For Good Men to Do Nothing

by Roland Ladley

  ‘It’s - mostly - up - to - you.’ The words staccato as if the man were trying to communicate whilst dangling from the rafters, his legs free to float about.

  The man dropped his hands and smiled again. He then stood quickly.

  ‘I’m going to leave you now. For a while. When I’m gone I want you to think over our little chat. And when I come back, we’re going to have another discussion. And you’re going to help me make the decision. Do I play with the red switch? Or don’t I?’

  With that the man put a hand on a metal pad by the door; it opened automatically. Once he’d left, the door shut of its own accord - clinically, as if with an airtight seal. At that point Jakov realised that there was no handle.

  Headquarters SIS, Vauxhall, London

  Jane Baker reached for some files that were on the corner of her desk. She then picked up her iPad and, struggling to manage everything she was already carrying, she reached for a notepad and a pen. She was heading off to a cabal with her team. The meeting was titled: ‘Qatar - next steps?’

  Qatar, currently under the cosh of a number of Arab states but still doing plenty of business with the US military and some trade with the Brits, was a conundrum for SIS. In Doha, the country’s capital, Jane oversaw a small team: two case officers and a couple of admin staff. They worked out of the basement of the British Embassy. Their reach was good but, with the current fragility of world politics, they probably needed to widen their intelligence network in this strategically-placed Gulf state.

  The indigenous Qataris, just one eighth of the total population of their small but immensely rich sovereign state (the rest were expats), had a pragmatic and business-like approach with most countries. The problem was, they also had the same pragmatic and business-like approach with a number of terrorist organisations and terrorist-sponsoring regimes. Having the third largest natural gas reserves in the world, and run by an efficient if authoritarian monarchy, they played politics with everyone. The US was top of the list - money buying the Qataris a lot of space and, most of the time, a good number of friends. Their current relationship with the US was complex. On one hand, the US was pushing its Arab allies to sanction Qatar so that it played less politics with, say, Iran and Hamas. On the other, US’s largest military operating-base in the Gulf, al-Udeid air base, was on Qatari real estate. And the US had just sold $21 billion’s worth of military equipment to the Qataris, including $12 billion of F-15 fighter jets. Jane wasn’t sure if the Americans saw the conflict of interests.

  It was this sort of unfathomable realpolitik that meant Jane felt uncomfortable with the level of SIS presence in Qatar. With the organisation’s numbers now heading north to 3,000, the chief, C, had agreed that they should look at posting a further case officer to the Embassy. Last night, after a short meeting, they had both agreed that any detailed analysis work would remain here at Babylon - using the 11-man team she had on the floor. But, for intelligence gathering and running of agents, you couldn’t beat a competent case officer in country.

  Boots on the ground, as her army pals would say.

  As she stood to leave for the meeting, she caught a glimpse of herself in the three-quarter length mirror that hung on the wall beside her desk. She sighed. She was getting older. No doubt about that. She kept herself in good shape, using the basement gym three or four times a week, and she was big into yoga. But long days and short weekends had taken their toll. She put the files, the iPad and her notebook down, and stared straight at the reflection of Jane Baker: 42; unmarried; no long-term boyfriend; five feet eight in her tights; dressed like she was heading off to the country for the weekend - brown wool skirt, a cream blouse and a green woollen cardy. She used a single finger to place a strand of stray, curly blonde hair behind her right ear. She tilted her head to one side and then straightened it again.

  Mmm. I’m looking a bit saggy.

  Using her two index fingers she placed them on their respective cheeks and raised the skin towards her ears. That’s better. The laughter lines had gone. That simple movement had taken years off her.

  Jane dropped her fingers and smiled at the ridiculousness of it all. Here she was, two promotions from the top job and she was thinking about what she looked like? As if anyone she dealt with was interested. They[RJ15] wanted her because she had the organisational aptitude of a barrel-load of monkeys. And she had some decent leadership skills. She had been a case officer, serving in China and Iraq, had run a couple of teams here at Vauxhall, and was now responsible for the whole of the Middle East and north Africa: 87 case officers and 50 other assorted staff, based in 17 embassies and high commissions. She also directed a further 11 dedicated analysts and intelligence officers here at Babylon. And, not forgetting, she had a call on the pool of ‘ready-to-move’ case officers and analysts who were stood by when needed.

  And she mustn't forget Claire. Her fabulous PA.

  Who had just walked in.

  ‘Frank wants to come and see you at five. He’s been looking over some of the traffic concerning the latest collision between the US frigate and the Greek container ship in Manila[RJ16] Bay. He reckons he might have something that no one else has picked up.’

  Jane, feeling a little conspicuous that Claire might have caught her demonstrating her own facelift, nodded.

  ‘That’s fine, Claire, thanks.’

  ‘Shall I bring you a coffee to the meeting?’

  Jane stopped herself from picking up the files. She smiled at Claire.

  ‘That would be great Claire, thanks.’

  As she walked out, Claire turned her head to one side. ‘Remember you have the Joint Intelligence Committee (JIC) at 8.30 tomorrow morning - over the river. Keep Frank’s meeting short and then go home and get some rest.’

  It was an order. And Claire didn’t wait for an answer. A second later she was gone.

  Jane reached for her iPad just as her mobile pinged.

  She picked it up and looked at the screen. It was an SMS from Sam Green. A little shiver shot down her spine. She’d not spoken to Sam for over six months; not since Sam had agreed to take the redundancy package from SIS.

  Jane checked her watch. She was close to being late. They’d have to wait. She opened the text. It read:

  Jane. Call me on +49 7795 314423. Thanks. Sam. xxx

  The +49 was a German mobile; not Sam’s usual one she had just used to SMS Jane. Where was she? What was she up to? Why go for a change of number?

  Jane highlighted the new number, the action throwing up a screen asking if she wanted it dialled. She accepted the instruction.

  The phone rang with a long, single, repeating dial tone. A German phone. Operating in Germany,

  ‘Hello. Jane?’

  It was Sam. It was good to hear her voice. Really good.

  She missed her. Missed her idiosyncratic ways. Missed the way she was blunt, to the point, but without meaning to be. Missed her analyst’s mind. Not only did Sam have a photographic memory, but a touch of autism (they joked about that) seemed to bring everything she studied into sharp focus. Sam had a knack for picking out what others didn’t. Her OCD (they joked about that as well) then ensured that Sam interrogated whatever she was looking at to an inch of its life. Her Army and SIS training had brought all those skills into a single package. Nobody in the building doubted that she was the best analyst SIS had ever employed.

  And Jane missed Sam’s integrity - her ability to always do the right thing, no matter what the consequences were to herself. Even if the right thing was sometimes, well, the wrong thing.

  That was the problem. That’s why they, SIS and Sam, had parted company. After Russia and Rome.

  Shades of grey. Sam didn’t have any. It made her an outstanding SIS case officer[RJ17] whilst, at the same time, presenting dilemmas and dangers to herself and to the organisation. Nuance wasn’t Sam’s middle name. If she had one, which she didn’t, it would probably be ‘blatant’.

  ‘Hello, Sam. How are you?’ Jane knew it was a superfluous question
. Sam would ignore it.

  ‘Fine. Look, I need to meet up with you. In a professional capacity, if that’s OK? I’ll be back in the UK tomorrow. Can you find me half an hour?’

  The words came out in a splurge, with little punctuation. Jane missed that as well.

  ‘Why did we need to swap phones, Sam?’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Because I’m being pursued, followed. I’m not sure what to call it. But I’m pretty certain my number will be compromised by now.’ Sam was agitated. Jane could hear it in her voice.

  ‘Tell me more, Sam.’ Jane trusted Sam completely. But, before she took a sledgehammer to tomorrow’s programme, she needed more. Something tangible.

  There was silence.

  Then. ‘Do you remember the businessman who was taken hostage off a yacht in 2013 - east coast of Africa? Don’t mention his name!’

  What?

  ‘No, sorry. Go on, Sam. Tell me his name. Give me something.’

  ‘No!’ The reply was rasping; exasperated. ‘If they’re using speech-recognition, they’ll pick up this conversation. You must remember. 2013. June. A high-profile British businessman, taken from a yacht. Off East Africa.’

  Sam was being clever; she always was. She was telling the story without using easily recognisable words like ‘Somalia’. Or the man’s name. A decent adversary with GCHQ-level equipment would have speech-recognition software available. Such systems could randomly search 10,000 mobile calls - simultaneously. The processing used algorithms that could pick out single-trigger words. Once detected, the machines locked onto the conversation and everything was recorded.

  Sam continued, frustration ever present. ‘You must know who I mean?’

  Jane knew it would always be a surprise to Sam that not everyone had the capacity to remember everything they had ever seen - and access it at a moment’s notice. In this case, though, Jane could picture Paul Mitchell’s face. The founder of e-dollar. And now six feet under.

  ‘Yes. Go on.’

  There was another pause.

  ‘He’s not dead. I’ve seen him. In an Austrian resort. A couple of days ago.’

  Jane tried to say something, but Sam was on a roll.

  ‘They tried to take me out. After I recognised him. I saw a handgun. On the slopes. They were going to “deal with the problem”. And I was that problem. I’m sure of it.’

  Jane was going to disappoint Sam. Mitchell was dead. As a dead as … a dead person.

  ‘Sam.’ Jane let her old friend’s name hang, stopping Sam in her tracks. ‘It’s not possible. The man is dead. Definitely. Dead.’

  Jane could sense the exasperation levels rising on the other end of the line.

  ‘No, Jane. He’s not. I saw him! And, and this is why I want to meet with you, I have seen other intelligence that paints a picture that he is alive and well.’

  It was Jane’s turn to be blunt.

  ‘It’s not possible Sam. I’m sorry. I know how good you are with faces, but it’s four years later - and I know the man is dead.’

  ‘How come?’ The reply shot back across the ether.

  Jane paused. She couldn’t tell Sam that one of SIS’s case officers had seen Paul Mitchell’s body in Mogadishu. The estate had failed to pay the ransom. Neither they, nor the SAS, had been able to reach the man. About a week later, on a tip-off from a local informant, one of their men from the Embassy had been allowed to see the body before it had been burnt by the local militia. Paul Mitchell was dead. No matter what Sam Green said.

  ‘I know Sam. I just know. It’s safe to say that we have irrefutable proof that the man is dead.’ She let that hang. ‘Can you give me something else?’

  There was silence. Jane could picture Sam. Incensed. Angry. Not getting her way.

  ‘You’re wrong Jane. I don’t know what proof you have, but I know he’s alive. I have seen him. And I believe he’s involved with the organisation that you and I dealt with in Germany four years ago. Along with 36 others. I have seen their faces. Been given access to some of the intelligence. Don’t ask me where I’ve got this information from, Jane. I can’t divulge that. But I do want to share what I have with you. Face-to-face.’

  The Church of the White Cross? Surely not?

  Jane was semi-interested now. But only semi. They and the CIA had kept tracks on The Church of the White Cross. After the CIA and FBI had dismantled it, it had remained a defunct organisation. Although, and this was a concern, both the FBI and IRS had not been able to retrieve somewhere in the region of $2 billion from The Church’s accounts; probably in The Bahamas.

  ‘Give me another name, Sam.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Min AF.’

  The Minister of the Armed Forces?

  ‘No, Sam. What, a Church member?’

  ‘Yes, Jane. I believe so.’

  ‘And you have this intelligence from where?’

  ‘I can’t tell you.’

  Jane was losing it. She glanced up at the clock on the wall. She was ten-minutes late for her meeting. She was never late for a meeting. This bizarre conversation needed to end. Min AF was not a member of The Church of the White Cross. What Sam didn’t know was that MI5 had a file on the man. And Jane had seen it. Recently. He was not whiter than white. But his issue was an over-reliance on alcohol; not a religious fanaticism that compelled him to bomb mosques and murder left-wing and centrist politicians.

  No. Not Min AF.

  ‘Look, Sam. I’m late for a meeting. Min AF shouldn’t be on any list you may, or may not have seen. He shouldn’t. Can I call you later? And maybe then we can arrange to meet, maybe the day after tomorrow?’

  There was no reply from Sam Green. Just the constant hum of a line disconnected.

  Frankfurt Tankstelle, A2 Autobahn, Germany

  Sam hung up the phone. She’d had enough. Jane had trumped both her king of hearts and ace of diamonds. And she was furious. Mostly with herself.

  What was she up to? More critically, what was Wolfgang up to? He was not himself. He was all mad-scientist like, spending days and days in a hermetically-sealed dungeon - wishing his life away. Chasing shadows. Seeing and believing what he wanted to see and hoped to believe.

  Over the past 24 hours, she and Wolfgang had been through nearly all of the ‘intelligence’ that he had uncovered. Without detailed interrogation, it all seemed so plausible. It made sense. And yet, Wolfgang was just a singleton. A man working on his own, without the resources or the horsepower of SIS - or the CIA. And he wanted, no needed, to vent his anger on something. He had to have a cause.

  And Jane had just proved that. Hadn’t she? That Wolfgang was a loner, building a house of cards?

  Jane was sure Paul Mitchell was dead. She had ‘irrefutable proof’ that that was the case. Sam translated this statement in her head. Someone must have seen the body. Someone Jane trusted. SAS or Special Reconnaissance Regiment? Or one of her team?

  And Nicholas Stone? Min AF? He was a beacon on Wolfgang’s wall, shining so brightly Sam couldn’t miss him. Sam knew the man. She had met him in Helmand all those years ago. From her five-minute conversation with him as she explained how she developed the current IED threat, she hadn’t taken to him. His breath had a lingering smell of peppermint. Which, ever the cynic, Sam had put down to ‘one too many’ the night before. Whilst everyone else in theatre was dry.

  Jane had said ‘Min AF shouldn’t be on any list you may, or may not, have seen. He shouldn’t.’

  SIS staff were trained to be exact. To use one word, not two. To elaborate wasn’t something spies and analysts did. They only stated what they knew. What they had seen. Not what they thought they had seen. If Jane said Min AF shouldn’t be on the list, then that meant she’d seen his file. Something else was there. And, as very few people have two major flags on their file - and still get to remain in a key post, that something wasn’t belonging to an ultra-orthodox Christian sect.

  So, Wolfgang was wrong about Nicholas Stone? And she, Sam Green - w
as she wrong about Paul Mitchell? Were her analyst skills fading?

  Sam stared at her phone. One of three Wolfgang had given her, along with five SIMs, so that she wasn’t restricted to a single number. She put the phone down by the gearstick of the new Golf GTi he had lent her ‘indefinitely’; one of seven cars in his Munich house’s garage. Along with the car, she had reluctantly agreed to take one of his credit cards - she was brassic. She had agreed to do some digging for him. Some leg work. And he had insisted that he finance the operation. Money to him wasn’t the object. He had bank[RJ18]-loads of it.

  The object was to bring down The Church of the White Cross. Once and for all.

  If it exists.

  Sam stared out of the windscreen. Sleet lashed against the glass. Germany was miserable when it was like this. Dark. Grey. Forbidding.

  She felt sick. Bewildered. Lost.

  Friendless.

  The closest person she could consider as a good pal was Jane. Her old boss. And just now, Jane had gone to a meeting rather than talk to her.

  It was the story of her recent life. Short bursts of close companionship, followed by deserts of loneliness. A week of chaos, and then months of inactivity. And through all of this rubbish she didn’t have anyone with whom to share it. No shoulder to cry on. No ear to berate.

  Sam was shocked, but not surprised, to feel wetness on her cheek. It was just tears of frustration. It was the fact that she’d made a fool out of herself, to someone she trusted. Would it be too strong to say to someone she loved, like a sister? Sam was an ex-military intelligence sergeant. She was an SIS-trained analyst and had passed SIS’s case officer course - an 18-week test designed to graduate only the country’s brightest and best. That’s what they had told her.

  Now she was darting across Europe, trying to put together a jigsaw the pieces of which probably weren’t meant to link together. Working with a man who was likely a bunch of grapes short of a cheese board. She felt like an idiot.