On the Back Foot to Hell

by Roland Ladley

  There was no footnote to amplify on what the paper meant by ‘destroy the location’, but Jane read it to mean anything vaguely associated with any illicit activity would either be dismantled on site, or taken, interrogated, in the case of laptops and hard drives, and destroyed later.

  Timings were very keen and she was impressed by how quickly the US thought they could pull an operation such as this together. Ten Delta Force recce teams were flying in undercover tonight. Assuming they were able to provide sound intelligence, the arrest and destroy teams would fly tomorrow night. The operation was due to go ‘noisy’ at 00.45 hours the day after tomorrow and be closed 90 minutes later.

  ‘Nothing like this has ever happened before. Not on this scale.’ Jane commented.

  ‘If you remember, we carried out a much smaller insertion in 1984.’ Stewart replied. He was older than Jane and had spent nearly all of his time as a case officer in the field. If SIS had ‘invaded’ an ally without their permission, he’d probably know about it. ‘There was a German spy grouping working on a UK base in Rheindahlen. Over the period of three weeks MI6, as it was then, with the help of the SAS, took the ring apart. We flew the spies to Cyprus. I think, eventually, one was re-inserted as a double agent and the other four sent to Angola with very clear instructions not to leave the country. I think we informed Bonn once it was all over. It didn’t go down well.’

  ‘How do you think the Italian government will react?’ Eithan asked to no one in particular.

  Jane deferred to Stewart.

  ‘It depends how noisy the operation is. It will hit the press, for sure. If it’s a success and the Italian PM feels he can take the accolades then, whilst he won’t be happy, he’ll tell everyone it was his idea. He’ll need to work hard to get his party onside. The rest of the opposition will be horrified, even though they’ll know it was the only viable way to bring down the ‘Ndràngheta. They will make political hay and there’s a real chance the government will fall.’

  ‘But, that happens a lot here. Italian governments rarely last longer than a year. Two tops.’ Jane added.

  If she were honest she didn’t really care if the Italian government fell. Around the world governments of every description were struggling to stay in power. After last night there was talk of a vote of no confidence in London. The current coalition was as fragile as order was on the streets. This morning’s news had both the opposition and a good slab of the government’s members of parliament demanding the prime minister’s resignation. The leader of the opposition had also tabled a motion to bring all of the security and intelligence services under new, centralised control. He’d coined it ‘TISA’: The Intelligence and Security Agency. SIS, The Service, GCHQ, Special Forces and the police’s Counter Intelligence apparatus would be brought together and overseen by a committee of MPs and civil servants. Worryingly the agency would be not necessarily be led by a former member of one of the branches, but might be an ex-businessman or similar.

  ‘TISA would be a not-for-profit, non-partisan organisation, managed by someone with proven leadership ability. The agency would be accountable to a new, standing intelligence and security committee of cross-party MPs, which would re-evaluate threats and needs, attributing funds where appropriate. It would be agile and focused. Not, as the disparate groups are today, self-serving and secretive.’ The leader of the opposition’s statement had flashed its way across all intelligence officers’ desks as soon as the words had left his mouth.

  It was a horrifying thought. Jane didn’t think, between them, they could work any smarter. Very few operations at home or abroad were conducted without cross-agency support. They shared everything. There was no partisanship; no secrecy.

  But she could see why someone might think it sensible to throw the whole security apparatus in the air and catch it in one big bucket. The country was on the brink. And it was her organisation - and its sisters - which had, so far, let the country down.

  Maybe, only until now.

  She was pretty confident that in less than 48 hours NT would be finished.

  And whilst she heard Sam, that Freddie Forester was the man in the middle, they would find him in their own time. Once ‘Ndràngheta were down and the terror stopped.

  ‘What do you want me and the team to do now, Jane?’ Eithan asked.

  ‘What have you got outstanding from Frank and Sam?’

  ‘We’re pursuing a Xavier Turner, a Belizean drug dealer. We think he’s one of Forester’s investors. In addition, along with Carla, we’re putting together a list of account holders in the Cayman Islands. It looks very likely Forester has persuaded a number of investors, including Xavier Turner, to sell stock and buy gold. Sam reckons that there’s a trigger when the price of stock and price of gold hit a certain level. At that point he will sell the gold and reinvest in the markets. Carla reckons return-on-investment could be close to 400%.’ Eithan paused, perhaps waiting for a question. Jane didn’t have one. She knew of Sam’s gold and stocks equation. She still wasn’t convinced.

  Eithan continued. ‘Other than that, we’re in touch with Carla. She’s working hard on fleshing out Forester’s background.’

  Jane nodded. ‘OK. Good, Eithan. I’m hoping Sam and Frank are back here later today. In the meantime, Stewart, do you have anything for Eithan?’

  ‘No. I’ve got some non-NT business to deal with.’

  Jane put the Op CAPONE folio back in a pink folder which was marked, TOP SECRET UK EYES A.

  ‘Eithan, do you have any contacts in Switzerland?’ Jane asked.

  Eithan thought for a second.

  ‘Yes. One. Why?’

  ‘If you haven’t got it already, get hold of Forester’s Swiss address from Carla. The one Sam had a look at this morning. Then speak to any contacts you have, keeping the Bern Embassy in the loop. See if you can persuade the Swiss police to raid the chalet. It would be good if we could get a Brit involved on the ground. If that means one of the three of you legging up there, then so be it. Happy?’

  ‘Sure.’ Eithan stood to go.

  ‘Are you staying here, or heading over to join the US’s Rome team for the op?’ Stewart asked Jane.

  She was heading over to join Linden. She’d already spoken to the Chief. He wanted one of his team in the CIA’s hub in Rome throughout and she was the obvious choice. She did, however, want to check on Sam and Frank first. Hopefully they’d be back in a couple of hours. After a quick debrief she’d pop to her hotel for a brush up, and head to the CIA’s house before the recce teams went in.

  It was going to be another long night.

  Burger King, Outskirts of Davos, Switzerland

  Frank ate his burger because he was hungry, not because he was enjoying it. He’d lost his enthusiasm. The excitement of last night’s fireball and this morning’s overwatch of the chalet - his heart in his mouth as the Swiss police had gone in with Sam still in the building - had taken a lot from him. And following another of Sam’s hunches from one end of Switzerland to another, when they should have been back at the Embassy in Rome, was poking a needle into his nerves.

  He always did as he was told; he always had done. At school, at work, at home. Disobeying Jane’s direct order - twice - was not something he was in any way comfortable with.

  But he found himself torn.

  He loved Sam. He’d admitted that to himself as she dragged him off the mountain. And it was a passionate love, not a sisterly one. He loved everything about her. Everything. The way she looked. The way she acted. The way she did the right thing. The way she looked out for everyone, but rarely for herself. The way she ate her fries, two at a time, all the same length. He even loved the way she was direct; blunt. To him, and everyone else.

  He loved her.

  But I always do as I’m told.

  And that juxtaposition between doing what he’d been told - following Jane’s order, against chasing Sam, the woman he loved, around the country - jarred. And he hated that was how he felt.

  Right now he
wanted to walk out into the carpark and shout, ‘Sod you, world!’. He wanted to remove his institutional shackles, grab Sam by the hand and head off into the hills for an eternity.

  Yes, he had his small rebellions: what he wore; the way he spoke; the board games he played. But you didn’t need to scratch too deep to discover the truth. He wasn’t a risk taker. He wasn’t a maverick. He was a good lad. Reliable. Dependable.

  Institutionalised.

  Sam was the opposite. She knew no boundaries. She had wings. She lived by her own rules: good rules; the right rules.

  Her own rules.

  ‘Not hungry?’ She asked, slurping her coke through a straw.

  ‘Sort of. It’s, well …’

  ‘What, Frank?’

  He stared at her. Her round face, pointed nose and uncontrollably curly hair. She was nibbling two fries like a gerbil, small piece by small piece until they were gone. He loved that too.

  ‘We should be in Rome, Sam.’

  Sam’s hand stopped in mid-air. A new couple of equal-length fries suspended inches from her mouth. They stayed there for a second. And then met the same fate as the previous two, munch after munch.

  She finished her mouthful and wiped her lips with a paper napkin.

  ‘Jane doesn’t need us in Rome. It’s her way of keeping control. Their focus is Calabria. We are a diversion and she worries we will, somehow, light a fuse which might interfere with the US operation.’

  ‘Might we?’ Frank hadn’t really made that connection. Could they do something that might upset the US’s assault on the ‘Ndràngheta?

  Sam was staring out of the window. It was snowing again, the street lights turning the white flakes grey as they passed, only to allow them back to a yellowy-white as they muzzled into the ground. It wasn’t dark yet, but it would be in another hour.

  Davos wasn’t quite as high as Zermatt, but they were well into the mountains. The Kongresszentrum was 1500 metres away, in the centre of the town. Tomorrow the Dalai Lama was due to give a lecture to a multinational audience. The title of the talk was, ‘Globalism in a Prayer’. This evening he was to be guest of honour at a dinner at the Hilton Garden Inn, a hotel opposite the congress hall. From what Frank could find on the internet, the guests were prominent business people, high-ranking politicians and notable environmentalists from across Europe.

  Sam was convinced assassinating the Dalai Lama, especially in front of a large audience, was the final act in the NT terror cycle. He was the ‘high profile individual’ so many nations were pressing their security services to protect. But she reckoned they had all missed the point.

  Forester hadn’t; he was well ahead of them. He knew people no longer cared about their politicians, celebrities, or even their royal families. Joe Public had lost faith in everything - and everybody. They were running out of options and had turned to people they thought they could trust. People without agendas. People of faith. People who, for as long as anyone could remember, were selfless; unencumbered by greed and power.

  The Dalai Lama was such a person. The epitome of their needs. He was a rock-like figure in a river of uncertainty and terror. A steadfastness in a world spinning out of control.

  Forester knew his assassination would destroy the final pillar of what was good, kind and right.

  ‘Forester didn’t cut me.’ Sam’s reply was quiet. Almost ghostly. She was still staring out of the window.

  It took Frank’s brain a short while to catch up.

  ‘Then, how did you get the cut?’ He asked.

  She didn’t answer to begin with. She just stared and stared. Frank saw her eyes moving slowly down and then quickly lift up again. She was following individual snowflakes.

  ‘I did it myself.’

  He was about to pick up his last piece of burger. But didn’t. His appetite had completely left him.

  He didn’t say anything. He didn’t know what to say.

  Sam turned and looked him in the eye, impassively.

  ‘I had an episode. After Forester had attacked me at the wedding. I needed to get to Rome to meet you. But I couldn’t. All I could do was sleep. But I had to get to Rome.’

  He studied her face. She had her hands on the table. He wanted to reach for them. To hold them. But he was too shy, too embarrassed to do so.

  What if she pulled away?

  Then he chastised himself for making the situation about him.

  ‘I’d cut myself before. I found it helps to break an impasse, between what I wasn’t doing and what I should be doing. It’s like a jolt. It helps me take back control from forces I don’t understand.’

  ‘This is all about Forester? That is … your relationship with him?’ Frank had found his tongue.

  Sam nodded. She then turned to face the snow again, raising one hand and placing a single finger on the pane of glass.

  ‘Originally it was Ralph Bell. And when he died and we couldn’t find Forester, it became him. They are with me all the time.’

  Sam’s face was so close to the glass her breath was condensing on it. She drew small circles in the condensation. And then a tear appeared. Just one. It took a while to form and then it trickled down her cheek.

  He wanted to hold her. To never let her go. To tell her things were going to be OK. That he’d be there for her. Forever.

  But he couldn’t do or say anything. His fear of rejection was greater than the strength of his feelings.

  How can that be?

  ‘We should get going, then.’ He said. It wasn’t what he wanted to say, but he felt he had to say something.

  She didn’t reply.

  ‘Sam?’

  ‘Mmm?’ She hadn’t been listening. She was still watching the snowflakes.

  ‘We should go. See if we can find Forester. Maybe spot his Bentley in a car park. See if we can work out where the Dalai Lama is staying. Work out his movements. Try and establish how we would assassinate him, and then plan to stop ourselves. That’s how you military work, hey?’

  Sam pulled away from the window and turned again to face Frank. She hadn’t bothered to wipe away her tear.

  ‘I can’t afford for you to get hurt, Frank.’

  Huh?

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Forester is a monster. He’s deranged. And he wants to be here. To see this through. But, if there’s a trigger to pull, I don’t think he’s going to pull it. He won’t put himself in harm’s way. Not here. So he won’t be alone. We’re up against a team of professionals. Could be one. Might be a number.’ She stopped and reached for his hands. She held them. His legs turned to jelly.

  ‘I don’t think I have the capacity for love, Frank. Any notion like that was stolen from me in Afghanistan, all those years ago. I can’t change who I am. I’m sorry. But, you are very precious to me. I can’t lose you.’ Sam’s tone was flat; distant. ‘We’ll find a hotel room. You can work the net, I’ll go out on my feet. We’ll operate like that.’ She placed a very small smile at the end of her sentence.

  Frank gently pulled his hands away. Sam did the same.

  He didn’t know what to feel. There was too much happening at a time when he was too tired to rationalise it all. He needed some space, but the walls of their situation were too close. He had so much to say, but he knew much of it would be lost on this very lovely, but very functional woman. And she was right. She was incapable of love. He sensed that. Perhaps he’d always known that.

  But that didn’t dent his feelings. Nothing would.

  He coughed.

  Now?

  ‘I love you.’ He watched the expression on her face. It betrayed nothing. He continued quickly. ‘But, that’s OK, Sam. I get it. I get you. I think I always have.’

  They stared at each other for what seemed like an age.

  ‘We should go and find Forester. Let’s put these demons of yours to bed.’ He added.

  Sam dropped her gaze. She then brought her uneaten food and packaging together onto the red tray.

  She stood a
s he did. She reached out for a hand. He offered one.

  ‘Sorry, Frank.’

  ‘It’s OK, Sam. I’ll be a dungeon master next year, and won’t have any time for a grown up relationship.’

  She smiled a big smile that showed a glimpse her teeth.

  That’s better, Sam.

  Chapter 20

  Hilton Garden Inn, Davos, Switzerland

  To start with they’d decided to take a couple of hotels each. Sam was in the underground garage of the Hilton. She’d then check the Steigenberger Grandhotel followed by the Waldhotel. Frank was currently in the carpark of the Ameron, whereafter he’d try the Edelweiss and then the Chalet Züriberg. Until they’d looked they had no idea there was a hotel in Davos named Edelweiss. Whilst it was an obvious choice for Forester, it was only 2-star and Sam was convinced that would be beneath him. Once they’d searched the car parks/garages of the hotels closest to the Kongresszentrum, they’d move onto ones a further distance away. Google reckoned there were 23 hotels in Davos and they only had two hours before the gala dinner. Sam knew that, unless they were lucky and found the Bentley, they didn’t have enough time.

  They’d booked a twin in the Hilton. It was where the evening’s dinner was being held. Having slipped the concierge a 100 euro note he’d looked at the current guest list and it seemed ‘unlikely’ they had the Dalai Lama staying as a guest, and, no, he’d not heard of a Mr Forester. Sam ran off a couple of other Lake District surnames. The concierge had shaken his head at every offer.

  They’d then walked into the hotel’s Seehorn conference room which was being laid out for the evening’s event. It was smaller than Sam was expecting, with places for about 100 guests. The picture windows gave spectacular early evening views of the town’s lights twinkling up the mountainside. Before they were shooed out of the room by a very stressed, dark-suited and yellow-tied ‘man-who-does’, Sam had the layout clear in her mind.