumping away.

  He should have stayed down by the rocks. No, I should have stayed in London.

  He listened. He strained his eyes.

  No sign of Sam.

  Other than the pitiful light from the hut’s front window, the world had turned black since the moon had slid behind the cloud. The heavy green of the pine forests below were now darker than coal. The mountains rising out of the valley, a sooty grey. The sky was a mixture of heavy blue and school-shoe black. The only other light in the valley was the far-off, wealthy glow of Zermatt.