‘I didn’t realise you played the guitar?’ She asked.
‘Air guitar. I’m very good.’
Jane smiled. How very Frank.
They both remained standing. Jane spun her pencil between her fingers.
‘Sorry, just read your message about Sam. What do you have?’
‘Two things. First, GCHQ cannot identify the “unknown” who paid for Sam’s ticket. They came across an ISP block on the Dark Web.’
‘Dark Web?’ Jane gently shook her head. ‘And, second?’
‘With nothing else to go on, just now I did an all-government sources search for “Sam Green” and came across a seemingly trivial wire from our Consulate in Nassau. A British tourist is presumed missing after an Avis hire car was found abandoned in downtown Nassau.’
‘Sam?’
‘Yes. The car was hired to a Sam Green, arriving on BA253 yesterday lunchtime.’ Frank's tone was business-like.
Jane thought for a moment.
‘Sit down, Frank,’ Jane pointed to comfy chair in the corner of her office. She took the one next to it.
‘There’s more, Frank. Sam’s call the other day was from a German mobile, as you know. In essence she had come across new evidence of the re-emergence of The Church of the White Cross.’
Frank interrupted.
‘You mean Bischoff, the very dead Manning, Ralph Bell - and the wackos from Germany and Texas?’
‘Correct. She gave me two new names out of some intelligence to which she’d been privy - she said she’d seen a good number more. The names were: Paul Mitchell and Nicholas Stone.’
Frank thought for a second.
‘Mitchell was the businessman abducted and then murdered off the East African coast a few years ago?’
‘Correct.’
‘And, for the second, she doesn’t mean Min AF?’
Jane nodded.
‘She does. I’ve seen his file, Frank. There is no hint of anything other than alcohol dependency.’
Frank scratched his chin.
‘And now she’s chasing around the Caribbean, using the Dark Web to buy her tickets, and then abandoning her hire car on the same day she collects it from the airport.’
‘Or …’, Jane paused, ‘She’s been abducted?’
They both let that thought hang.
‘OK.’ Jane broke the silence. ‘Let me check something.’
Jane was on her feet, moving quickly round to her desk. Within a second she had the SIS deployment matrix open.
‘Let’s see. Nassau. Bradley Stokes. He’s our man in The Bahamas. Do you know him?’ Jane opened a new tab and searched for Bradley Stokes’ p-file. Here it is. He was, not surprisingly, an older operative: 54. Probably enjoying semi-retirement, keeping an eye on the banks and similar. His history looked sensible and unblemished.
‘No, sorry.’ Frank replied.
‘Me neither. Have I told you that the SIS case officer who confirmed Paul Mitchell’s body in Mogadishu was sacked the following year from Kenya for taking bribes?’ Jane looked up over her screen.
‘No … so, Paul Mitchell could be alive? His murder was staged? And then his death faked by a bent agent?’ Frank had added two and two and got considerably more.
Jane was looking back at her screen. She absently confirmed Frank’s suspicion with a, ‘mmm’.
‘Right.’ Jane had a plan. ‘I’ll get hold of Bradley Stokes. You put a 443 out for Sam.’
Frank looked confused.
‘But that’s a “case officer missing” alert. Sam no longer works for us.’
‘She might as well be now.’
Curry’s Motel, Boyd Road, Nassau, The Bahamas
Sam finished the last spoonful of oats and yoghurt and reached for her coffee. The breakfast was perfectly adequate - as was the motel, a two-up, two-down in mid-town Nassau. She had come across it yesterday afternoon by complete chance, wandering north from where she’d deserted the hire car.
En route she’d practised her SIS evasive-tailing routine. It hadn’t taken her long to be comfortable that she was clear of snakeskin-belt man. But she was already getting that Nassau was a small and compact city - especially near its centre. A handful of (mostly) criss-crossing single-track roads, lined with two-storey, pastel-washed buildings - nearly all of them in need of repair and those in better shape were lacking a good coat of paint. Whilst it would be easy to lose yourself, the place wasn’t big enough to be lost in for long.
For a ‘tax haven’, Sam couldn’t begin to reconcile some of the poverty she had witnessed. OK, so it wasn’t Freetown or Monrovia, two capitals she’d visited five years ago where the streets were full of unemployed, disheartened men - and women - eking out a living from near-empty table-top sales of fruit, veg, cigarettes and candy. But the centre was run down. Every third building was a wooden shack - or an ex-house - poorly boarded up, even though most still showed signs of habitation.
The streets also lacked the vibrancy and noise of their West African counterparts. There was no loud music, no women screaming at their men - no hustle; no ‘in-your-face’. The place was all pastel as opposed to primary colours. Sam sensed that The Bahamas was laid back; well-off vertical. That may be OK for now, but she reckoned the country was only a couple of bad governments between where it was currently and third-world status. Which would be a shame because, nearly exclusively, the people she had met were lovely. Even the dreadlock-adorned, slightly menacing-looking men, were congenial.
The motel (more guest house than anything else) suited her down to the ground. The room was perfectly comfortable, with air conditioning, a basin and an overhead fan. It had competent Wi-Fi and they took cash - no passport required. She booked in as Elena Kuznetsov, an office worker from St Petersburg. Elena was an old alias of hers from when she’d worked in Moscow. Sam was very fond of Elena. The woman had helped her out of a number of tight spots.
She’d booked in speaking Russian, having done her best to change her appearance in the backyard of Mike’s cafe. Her t-shirt for a white blouse, and her baseball cap with a paisley bandana, made from a cotton scarf she had in her rucksack. After an opening salvo in Russian, she wasn’t surprised that the young woman behind reception hadn’t understood a word. Two years of immersion language-training prior to her SIS posting to Moscow had enabled her to become fluent. She hadn’t spoken a word in Russian for over a year. As with most things in her head, accessing the right words in the right order had come naturally.
She then painstakingly asked for a room in a very broken English accent - with a thick Russian clip. That had done the trick. The woman, who smiled and introduced herself as Candy, had booked her in for one night. Sam had paid up front - in cash.
After a shower, she had texted Wolfgang using her fourth SIM. He’d come back to her immediately and, as he’d done in the Sofitel, had remotely accessed her phone and established a secure voice link via a VPN (virtual private network) that he had set up on the Dark Web. The mechanics of it all went over Sam’s head. All she knew was that three minutes later they were having a secure conversation, even if there was a slight delay between what one of them said and what the other heard.
Sam explained where she was and why she’d ended up there.
‘Do you think it’s Victoria Mitchell?’ Wolfgang asked.
Sam waited for the delay.
‘I can’t think of a better reason. I used my real name in Norfolk. And you booked me on a flight as Sam Green. I suppose it’s possible that someone in Austria could have tracked down my hotel room. Or your Müller bloke has given the game away? Whatever, it all comes back to the people on that sexy board of yours in the cellar.’
Pause.
‘Can’t be Müller. I’ve not given him your details, just your description. What about the conversation with your old boss, Jane? Could it be SIS keeping an eye?’
Sam had considered that option and dismissed it. Snakeskin-belt man was too hopeless to be an SIS employee.
‘No. I really don’t
think so. Anyway, moving on. I have a meeting with Lukas Müller tomorrow …?’ She let the question hang.
‘Yes, that’s done. Eleven-fifteen tomorrow morning at The One and Only Ocean Club, on Paradise Island.’
Sam let her brain work through the ramifications of Wolfgang’s statement.
‘Does it have to be on Paradise Island? There are two bridges, an “on” and an “off”. I will be channelled. Easy meat for a pick-up.’
‘Sorry. It was his suggestion. Apparently it’s the only place to be seen at on the island - and it’s where he does all his business. Other than in the office which, in this case, is no-go. Meeting anywhere else would be unusual for him and attract attention all of its own. He clearly doesn’t want that. He’s going to meet you under the pretence of a job interview. He’s been looking for a new housekeeper …’
The pause allowed Sam’s temper to spike.
‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you!’
Her response was met with a German chortle.
‘Anyway,’ more laughter, ‘... as a family we stayed at The One and Only in The Maldives just before my father died. They are very special. The coffee and pastries will be good.’
Sam had calmed down.
‘If there is more than one One and Only, shouldn’t they be called The One of Many Ocean Clubs?’
Pause.
‘That’s a good point. Make that recommendation in the comments book when you are there.’ More chuckles.
They spent the next ten minutes discussing the strategy Sam would use in her meeting with Herr Müller. As they did, Sam scrolled down a fact file that Wolfgang had put together on the man. It was particularly unpleasant reading.
Then they discussed the mobile that Sam had stolen from snakeskin-belt man.
‘Is it locked?’ Wolfgang had asked,
‘Yes. I turned it off by taking the back off and removing the battery - I assumed that they, whoever they are, would be able to follow it if data was turned on.’
‘Any idea of what the number is?’
‘No, sorry.’
‘Android or iPhone?’
‘Android.’
Wolfgang had gone quiet.
‘When you’re away from the hotel put the phone on and see if there are any messages or missed calls - Android allows you to see the numbers and some text without the phone being unlocked. If you get anything, SMS the details to me. I can’t break into the phone remotely, but I may be able to do something with it here. When you get a break we should think of FedEx-ing the phone to me.’
‘Away from the hotel - just in case someone triangulates the phone?’
Sam knew the chances of discovering a person’s location by their phone. There were two methods. First, any decent security service can get access to your phone company’s towers. They ping your phone, even if you’re not using it, and your phone pings the towers back. Three towers would give an accuracy of around 20 square metres. Second, is when you use it. This gives any ordinary hackers a greater degree of freedom to find your phone - and where you are. Accuracy is about 100 square metres. If, however, you’re using your phone and have your GPS activated, a sophisticated hacker can see the whites of your eyes.
‘Yes, but you’re a spy. You know that.’
‘Ex-spy. But you’re right.’
Sam changed the subject.
‘Assuming that I’m not rushed by a team of The Church’s spetsnaz, how do you suggest I get off the island? I’d be an idiot to use the airport.’ Sam asked.
‘I’ve given that some thought. I’ve found one or two nefarious options. One works out of Potters Cay, just under the bridge on the Nassau side of the sound that separates Paradise Island from the mainland.’
Sam’s brain displayed the map of Nassau that she’d rehearsed in the Sofitel. Got that. She’d have another more detailed look on Google Maps once Wolfgang had got off the phone.
‘And?’
Pause.
‘He runs a powerboat business with extra tanks. He’s into “logistics”’ Sam imagined Wolfgang using his hands to demonstrate speech marks.
‘Drugs?’
‘I didn’t say that. Nor did he. But he will take any cargo, anywhere. Especially Florida. That route is via Andros - the large Bahamian island west of New Providence. For a price. It’s about a ten-hour journey and not without risk. Particularly from the US Border Patrol which has a heavy presence along the southern US coast.’
Sam knew of the US Border Patrol. She remembered the figure of 21,000 agents - they monitored the US’s borders by vehicle, boat, aircraft and even horse and UAVs. The current President had recently beefed up their capabilities. It would be a helluva journey.
‘Better in the hands of US officials than in a cellar of The Church of the White Cross?’ It was a rhetorical question which Wolfgang didn’t need to, but answered anyway.
‘It might be difficult to tell them apart. We don’t know The Church’s reach?’
How true.
With that they’d finished the meat of their conversation.
‘Be careful, Sam.’
She intended to be.
‘Sure, Wolfgang. Thanks. When will you let me know about your man with a boat?’
Pause.
‘I’ll text your fifth SIM when I have some more detail.’
And that was that.
Back in the restaurant Sam took a final swig of her coffee. She checked her phone. It was 8.45 am. She had plenty of time. She’d get over the bridge - on foot was her first thought - as soon as she could. Then she’d check for a tail before making her way to The One and Only.
The One and Only Ocean Club, Paradise Island, New Providence, The Bahamas
Sam was half an hour early. That suited her. She was standing on the grass verge of a very picturesque and quiet dual carriageway that cut Paradise Island in two. The island was no bigger than a couple of golf courses and most of it was subsumed by the coral pink, high-rise Atlantis resort. The monstrosity dominated both Paradise Island and the capital Nassau. It was something out of Las Vegas - huge, tall, with a covered balcony connecting the main two skyscrapers at goodness knows what floor. Sam had read that it had two aquariums (fish should swim in the sea, not a tank, was her view), a waterpark, scores of pools and ponds, a casino and, she guessed, plenty of well heeled but poorly dressed American tourists.
The last comment was unfair. She was hardly a fashionista barometer.
Whatever.
Herr Müller’s meeting was between a rich German banker and his would-be housekeeper. She was wearing a blue cotton skirt, a white blouse and her Jesus sandals - there was little else to choose from. Better dressed than when she’d arrived, for sure. But hardly a beacon of good taste.
She took a minute to turn on snakeskin-belt man’s phone. Sure enough the phone’s locked screen held a clue. There was a text message from ‘Ops’, the top line of which read: need to talk about equipment. She took a picture of the screen with her own phone and SMS’d the image to Wolfgang.
She then turned off both phones.
The entrance to The One and Only was through a grand-looking gap in a tall and thick evergreen hedge. The hotel’s sign was understated - but classy. And the road leading up to the resort was well maintained but, surprisingly, had dark-grey kerbstones. Sam didn’t get that.
It took her five minutes to saunter up to the main entrance. As she walked she tried very hard to make her rucksack look as small as possible. It was hardly in keeping. A circular drive cut through immaculate lawns and met a smallish, two-storey colonial mansion, painted light blue with white gloss accoutrements. There was a very welcoming, building-height Palladian porch, suspended by white Roman columns - which framed double doors; double doors that were manned by double staff. One door - one flunkey. She was already feeling way out of her depth, and hating the opulence. Give her her trusty yellow VW camper, a loch-side pitch and a mug of tea and she was happy as Larry.
The doors opened. The two local men were w
earing appropriate livery. They smiled and, in unison, said, ‘Good morning, ma’am. Welcome to The One and Only Ocean Club.’ It was silky smooth and surprisingly not over the top. Sam was already beginning to feel at home - and hating herself for it.
‘Good morning. I’m here for a business meeting. In the beach cafe?’
The left-hand servant - what do you call them? - said, ‘Straight through, ma’am.’ He pointed beyond a vast entrance hall to a lounge and another set of double doors. In the distance Sam picked out a white, medium-size pavilion, and a hint of dark blue ocean beyond it.
‘And the lavatories?’ Sam needed to freshen up.
‘The restrooms are over there, ma’am.’
Sam saw the sign on the door. She nodded and said, ‘Thank you.’ And left the two doormen - that’s what you call them - to effuse over their next guest.
Five minutes later she’d sorted out her life, made her way across the lawn, which framed a fabulous infinity pool, and walked into the pavilion. Once there she found a two-seat table by an open window. She sat with her back to a corner, leaving a single seat for her guest.
The beach cafe was so much more than its name suggested. High up on a sand cliff with a white, curving beach below, it was a square, white wood and glass pavilion - the centre of which was all bar. There were elegant stools nestled under the bar, and tables between it and the three-quarter length windows. Out of three sides all you could see was sand, surf, ocean and, in the distance, a thin green sliver of a far-off cay. It was perfect. Made more so by the fact that she was currently the only customer. For a second she forgot herself.
Mmm.
Her wistfulness was interrupted when she spotted Lukas Müller crossing the lawn by the pool. He was as described in the photos Wolfgang had shared with her. In his 60s, mid-height, mid-weight, with a marked, white, flabby face. He wore a beige cotton short-sleeve shirt, blue chinos and a Panama. Straight out of a Graham Greene novel. And he walked with a slight limp.
So, this was a man who put the ‘haven’ into tax haven - and who, very discreetly and extremely secretively, managed the accounts of The Church of the White Cross. Probably. He was a servant of the über-rich who, through shell companies and non-trading firms, held and hid their assets; and through electronic and accounting sleight of hand, disguised and distributed massive wealth, keeping all that worth away from the tax-grabbing hands of governments and their financial agencies. The Panama Papers and LuxLeaks had exposed and embarrassed individuals and corporations, and forced many of them to come clean about how they avoided tax - and how they kept their money as their money. But it hadn’t stopped the process - it had just slowed it, and made those who wanted their assets hidden, dig a deeper hole.
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