‘Incompetence! And Müller is dead also?’ Hannibal’s voice boomed across the quad. There were a couple of monks walking along one side of the square. They carried on, heads bowed, outwardly unaware of the exchange.
‘Correct. Suicide.’
Hannibal raised his hands in mock indignation.
‘Do we have any idea if he gave anything away?’
Both men had stopped in the middle of the quad by the fountain. The black man had another sip from his can.
‘Possibly, possibly not. He had restricted access. We’re working on changing account numbers and some other necessary alterations. It should be done in the next couple of hours. I’m not worried.’
‘What sort of cake and arse party are you Americans running?’
The black man didn’t flinch. He seemed impervious to Hannibal’s tirade.
‘I think we need to remember where the money’s coming from, Freddie.’
Hannibal, now renamed ‘Freddie’, turned to one side and kicked a stone with his foot.
‘What can you tell me about Miss “slippery” Green?’
The black man ran a hand through his short hair.
‘Ex-SIS/MI6. We’ve come across her before. I’ve met her. She’s tenacious, but not indestructible. I’ve got someone in Miami keeping an eye out for her. We’ll track her down in a matter of days.’
‘How come I don’t know of her?’
‘In the scheme of things, she’s been a small cog. As they all are. She’s a nuisance - no more. Throughout you’ve had bigger fish to fry. Getting the network in place. Planning the event. You’ve done a great job. The US are really pleased.’
Freddie grunted. The black man's platitudes seemed to have calmed things down a bit.
He turned again, catching Jakov staring at them. Jakov was sure he saw him say, ‘What the fuck …’, under his breath. Then he was all smiles.
A moment of silence and then, ‘Jakov, come here.’
Jakov was immediately unsure.
‘Come. Come.’ Freddie was beckoning with his hand.
Jakov stood and wearily walked towards the two men. Freddie welcomed him with an arm around his shoulder - which must have looked odd; Jakov was fifteen centimetres taller than he was. Freddie squeezed his dislocated shoulder. A spike of pain shot down his arm. His knees almost crumpled.
‘Did you hear all of that Jakov? Were you listening?’ Both of the sentences came through gritted teeth.
‘No … I.’
Jakov didn’t have time to finish his reply. Freddie removed his arm and, in an instance, faced Jakov - now with both hands on Jakov’s shoulders. Their height difference was stark.
‘Don’t … listen … to … other … people’s … conversations! Didn’t your mother teach you anything?’
Jakov was forming an appropriately weak reply when Freddie raised himself on tiptoes and smacked his forehead against Jakov’s nose.
The pain was overwhelming. His legs gave way as his hands instinctively reached for his face. He was sure he let out a yelp, but it didn’t register because, as he dropped to his knees, Freddie’s fist smashed against the side of his head.
Then blackness.
Headquarters SIS, Vauxhall, London
Jane closed her computer. It had been another very long day. In at 7 am. Lunch on the hoof. A trip over the Thames for a meeting at the FCO. Back again. An impromptu cabal with the chief and all of his senior team to discuss the evolving Korean crisis - two leaders screaming at each other from across the playground. SIS didn’t have boots in North Korea, but GCHQ were central to gathering SIGINT (signals intelligence) from a variety of sources on the peninsula. And their rep from Langley had some useful input.
She’d not made the gym as she had planned. Never mind. She’d knock up something from her fridge when she got home and whilst it was on the hob, she’d do some yoga. It was hardly cardiovascular - but it would do.
She stood and gathered her things. Through the glass wall she counted five of her staff still in the office. She would have a chat to all of them individually as she left - encourage them to go home.
One of them was Frank; he was on the phone. The only analyst, she guessed, who was still in the building. Bless him.
She put her empty lunch box in the top of her daysack and reached for her scarf and heavy woollen coat. Home. A 20-minute tube journey followed by a five-minute walk.
There was a rattle on the door. It opened. Frank’s head appeared.
‘Got five minutes? I think you’ll want to hear this.’
Jane swung her head from side to side, releasing her shoulder-length hair from the neck of her coat. She flicked the bottom of her hair with the flat tops of her hands to make sure it was all free.
‘Sure, Frank. What have you got?’
‘I’ve just got off the phone from The Bahamas.’
‘Bradley Stokes?’
‘Yeah. Do you know the geography of the islands?’
‘Uh, not really. Archipelago, off the east coast of Florida. Capital is Nassau. Ex-Brit colony. Tax haven?’ It wasn’t a bad summary, but her expertise was the Middle East, North Africa, mid-Asia and all of Europe.
‘Seven hundred islands at an average of 200 miles southeast of the southern tip of Florida. You’re right about the tax haven. It’s also a big 007 theme park. A number of scenes from a couple of Bond films have been shot there.’ Frank added.
‘And your point is?’
‘Sorry. Bradley spotted Sam driving a very smart Lexus off Paradise Island ….’. Jane had lost the detailed geography; Frank noticed. ‘Sorry, let me explain. I’ve been studying this.’
Jane let him have his moment.
‘Nassau is on the island of New Providence, pretty much in the middle of The Bahamas. New Providence is a tiny island - think Isle of White, but a bit smaller and without any white cliffs.’ Frank took a breath. ‘Paradise Island is a tiny, weenie island blistered onto the northern coast of New Providence. It’s where most of the hotel action is. It seems that Sam was on the island - Bradley doesn’t know why. He snapped her coming off the only bridge.’
‘Driving a smart Lexus?’
‘Correct. A 430 NX. Black metallic. About £75k’s worth.’
‘That’s good. We know she’s alive.’
Frank put up his hand, gently stopping Jane mid-track.
‘There’s more. After tagging Sam, and via the local police radio, Bradley got wind of a shooting incident involving a black Lexus in a local mall. By the time he got there it was all over, other than some frightened and confused locals - and a couple of police cars. Then there was another radio report of a chase on the east of the island involving …’
‘A black Lexus.’
‘Yeah, that’s right. The police headed east. Bradley headed north to the centre of town. He told me he was trying to get into Sam’s head. After what we’d told him, the airport was out - so it was a boat or nothing. By chance he arrived at the docks at the same time as Sam, the Lexus and a chase-car.’
By now Jane had plumped her bottom on the corner of her desk and got comfortable. She felt as if she was hearing the first draft of a movie script.
‘Bradley has police sirens fitted to his pickup. And, and he knows this is not usual SIS protocol, he was armed. A 9mm Sig Sauer P226. His own - not from SIS’s armoury. It’s the island mentality. All those pirates.’ Frank grinned.
Does SIS’s one-man office in Nassau have an armoury?
If she wasn’t fascinated by the story, Jane’s eyes would have rolled in their sockets. An elderly case officer running around a former British colony with a non-issue pistol under the seat of his car, and police sirens in the grille. Whatever next? A magnetic, flashing blue light which he throws on the roof?
‘Anyway,’ Frank was excited - there was obviously more and it seemed very unlikely the bad guys were going to come out on top. ‘He puts the blue light on his roof, throws on the siren and chases the Lexus and the Impala down the docks.’
/> ‘Impala? That’s a deer, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah - yeah. It’s also a US car; a Chevrolet, I think. I didn’t ask as I didn’t want to appear thick. Anyway.’ Frank was in full swing. ‘As Bradley turns into the docks he sees Sam’s Lexus abandoned and the Impala squeezing past it - knocking over a fence. Sam’s car seems to have come to a halt halfway down the docks. So, quick thinking, Bradley follows the Impala through the gap and, as the driver gets out at the quay and takes a shot at Sam, Bradley does the whole, “Stop, Police or I’ll shoot!”, routine. The guy takes a second shot at Sam - he thinks the shooter might have winged her, so he slots the bad guy. A double-tap. And he’s down.’
‘Slots the bad guy?’
‘Yeah, you know. Slots.’ Frank raised his right hand and took a couple of imaginary shots.
‘And Sam?’
‘Oh. Yeah. He runs to catch her up, but he’s too late. She’s on a massive powerboat with four engines as big as your head. Off it goes, down the sound and into the bay.’
‘Sam made it off the island?’
‘Appears so, yeah.’
‘And did Bradley give any indication on how Sam was? Had she been shot?’
‘He didn’t know. He just said that she had sat up and looked at him. So, he thought that she was probably OK.’
Frank was very pleased with himself.
Jane blew out through an open mouth. Doubtless the British Consulate and The Bahamian government would knock up some appropriate cover story. And, regardless of how gung-ho Case Officer Stokes appears to have been, he probably just saved Sam Green’s life. She’d have a chat with the Consulate General tomorrow about some form of commendation. And then get him marched back in for a reprimand. SIS couldn’t be doing with maverick case officers gunning people down in the street.
‘Thanks Frank. A lot. And where do we think Sam’s gone?’
‘The States. Bradley reckons it’s the only sensible option in a big speed boat - unless the whole boat is full of fuel, which he doubts. I reckon it’s a ten-hour journey, assuming they get past the US Border Patrol maritime teams. She’ll be there in, say, six hours.’
‘OK. Good.’ Jane thought for a second. ‘Do two things for me. One, tonight. Get in touch with the British Consulate in Miami and tell them what you have. And, tomorrow, try and work out how Sam Green might have arranged to get off the island on a bloody big powerboat. She must be working with someone. Look at all her history. There was that UN chap in New York. And the congressman’s daughter from last year. Oh, and the German count. Wolfgang. That’s him. Check him out as well.’
Frank nodded.
‘And the Russian FSB guy - Vlad?’
‘No. I think FSB involvement is extremely unlikely. But, I will speak to my CIA oppo at Langley now. Let him know where we are with Sam. I’ll also ask him to reopen the Greyshoe file - make it live. I think The Church of the White Cross needs much more of our attention than we have been giving it hitherto. Don’t you think?’
Chapter 10
Flemingstraße, Munich, Germany
Wolfgang stood, pushing his chair away. What did he have? He walked over to the wall-length glass board and with some sweeping movements of his hand, segments of the screen changed, and two sections were enlarged.
The two enlargements were individually titled with a country’s name and next to it, its flag: Croatia and Venezuela. The Croatian box had only one mugshot complete out of the five allocated spaces. The photo was of a man wearing army uniform; his badges displayed the rank of general. Wolfgang had known about the guy for over a year, picking up his details from CCTV footage of a likely Church meeting in Zagreb. The other four boxes were empty. But, after Sam’s call yesterday he could now add a new telephone number and an incomplete name. The partial name was ‘Freddie’; the number had turned out to be a Croatian landline.
He typed what he had into an empty Croatian mugshot box using the on-display keyboard.
Interrogating the detail yesterday had been tricky and had required him to hack into Hrvatski Telekom's database - the Croatian national telephone company. It was something he’d not done before and it had taken him most of last night to find a usable portal. Once inside, he’d accessed ‘Freddie’s’ account and then followed a number of useful trails.
The first thing he did was to find the missed call. That was straightforward. Freddie had called Müller using a Croatian landline about 20 minutes before the arranged meeting with Sam at The One and Only. Müller had obviously not picked it up; his mind on other things - like taking his own life. The landline details were obscure - which surprised him. The country code was a decipherable ‘+385’: Croatia. Next, for mere mortals, there were 21 different area codes. Zagreb, the capital, was a single ‘1’, Istria ‘52’, etc. He got that. Strangely, however, the area code for Freddie’s landline was ‘61’ - it didn’t match any of the 21 declared Croatian codes.
Back to the drawing board.
Eventually, after some long-screwdriver hacking, Wolfgang had found the reason. Deep within Hrvatski Telekom’s filing system was a contract between the company’s CEO and the Ministry of Interior. The document was classified ‘CONFIDENTIAL’. It was three pages long, but, with help from Google Translate, the outcome was clear. Hrvatski Telekom had been given authority by the Ministry of Interior to set up a new, secure landline code: 61. With it came 40 separate 6-figure numbers.
Wolfgang had spent a further hour trying to establish where or what the area ‘61’ looked like - but had been beaten by the need to sleep. It was 3.30 in the morning and Elisabeth had knocked so loudly on the metal entrance door, he thought she’d burst through and fall down the stairs. He’d accepted her matronly direction - and left the cellar for his bed.
Four hours later, after a scrummy breakfast of boiled eggs and freshly baked Brötchen lashed with unsalted butter, he’d come back down to the cellar and worked on Freddie’s account - focusing on the arcane landline number. Freddie was sparing with his account. He used the line very infrequently and only to five numbers, one of which was Müller’s. Records over the past six months showed him phoning Müller ten times.
The other four numbers were fascinating.
One was to the mobile number of the Croatian army general who was on Wolfgang’s database - and whose mugshot he already had. That was a good piece of corroboration.
A second was to a cell phone in the US. This was interesting but not useful. All US cell numbers are assigned randomly by NANPA (North American Numbering Plan Administration), so a US cell has no geographical or other association. There were exceptions. Some companies buy a 1,000 consecutive numbers at a time. He’d need to check later to see if the number was associated with a particular company. Getting into NANPA was like taking a bone from a dachshund. Easy-peasy.
The third number opened a new door for him.
Freddie liked to call Venezuela. Often. The Venezuelan number was a landline with an area code that belonged to Amazonas - deep in the south of the country, a state that bordered Brazil and Colombia. Wolfgang had opened Google Maps to study southern Venezuela. It was barely populated; all jungle and rivers.
His current database included Venezuela as one of his 11 countries - its box was open in front of him. He knew the country was in a bad way. The current socialist government, the United Socialist Party, or Chavistas, had been in power for 27 years. A burgeoning opposition was blaming the Chavistas for running an autocracy, increasing their power base and reneging on social reform. For an oil-rich country, the shortages of basic supplies and foodstuffs were extraordinary and clashes between the government and the opposition were violent; law and order had broken down. Some commentators had declared that Venezuela was in a state of civil war.
Until yesterday Wolfgang had two Venezuelans on his board. One was the leading civil servant in The Ministry of Interior, Justice and Peace - Diego Rojas. The second was Cardinal Pedro Pérez, a senior figure in the Venezuelan catholic church; Wolfgang had made a side-note on his
database that 80% of Venezuelans were practising Catholics. The cardinal had some reach,
Now he reckoned he had a third name for his board - well, almost. He had the landline number that Freddie called in the Amazonas; it was a big state and he couldn’t get a clearer picture than that.
The fifth and last on Freddie’s call list was a +44 7795 number. He’d checked - it was a Virgin UK Mobile number. Somewhere in the deep folds of his mind it rang a bell, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. This was mainly because Venezuela was writ large across his consciousness. Venezuela. Amazonas. The Church of the White Cross?
It didn’t make much sense.
He’d ignored the fifth number and tried a different tack.
Forty minutes ago he’d blanket-searched his database for any Venezuelan linkages. There were 28. Not surprisingly 27 were associated with the cardinal and the senior civil servant. He dismissed those. The 28th was much, much more interesting. It was details of a flight booked from Schiphol, Holland, to Caracas. The flight was three weeks previously. After a short hack into KLM’s website he found a mobile number associated with the flight. It was the same +44 7795 UK number - assigned to Virgin UK. The fifth number Freddie phoned on his landline.
Caracas. And a UK mobile number - which rang a bell somewhere? And Freddie?
Wait. Think!
If only he had Sam’s retentive memory. Was it a number that he recognised?
He was convinced it was one of his long-standing loose ends. Think! Hadn’t a UK mobile cropped up on ten or so other call registers from known (according to him) Church members? He did a quick search of the database.
There it is!
The +44 7795 number - and 12 connections across the whole board. The same Virgin Mobile number that Freddie called from his Croatian landline.
A new connection.
Previously he’d not been able to establish who the number belonged to, or where it was based. He still hadn’t. But, with the Freddie linkage he now thought it key to the whole matrix.
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