by Alex Shaw
The missile raced out of the tube and shot towards the plane. The Aeroflot captain registered a small flash on his starboard side but before his brain had time to interpret the image the plane shuddered, dipped and then exploded.
Voloshin dropped the launcher and ran back down the steps and out of the building. He had three minutes to escape or he would be of no further use. On the ground, the remaining film crews who had filmed Shamil’s departure from the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia had also filmed his departure from the land of the living. Instantly the footage raced towards newsrooms. Frantically the Saudi information ministry attempted to stop it.
TWELVE
Cabinet Office Briefing Room A, Whitehall, London, United Kingdom
The Prime Minister tapped the report he’d received from Knight that morning. He had called a second emergency COBRA meeting to discuss the further developments in Saudi Arabia. “How was this information obtained, Ms Knight?”
“Our assets apprehended the suspect but the American Central Intelligence Agency are responsible for the intelligence.”
“Where is Khalid Al-Kazaz now? “ Holmcroft wanted to know.
“In custody.”
“Where?”
“I’m afraid I don’t have that information.”
“Afraid? Yes I’m afraid too. Your men snatch a Saudi citizen from a third country and hand him over to the Americans, to do god only knows what to, and now you don’t know where he is!”
“With respect, Foreign Secretary, this is neither the time nor the place to be discussing the morality of the CIA’s methods. The intelligence speaks for itself. Someone has used an old KGB network to sponsor terrorist acts in Saudi Arabia.”
The PM held up his hand before an angered Holmcroft could speak. “I agree with Ms Knight, Robert. From where I am sitting the evidence looks pretty conclusive.”
Holmcroft all but exploded. “But it is circumstantial, that is what the Russian’s will say. A Chechen meets with a former KGB asset? No links to the Russian Government. The Belarusian KGB director has a conversation with an unknown man; we ‘believe’ to be the Russian PM’s advisor, whom we can’t identify? No substantiated link to the Russian government.”
The PM coughed and looked at Burstow, the Head of the Intelligence Service. “What did the Russians have to say?”
“The Russian PM is renowned for his secrecy. He is surrounded by members of the old guard KGB whom he served with prior to 91. Beyond this our contacts said that no one really knows who these inner circle advisers are.”
“So what are we expected to do? I’ve got a call with the US President in an hour. The markets are in turmoil, oil prices are rising, the Saudis are about to implode.” Daniels ran his hand through his hair.
“Ask the Russians to stop.”
All eyes looked at Patchem. The PM spoke. “What?”
“If this is a plot to enable Russia to step into the oil supply vacuum caused by the disruption in Saudi, then we simply hand Russia a copy of our evidence and ask them to stop.”
“And risk world war three?” Holmcroft verbally flew out of his seat.
“Please explain, Mr Patchem.” Daniels was becoming annoyed by his Foreign Secretary.
“We simply explain to the Russian President that we have come into some rather ‘toxic’ intelligence that suggests a ‘rogue element’ in their government has been involved in the attacks on Saudi Arabia.”
Wibly, the Home Secretary spoke for the first time before Holmcroft could interrupt. “We give them the chance to ‘deal with’ this ‘rogue element’ as you put it?”
“In a nutshell, yes.”
Daniels frowned. “So, the US President and I call the Russian President and say just that to him? We have no reason to believe that either you or the administration is directly involved but we have evidence that…?”
“How bloody simple, Mr Patchem. This isn’t the school playground.”
Patchem looked at Holmcroft, the man was a buffoon. “But we do have the ‘big boys’ on our side.”
“Prime Minister”, Knight broke the tension, “I feel that this is the best course of action open to us. We cannot definitively prove that the Russian government is behind this and we have no way to lever anything out of Belaru without risking this whole situation becoming public.”
“Why?”
“They don’t want our trade or investment and would publicize any approach we made to them.”
“But what if the Russians deny it? What if they do not wish to cooperate?” Daniels was still struggling to accept the proposal.
“Russia has wanted to be treated as a ‘super power’ once more, but with ‘super’ power comes ‘super responsibility’. Russia wants the West to see them, and treat them, as an equals. What is the one thing that insults them the most?” Knight asked.
“The missile defense plan?”
“They have still not been appeased with the Black Sea option.”
“Black Sea Option?” The Home Secretary frowned.
Holmcroft quickly stepped in. “The US plans to scrap the proposed Polish site in favour of systems located on US Navy warships potentially located in the Black Sea.” It had been in one of the plethora briefing minutes he had had to read.
Knight continued. “If the defense system were to include Russian warships or land based units they would have less cause to refuse.”
“I doubt we can link the two things together Ms Knight.” Daniels looked down at the report.
Holmcroft had now calmed a little. “We have to show our continued support for Saudi Arabia, Prime Minister. We must demonstrate to them that we will continue to buy their oil and in turn wish to trade further with them.”
Daniels nodded. “I agree. If we are seen to accept these incidents for what they are, terrible but albeit isolated attacks, and continue to trade as usual, the effect on Saudi Arabia will be lessened. Ms Knight, can we expect any more attacks?”
This was the one question that had been haunting her. “The members of Al-Kazaz’s network, which he used for the two kidnappings in Saudi Arabia, have been either killed or apprehended. He has himself confirmed this much. Al-Kazaz’s had no knowledge of the Russian airliner. We must then conclude that his was not the sole cell funded by his contact ‘the Chechen’.”
“It was a Stinger missile if I am correct?”
“Yes Prime Minister. The launcher has been traced back to a batch that was ‘given’ to the Mujahedeen in the 80s by the CIA.”
“By whom?” Holmcroft again jumped in. “Who has traced the serial number, the Americans? Highly unlikely.”
“No. The information was leaked by an unknown source but has since been confirmed to me.”
“I don’t follow. Does it matter who leaked or traced the missile? The fact is that a US missile was used by a terrorist to bring down a Russian diplomatic aircraft.”
Knight nodded. “I agree with you, in part Prime Minister, but that particular Stinger was from a batch that suffered from battery pack degradation. It should have failed to launch. If that particular missile was in fact used then it was refurbished by someone with a lot of ballistic technical knowledge and access to specific equipment. This is not the profile of the average extremist.”
The PM closed his eyes. “So there is at least one more cell operating in Saudi Arabia?”
“We can’t definitely say either way. If the effects of the attacks are not severe enough presumably there will be more. We can also not rule out the possibility of other groups carrying out copy-cat attacks in solidarity.”
Holmcroft was ashen faced and making notes on a pad. With the exception of the scratching of his nib the room was silent.
Daniels smoothed his hair. “Right I have to somehow formulate a course of action and either ‘sell’ it to the Americans or hope that they have independently reached the same conclusion.”
“Don’t forget the Ukrainians, Prime Minster. Without their help this would have never come to light.”
Daniels nodded at Patchem. “Yes of course, but they also must follow our line.”
“Have you agreed this with their President?” Patchem asked and wished he hadn’t. Holmcroft gave him a dirty look but the PM answered.
“Not as such. You are correct I will need to speak to them.” He stood. “Thank you all for your time and input. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a phone call to make.”
The meeting at an end the Prime Minister left the room to make his way back to number 10. Wibly rose and was followed by Burstow. Holmcroft stood but did not move. He stared at Knight and Patchem, a cold anger in his eyes.
“We need more on this ‘Russian adviser’ otherwise we’ve got nothing. He’s the key to it all. I want you to get it for me. Don’t tell me how.”
Knight raised her eyebrows, but remained both seated and silent until the Foreign Secretary left the room. “Any ideas?”
Patchem shrugged. “How do you ID anyone, Photographs. We search all images taken of the Russian PM for the last ten years for any unknown faces that crop up?” It was the proverbial needle in a haystack.
“And then who do we ask to look at the photographs?”
Patchem had a sudden look of mischief on his face. “The director of the Belarusian KGB.”
Knight burst out laughing and leant against a wall. “Of course we do, and he’ll say yes I did attack Saudi Arabia, and this is the man who told me to do it.”
Patchem was surprised by his director’s flippancy. “You sound like Holmcroft.”
“He’s my role model, didn’t you know?” She shook her head. “Sorry I’ve not been getting much sleep.”
Neither had he, what with his recent return from Saudi. Patchem stood, placed his hand on her shoulder and stared into the eyes of his old friend. “Look it won’t hurt to get a suspect list together at least. Agreed?”
Knight nodded. “Agreed. Get a list of faces and then we’ll see.”
Presidential Dacha, Minsk Region, Belarus
The open fire was lit in the Presidential Dacha. The weather had become wintery. Sverov looked across the table at the man from Moscow and noted how shadows cast by the flames danced on his face. Perhaps this was how he should be seen, a devil? Sverov had done many things to protect his motherland but shooting down a Russian diplomatic airliner was too much.
“The debt has been paid in full Director, thanks to the services of the KGB.”
Sverov shivered, not because of the temperature. “So that is the end of this business?”
Gurov’s mouth smiled but his eyes did not. “Yes business is now concluded. My Prime Minister is extremely grateful to Belarus.” He stood abruptly and held out his hand. “Goodbye director.”
Sverov mimicked the gesture. “Goodbye.”
The Russian left. Sverov turned off the light and caught his reflection in the mirror. Now the flames danced over his face.
SIS Headquarters, Vauxhall Cross, London, United Kingdom
“Voila.” Patchem handed Knight a sheet with a row of eight photographs printed onto it.
“Russians?”
“Our facial recognition software narrowed it down to these possible suspects.”
Knight was impressed, she studied the sheet. “That is, of course, if our man has been photographed with the Russian PM.”
Patchem shrugged. “Exactly. It’s all we have to go on. You know there is only one person who can narrow this down even further.”
Knight looked up. “You’re wrong. There are two.”
Patchem frowned. “You mean ask their PM?”
“Not quite. We get them to ask their own PM. We send a copy to the President and say that we have reason to believe that one of these men is the agent provocateur.”
It was not something that he would have thought of. “You’ll suggest this to Holmcroft?”
“Of course.” She dialled a number on her desk phone and pressed the speaker button. The line went directly to the Foreign Secretary.
“Yes.”
“Foreign Secretary, it’s Abigail Knight.”
“Yes I know who it is. What do you have?” Holmcroft’s irritation boomed from the speaker.
“We have a list of suspects for the second man on the tape and feel that we should pass this information onto the Russian President.”
“You what? Are you completely out of your mind?”
Knight smiled, Patchem had to look away. “Does that mean you object to the idea?”
“Yes I bloody well do object! Ms Knight I asked you to find a way to get me a name, not a way to further insult the Russian government!”
Knight remained calm. “So you would like me to find another solution?”
“Yes and don’t bloody waste my time with the details. All I want is a name.”
“Thank you Home Secretary. You have been most helpful.” She ended the call before Holmcroft could say another word.
Patchem frowned but this time with amusement. “You put the phone down on him, you cut him off.”
Knight sipped from her cup of lemon and ginger tea, her mouth curling. “I also got you the all clear to get creative.”
Patchem shook his head, now he realised. “I defer to your knowledge and wisdom Madam Director.”
Queen Mary Gardens, Regent’s Park, London
Regent’s Park housed both London’s central Mosque and Winfield House, the residence of the US Ambassador. This fact was not lost on Vince Casey.
“This is all very clichéd Jack.”
“Thanks for coming at such short notice.”
“You were lucky to catch me you know, as a tourist, just passing through.”
“Tourist.” Patchem rolled his eyes; the word had a different meaning in CIA parlance. “My request, can you do what I’ve asked?”
“Here.” Casey handed his SIS partner a folded piece of paper. “Contact details. Safer than email.”
Patchem put the paper into his coat pocket. “Thank you.”
“Jack, I don’t need to tell you, but I will anyway, that this is serious shit. Dubai was a friendly city. If they get caught this time just remember we don’t know them.”
“I have faith in my men.” The intelligence the operation would produce was critical.
Both men were silent for a moment as a pair of real tourists stopped to admire the national collection of delphiniums.
Once they were out of earshot Casey spoke. “So our ‘elected leaders’ have spoken to the Russians. Let’s just say that their ‘elected leader’ didn’t take well to his government being accused of sponsoring terrorism. He did however say he’d look at the evidence we presented to him, meaning he’ll call in his ‘Premier Minister’ for a chat and together they’ll decide what to do. Of course we told them that if anything else were to happen in Saudi in the interim, we’d blame them.”
Patchem had known Casey a long time and his security clearance level never ceased to amaze him. “Although without proof we can’t tell anyone else about it, or even threaten to.”
Casey pointed at Patchem’s coat pocket. “Then we need to provide the proof.”
“We’ll get it.”
“See you around.” Casey walked away in the direction of York Gate.
Moscow, Russian Federation
From his apartment window, Maksim Pavlovich Gurov watched the Moscow River, as a tourist launch passed in front of the Kremlin. The meeting which had taken place in an FSB dacha outside Moscow had been the inner circle only, Gurov and his peers. The President of the United States and his lapdog, Daniels of the UK, had called their leader that afternoon. The President had expected the call to relay sympathy and support to Russia regarding the assassination of the Chechen President but no. The West, they were told, had made unfounded allegations against the Russian government. This meeting was to provide answers. Both the Russia President and Premier Minister wanted to know why.
A copy of the allegations and evidence presented by the Americans had been given to each man to study. Gurov had given his opinio
n, that the Americans had engineered the entire situation to make Saudi Arabia more dependent upon them. He argued that it was a gambit to allow the Americans to maximise both their political and military presence in the area. This view was supported by another who suggested that it would make a future invasion of Iran all the more plausible. Yet another asked if the assassination of the Chechen President was planned or funded by the US for indeed a US surface to air missile had been used? But, a question was asked, why point the finger at Russia? For this there was no logical answer. Were they to be a scapegoat in case the plan became public?
Theories and ideas were debated but the conclusion was a shocking one. For reasons unknown, the West had accused Russia of something she had no part of. It was decided that the Russian Government would vigorously rebuff all accusations and threaten to publish the allegations to the United Nations assembly in New York. In the meantime the US, British and Saudi ambassadors to Russia would be warned that any further allegations would result in their expulsion. Russia would also lodge an official complaint over the shooting down of her airliner to the Saudi Government via the UN.
Gurov opened his balcony doors and stepped out into the late afternoon Moscow air. Had he been responsible for the world’s largest act of sabotage or was it Realpolitik? Was there a difference? Was he too to be regarded as a Renaissance man like Machiavelli, for both had been state servants concerned only for the interests of their nation? What drove Gurov on was not the desire to be recognised but the desire to save Russia. In a matter of days the man above him, the man hailed as the Post-Soviet Saviour of Russia, his Prime Minister would be implicated as a sponsor of terrorism and be ousted from office, an international enemy of the people. Worldwide condemnation would follow and President Melnikov would step out from under his predecessor’s shadow and ‘flourish’. A wounded Russia would recover with more respect and dignity than ever before, as a nation willing to finally stamp out all corruption.