‘But, my son. Lieutenant Rick Rodgers. He’s in a room down the corridor.’ Austin pointed down towards Rick’s room. He spotted it immediately. There was another cop standing outside the door.
‘Are you Lieutenant Rodger’s father?’ The cop had a concerned look on his face.
Austin was losing it now. He felt dizzy. The exertion of bounding up the stairs, combined with knowing what was probably coming next, was taking its toll.
‘Yes. That’s me.’ His reply was weak. The dizziness was getting worse. Nausea was now its companion.
‘I’d like you to come with me, sir. I’m afraid we have some bad news.’
As the policeman led Austin away, down the corridor in the opposite direction to Rick’s room, he unconsciously reached for the pocket in his shirt. As soon as he felt the pen drive safe in his pocket, his legs gave way.
Chapter 7
Samostan Monastery, Punat Bay, Krk, Croatia
The cell’s door opened - Jakov couldn’t think of a better word to describe the locked bed/sink/toilet/desk/chair space in which he’d slept. It was a monk. The same monk who had taken him from his hospital bed the night before and showed him to the room. Jakov had no idea what his name was. He knew better than to ask.
He’d slept fitfully. His right arm was sore as hell, even with the painkillers they had given him. He had tossed and turned all night. The dog-bite wound was seeping something horrible and, having checked first thing, he noticed a red track coming out from the top of the bandages heading to his shoulder. That didn’t look right.
The monk was carrying a small first-aid satchel. He motioned for Jakov to sit on the only chair in the room - and then he proceeded to remove the olive drab t-shirt Jakov was wearing. The t-shirt, along with a pair of dark green pyjama trousers complete with tie-up cord and some black Crocs, would appear to be his issued garb. He had no idea where they had come from.
The monk deftly removed the bandages and looked over the wound. Jakov’s shoulder was still two sizes bigger than it should be, the result, he assumed, of the dislocation. He had two dog bites on his forearm. The first was a long laceration which had been expertly stitched - the dog’s first attempt to bring him down. Whilst red and enlarged, it looked like it was on the mend. The second gash was where the dog’s teeth had embedded themselves in[RJ42] his arm and held on - it was further up towards his elbow. It was this wound that was not happy. There were six butterfly stitches, two of which were seeping pus and seemed to be the source of the infection tracking up his arm.
The monk opened his satchel and took out a hypodermic needle and a small vial of something (the writing was too small for Jakov to make it out). He filled the needle, cleared the air from the syringe and, without warning, stuck the tip into Jakov’s forearm, just above the highest wound. It was too close to the gash to be anywhere near comfortable. Jakov let out a low-pitched cry and his eyes watered.
‘Yow! What the ...?’
The monk ignored him. He then removed a toothpaste tubed-shape of what Jakov assumed was antiseptic cream and, very gently, smoothed it over the wound. That didn’t hurt. Next was a new set of bandages which the monk secured firmly - but not so tight that it was painful.
Finally, he showed Jakov a bottle of pills - the label read: Cefalexin. The monk signalled for Jakov’s open hand and shook two-light-and-dark-green capsules into his palm. He walked to the sink and came back with a mug of water. He then made a swallowing gesture and, as if to show the dosage, stuck two fingers up in a victory salute, dropped them, made the salute again, and then did the same thing a third time.
Who needs speech?
‘Antibiotics? Two tablets, three times a day?’
The monk nodded.
He then helped Jakov put his t-shirt back on and provided a green fleece which he’d brought with him. He packed up his satchel and led him from the room, locking the door behind[RJ43] them with a key.
The corridor was as Jakov remembered: white walls and recessed steel doors on both sides. His room was halfway down the hall. It had a single window which was barred - the glass opaque. There were no windows in the corridor. The light was artificial, glaring from neon tubes overhead. It was like he imagined[RJ44] the inside of a barrack block.
This time, rather than turning right to the surgery a few doors down from his cell, they turned left, then right, and then right again, walking[RJ45] out through a set of half-glass double doors into a courtyard. They were met by a ten-degree drop in temperature.
Jakov took it all in. The monastery was a two-storey, hollow square - the outside copying the inside in appearance: a barrack block. All the windows were small; white-framed against the cream render of the walls. The red-tiled roof was high-pitched. At one corner there was the bell tower - it rose a storey higher than the main building. In the middle of one of the four sides of the sizeable quadrangle was a large arch which housed a full-height studded metal door. In the middle of the three remaining sides were sets of double doors, like the one from which they had just exited.
In the centre of the courtyard was an ornate pond embellished with a small fountain. The courtyard was cobbled and around its outside, against the building’s walls, were numerous benches. Jakov counted three monks sitting on the benches. One was reading a book and two more were on laptops. They were all wearing habits, they all had their heads shaved, and Jakov thought it unlikely that he would be able to tell any of them apart.
Overall Jakov got a sense of peace and order, but in a modern way. The place was pristine. There was no grass growing between the cobbles. The wooden benches were all freshly-oiled. And[RJ46] the white windows were double-glazed replacements. There were discreet but state-of-the-art cameras under the eaves of the roof. Someone had a very tidy - and suspicious - mind. And he guessed that money wasn’t a problem either.
He realised his monk was letting him take it all in. The monk smiled, took hold of his left forearm and led Jakov around the square.
They passed two monks sitting on a bench who both looked up and nodded to Jakov in a kindly way. Jakov’s monk nodded politely in return.
They stopped by the main arch with the metal doors. Whilst looking Jakov straight in the eye, his monk pointed to the doors and wagged his finger slowly.
Going out through those is not allowed.
Got it.
They finally finished their circuit at the third set of double doors. His monk led him through the doors into a hall about the size of a half tennis court. It was the canteen. There were eight tables and probably 25 chairs. There were a few monks sitting here and there, mostly in pairs, eating their breakfast. It was unearthly quiet. Above the silence he heard the gentle ‘clank’ of metal against china.
And then he spotted him. In one corner, sitting on his own: the deranged man.
Who had just spotted Jakov.
‘Ahh, Jakov Vuković! Come and have some breakfast.’ He waved his arm theatrically. The words were no louder than normal speaking volume, but in the quiet of the monastery they bellowed across the room. None of the monks took any notice.
He glanced at his minder, who nodded deferentially and used a hand to show Jakov the way.
[RJ47]Jakov, who suddenly realised he was holding his arm like an old war wound, picked his way through the tables towards his captor.
‘Sit, sit!’ Still too loud for the surroundings. He was offering the seat opposite.
Jakov gingerly sat down, wincing as the motion caused his shoulder to protest.
‘How’s the injury?’
Jakov didn’t enjoy the feigned interest, but knew he had no choice but to reply.
‘Fine, thanks.’ After his previous pathetic behaviour in front of the deranged man, he thought he’d try to show some strength. ‘It would have been better if you hadn’t set your dogs on me.’
‘Ahh. The hounds!’ The deranged man made a scary face and put his hands up in mock horror.
He immediately dropped the acting.
‘Should have read the notices on th
e buoys. Hey?’
Jakov nodded. ‘Sure.’
They were interrupted by his monk. He had brought a tray of scrambled eggs served on a bagel, and a cup of coffee. Next to the cup was a small jug of milk and some sugar. He was beginning to like his monk. He’d have to think of an appropriate name for the man.
‘Eat. Eat! You have a busy day ahead of you.’ The deranged man (he’d have to think of an appropriate name for him as well; Hannibal was looking like a good choice) thrust his empty mug towards the monk.
‘Coffee!’ It was an order. There was no politeness.
His monk (Karlo?) took the cup without any protest; he nodded again and left the table.
‘Think of today as a sort of induction. Your friend will show you round, you’ll have your hair cut - very short. It’s our anti-lice programme …’, his words were quick-fire, the ‘anti-lice’ statement accompanied by a clown-like facial expression of disgust, ‘... no, no. Not really.’ A giggle. ‘Just easier to look after.’ He put his finger to his mouth in mock thought. ‘And then you’ll be taken to your place of work. Initially you’ll be in the gardens - we like to be self-sufficient here. Well, actually …’, more theatrics, ‘I’m partial to steak and champagne, so we have that shipped in. But, for the rest of you it’s a healthy diet - nearly all of it home-grown. You’ll like it, I’m sure.’
Jakov couldn’t stop staring at the man’s mouth - his expressions. It was like watching a highly-charged comic actor who was working overtime during an audition.
Ahh. No, he had it. Jim Carrey and The Mask. Only more sinister and more off his head. As Jakov took a mouthful of eggs the deranged man stopped. His head pushed back. He looked confused.
‘Sorry. Is anything wrong? Have I got something between my teeth?’ He opened his lips with his teeth together, like a Cheshire cat. ‘Anything?’, the word lost between clenched teeth,
‘No, I thought not. Well, you’ve found your room? Your friend will show you where you can go, and where you can’t. And take you to meals. Think of it like boarding school.’
The monk had returned with the deranged man’s coffee. He took a swig and placed it back on the table.
‘Mmm. Well, I must be off. Time’s money, etc, etc.’
He stood quickly and walked round so that he was at Jakov’s right hand side.
Jakov looked up nervously. The deranged man looked down, meeting his stare. A power play. He now had a sinister grin on his face.
Oh God, what now?
‘Hannibal’ gently placed his hand on Jakov’s right shoulder. The smallest of touches sent an imaginary streak of pain through his body. He prepared himself for the worst.
‘We have an agreement, yes?’
Jakov nodded.
‘I have complete control here, yes?’
Jakov nodded some more.
‘The work we are doing is very important and one day, once you and I have built up a level of trust, I might share some of it with you.’
He very gently put some pressure on Jakov’s shoulder. Jakov stared at his half-eaten plate of eggs. He felt the pain rising, and tears forming. He closed his eyes. He thought he might throw up.
‘Now, be good. Promise?’
He squeezed some more. Jakov couldn’t prevent a ‘yelp’ rising from his throat. He nodded, acknowledging the Hannibal’s[RJ48] comment.
‘Excellent, excellent.’ He released his hand and turned to the monk.
‘Get him to work. And keep a close eye on him.’ He scowled, all hint of theatre had vanished.
The monk bowed his head.
Jakov opened his eyes. He glanced round the room. None of the monks had batted an eyelid. They were going about their business as though the induction and gentle torture of a local boy was second nature to them.
What have I got myself involved with?
Headquarters SIS, Vauxhall, London
Frank was puzzled. He’d had a ‘ping’ from Border Force. It was an automated notification email. It showed that a ‘Sam Green’, with Sam’s passport number, had boarded a plane from Heathrow to Nassau. BA253. It was now mid-flight with an arrival time of 14.20 local. Frank checked time zones. The Bahamas were 5 hours behind the UK. And there was a star against the booking. Frank opened a separate tab. It read:
Ticket not booked by passenger. Booker unknown. Booking reference BA235$/dghry/23356.
Booker unknown? Someone, not Sam, or not one of Sam’s known accounts, had booked her on a flight to The Bahamas. Not only that, but the person booking the flight has used arcane processes so that they could not be easily traced.
The Bahamas?
What was Sam up to? Why was someone else booking her flight for her? And in such a way that the security services wouldn’t know who it was? And why did Jane want to talk to Sam?
Frank looked across at the glass-walled cabin that was Jane’s room. She wasn’t in - but Claire was.
He opened up SIS’s secure chat.
To Claire: Where’s Jane?
He pressed return and then looked across the floor to where Claire was, just 20 feet away. She popped her head up from behind her screen. And then dropped down again.
Claire is typing ... you have got legs.
To Claire: yeah, but where’s Jane?
Claire is typing … with the boss. Will be out of it for an hour at least. You should try walking. It’s underrated.
To Claire: yeah, should do. Don’t want to scuff my new trainers.
Claire is typing … you can’t take them with you when you die (of inertia).
Frank smiled to himself. And suddenly felt mischievous.
With some effort he clambered onto his chair; it swivelled a bit as he got up and he almost lost his balance. Then, with dexterity he didn’t realise he had, he placed one foot on top of his main screen and pointed to a new grey-and-peach Adidas trainer.
Claire looked up over her screen and gave Frank a withering look.
Frank got down. As he did he had a quick glance round the office. One or two people were giving him odd looks, and there was a smile here and there. But this was Babylon. The organisation was full to the brim with highly-strung misfits and oddballs - pranks were commonplace, almost encouraged. What they did from day to day was crucial to the safety and security of the country’s interests overseas; they all needed to let off steam every so often.
Back to work.
He’d brief Jane later. He needed to look after Sam.
Although he’d not seen or been in touch with Sam for almost a year - other than the odd postcard, he considered her to be a very good friend. They had worked side by side as analysts in the early days. She had brought her Military Intelligence experience with her and, after a few weeks driving the desk, she was quickly as good as any other analyst in the building. As well as a photographic memory she[RJ49] had an uncanny knack for detail. She saw things - found things - in images, and on paper, that others didn’t. She blamed her OCD and other ailments. He put it down to bags of tenacity. She was a machine; one without a rheostat. She worked until she dropped. He’d never come across anyone like her. Whichever the reason, the outcome in terms of the delivery of intelligence was often spectacular.
They had worked through the German affair together - he acted as her sidekick as she charged around Europe with the German count (what was his name?) helping to uncover the ultra-right Christian sect, The Church of the White Cross. And then, when she had been posted to Moscow, he had again supported her as she and the American intern had chased and prevented the terror attack in Rome. They had almost lost her three times - and on all three occasions he had felt sick to his core. He didn’t mind admitting that he had a huge soft spot for Sam Green.
Though, women weren’t his thing. He wasn’t gay, it was just that at five-foot-five, now with a tummy and dressed like a 70s-rock groupie, he was hardly God’s gift. So, he never really got close enough to find out what women were like. He’d like to. He would. He’d also like to fly to New Zealand and do The Lord of the Ri
ngs tour on motorbike. There were lots of things he’d like to do.
But, work was where he was at his most comfortable.
And, just now, he needed to find out what Sam Green was up to. She might need his help.
Frank opened his email and typed a GCHQ address into the ‘To’ box. He filled in the title: Sam Green - SIS retiree - update.
The email was to the pal of his at Cheltenham who was already looking over Sam’s phone numbers. It read:
Hi Beth[RJ50],
A couple of things. I guess there’s nothing from either of the numbers I gave you ref Sam Green? Second, I’m going to forward you a Border Force alert concerning Sam. She appears to be on a plane to Nassau (lucky her). What is interesting is that she didn’t book the flight herself. It was done by a third party and, I guess via multiple ISPs, the party’s details are hidden. I’m going to try the SFO (Serious Fraud Office) and see if they can help. In the meantime can you do your best?
Use the same case number for the work.
Thanks. Give us a call if you get anything.
Frank xx
He read the mail then pressed ‘Send’. He’d brief Jane as soon as she was back in the office.
Lynden Pindling International, Nassau,
The Bahamas
Sam got a sniff of the heat at the front exit of the 777. The gap between the aircraft’s door and the bridge ramp was large enough to remind unwary passengers that it was hot out there - 82 degrees according to the pilot. The ramp wasn’t air conditioned, but the terminal was, so the blast of heat was short-lived. It didn’t matter. Sam knew that soon enough she’d have to get used to the heat. That wouldn’t be a problem - military training in Jordan and Belize, operations in Afghanistan and three weeks of nonsense in West Africa had taught her how to cope.
It wasn’t the heat she was concerned about. It was the fact that she was, more likely than not, being monitored. Maybe followed. This was something else she had experienced before and it wasn’t a great feeling. Thankfully her SIS training had taught her how to lose a tail, and she was good at it.
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