‘And snakeskin-belt man?’ Frank asked. He was the sixth large goose-egg with 14 connections. Sam hadn’t touched him yet.
‘I’m not sure. Although, hang on …’
Frank waited. And waited. He was entertained by a gentle static hum on the computer speakers. In limbo he reached across to an intercom which hung on the wall next to the computer stations. It had six buttons and a speaker. He’d seen Wolfgang use it to call Elisabeth. One of the buttons was marked ‘Bedroom’.
He pressed it.
There was a pause, then a sultry, sleepy voice said, ‘Ja!’
That’s not Wolfgang?
‘Hi. It’s Frank. Is Wolfgang there?’
‘Einen moment bitte.’
A ruffle of duvet, then ...
‘Yes, Frank?’
‘Sam’s on the phone. We’ve got work to do.’
‘Richtig. Two minutes.’
The intercom went quiet. Wolfgang was on his way.
‘Sam?’
‘Shut up. I’m thinking.’
OK.
Frank drummed his fingers. And yawned again.
‘Got it.’
‘What?’
‘The Bahamas and Venezuela. They’re linked.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘The Bahamas is just off the coast of Florida. It has always been a staging post for illicit trade between the US, Central America, The Caribbean, Colombia and Venezuela. Recently it’s been drugs. In the past, during prohibition, it was bootleg spirits. The Bahamians are a bunch of pirates. Always have been.’
Frank was catching up, but not fast enough.
Sam continued.
‘Your man Janon Jobes, or whatever his real name is. He’s working out of Caracas. “Need to talk about equipment.” Get it? Snakeskin-belt man links together the suppliers, probably in the US, to the supplied. In this case, our Ops friend with the UK mobile. In Venezuela.’
Frank had caught up.
‘Or, the other way round? There’s a terror attack planned in the US and the supply chain is heading the other way?’
Sam was quiet again.
‘No. Doesn’t make sense. Venezuela is a country going down the tubes. It can’t produce enough food to feed itself. There’s no way it’s up to exporting the kit needed for a terror attack in the US. That stuff would already exist. No, the conduit is in the other direction.’
Frank had to agree. He nodded to himself just as Wolfgang pulled up the chair next to him.
'Nice pants.’
Frank screwed his face up at Wolfgang, who stared back. He looked as tired as Frank felt.
‘Sam?’ Frank asked.
‘OK. OK. I’m still thinking!’
Frank looked at Wolfgang again; the German shot a concerned look back.
Sam continued. ‘I have three mugshots. It’s taken me almost four hours to get them exactly as I remember them. I’ve just asked Cynthia to run the photofit programme. She’ll copy you into the results. Hopefully she’ll recognise at least one of the bastards.’
‘Good, Sam. Good work.’ It was Wolfgang.
Frank reckoned Wolfgang was expecting a reply. A ‘welcome to the cellar’ retort. He didn’t get one.
‘I’m going to Caracas.’
A single line from Sam - a bombshell.
‘What? Wait! You can’t. It’s crazy there at the moment.’ Frank blurted out his response.
‘I’m going. You work on the hierarchy. Do what you do best. I can’t stay in Florida. I’m getting the team here in the Consulate to sort everything I need.’
‘Sam!’ Frank’s desperation was manifest.
‘What!’ Sam’s reply came back as a shout - it filled the quiet of the cellar. Frank flinched.
His response was sensitive. Pleading almost.
‘What’s wrong with you, Sam? I’ve never heard you like this?’
Silence.
The two men looked at each other. Wolfgang shrugged his shoulders.
Then they knew.
‘Ginny’s dead. The Consulate are dealing with it. She was …’ Sam sounded like she was choking. ‘She was executed. Lunchtime. In her apartment, just after I left. They tracked her down because of me.’
Frank wanted to say something. Something along the lines of ‘Sorry’, but he didn’t have time before Sam was off again. Back to being more forceful. More committed.
‘I’m going to Caracas. Today. It’s the only lead we have. You dig deeper; find me something to chase when I get there. There’s a flight out of Miami at 4.15 pm. I’ll be in Venezuela by nightfall. The duty man here is putting together the travel details using an alias they’ve given me. I’ll take a Consulate sat phone, which should give me a reasonable level of secure speech. I’ll call you when I get there.’
Frank pushed back in his chair. He breathed out loudly through his nose.
‘Are you sure, Sam?’
More silence.
Sam’s eventual reply was weak. Stuttered.
‘I might as well have pulled the trigger myself, Frank. It was awful. She didn’t deserve to die. She really didn’t. I’m going to find the bastards who did this. And, if no one else is interested except you, me and Wolfgang, the three of us are going to bring the whole shooting match down.’
Samostan Monastery, Punat Bay, Krk, Croatia
Jakov sipped at his porridge. It was thin and milky. Not something you could chew. Karlo was sitting opposite him. He had a plateful: sausages and eggs - and toast. These monks knew which side their bread was buttered. Jakob inwardly smarted to himself. Humour wasn't a strength of his, so he was surprised that he found even a small piece of comedy. He certainly didn't feel that he had the energy for it.
He looked up just as Karlo did the same. They caught each other's eye. Jakob smiled, an earnest smile which covered his true feelings. You’re all complicit. Karlo smiled back. They had a connection. That's the way Jakov wanted it. Since his beating in the square, an act so callous and unnecessary it had sparked in him a determination to 'get the hell out of here whatever the cost', he had been as good as gold. A new recruit. A hard-working and industrious gardener. A fastidious follower of whatever faith it was these people kowtowed to. He was getting very good at prayers, mouthing words to a God he didn't believe in. He’d caught Karlo looking at him in the dark of the chapel last night as he silently whispered some nonsense penitence. Karlo had nodded slowly.
It was working.
Acceptance.
However long it took.
He was also much closer to understanding how the monastery was set out. Leaving aside bunks, the chapel, the canteen and the sanatorium, he’d worked out that there were six or seven rooms to which he couldn't assign a purpose. One was by the chapel; the rest were in the southeast corner of the quad. He’d made the presumption that all of the upstairs rooms were living quarters. Some were two-windows big. Some, like his, just one. He reckoned his room was on the bottom floor because it was ‘special’: crampily self-contained, misted glass, bars on the window and no way of unlocking it from the inside.
A cell.
The rooms he couldn't place were on the bottom floor. Yesterday, when he’d taken the gardening tools back to the shed with Karlo, he’d sneaked a peek at the outside of the southeast corner. He was pretty certain one of the rooms had three windows; he’d spotted a monk carrying an open folder walking from one window to another, to another. He was reading, deep in concentration. In the first of the windows, behind the monk, was a map on the wall. The shadow in the room was too dark for him to be absolutely sure what it was. A map of the world?
What did catch his eye was on the outside, rather than inside the room. Modern cabling exited through a conduit in one of the window frames. It tracked all the way to the roof, looped over the eaves of the red-tiled roof, and up to a small mast. The mast carried numerous antennae, and a horizontal satellite dish - which had a cover on its front. Next to the tower, pointing obliquely to the sky, was a much larger dish. It was about the size
of a kid's trampoline. He almost didn't spot it at first. It was made out of a metal mesh and was painted the same colour as the tiles on the roof. It was as though someone had been trying to hide it.
Three windows equals a big room. A big room with cabling leading to communications equipment. And a map of the world? His assumption was that this was the nerve centre. Where Freddie and the monks spoke to the outside world.
He was missing one other thing. Even though he heard them howling at dusk, he still didn't know where they kept the dogs. He thought they were probably on the far side of the monastery. He needed to check that detail; he couldn’t outrun the dogs.
Sipping at his porridge and thinking through the monastery’s layout tweaked a nerve. His hand instinctively reached for his large trouser-leg pocket. He felt for his notebook and pencil. They were still there.
Phew.
Jakov also had a much better idea of how the place functioned. Who did what and when. He was pretty certain now that there were 17 monks. Ten of them, including Karlo, were workers. They were always doing something. Cleaning, washing up (his turn hadn’t yet come for that joy), toiling in the garden, sitting on their own reading a Bible, praying in the chapel. There was one chef. A big man who wore an off-white apron over his habit. He always looked angry - and sweaty. That was 11.
Three other monks came and went, but he thought they were probably connected. He saw one in the morning, one in the afternoon, and a third he’d spotted heading down the corridor to the area of the 'nerve centre' in the evening. He’d assumed that they worked in the room with the cabling, maybe covering a duty on rotation, say, 24-hours a day? That was 14. He counted a fifteenth as the monk who looked after the dogs - maybe he was also chief of security? Jakov had sat close to him in the chapel last night. It had rained for most of the afternoon and he had definitely had that unmistakeable, wet canine smell. The sixteenth was the medic. Jakov knew he must have been attended to by a qualified medic when he’d first been captured. Someone had fixed him up well and prescribed antibiotics. The monk he’d assigned as medic was one he'd spotted coming out of the sanatorium's door yesterday lunchtime.
The seventeenth was an elderly monk. Jakov reckoned he was in his seventies. He meandered about the place with seemingly little purpose. All of the monks, including Karlo, bowed their head every time they walked past him. He had a reverential air. Was he the chief monk?
That completed the list. Seventeen monks.
And Freddie, who he’d not seen since the incident in the quadrangle.
Karlo finished his breakfast, mopping up the yolk of his egg with a final piece of bread. He put his thumb up. Jakov replied with both thumbs.
Today I'm going to be super-efficient. You’ll see.
And to show willing he collected his and Karlo's plates and carried them to the hole in the wall. Karlo was waiting for him at the exit to the quad. The monk held the door, smiled and, with a nod, ushered him through into the outside.
Jakov checked his watch. It was 8.15 am. Next they would walk round the square, through the smaller of the two arches which was not barred by a metal gate, into the garden, and stroll down to the sheds to collect the tools. And then two hours’ work until a break for coffee. But first …
He faked a shiver. It was colder today but he had purposefully not worn the heavy fleece that Karlo had issued to him. He stopped and patted his arms - ‘it's cold’ was the message he was sending.
Don’t talk. That was his new mantra. Be like them.
He pointed in the direction of the door that opened into the corridor which led to his room. He mouthed 'jumper' and gave Karlo his best 'I'm an idiot’ look. Karlo smiled and nodded.
That’s a ‘yes’.
Jakov knew he only had a minute or so of additional time before Karlo would become suspicious. What he wanted to do with that extra minute was walk past his room to the end of his corridor, pacing as he did - always measuring. At the corner he’d to look down the bottom corridor, the one he'd seen from the outside. The one he reckoned had the communications centre at its end. He’d look for doors. Check if anything was different. Gather more information for his sketches. It would take no more than a minute.
His room was halfway down the corridor, on the right. He quickly skipped past it whilst still counting: 17, 18, 19. 20 paces. Two sets of doors opposite each other; and equal distance between each door as per normal. Single rooms. The same size as his. Then the corner. He took a deep breath and listened.
Nothing.
He carefully put his head round the end of the wall.
Another long corridor. Everything looked the same.
Shit!
He immediately pulled back.
There was a heated conversation coming from an open door, halfway down the hall on the right. He couldn’t make it out.
Inquisitiveness got the better of him. Very slowly he put his head round the corner of the wall.
The loud conversation, now more an argument, had spilled out into the corridor. Jakov could only pick out the odd word or two. But, and this made his knees go weak, he recognised two of the four people now in the centre of the corridor. One was the old monk. He stood passively, his hands behind his back.
A second man was Freddie.
Don’t pull away.
Don’t pull away.
Sand.
In my mouth and in my eyes.
He didn’t pull away. A wash of pride flowed through him.
Freddie was side-on to Jakov. He was pointing a finger at a third person, a late-middle-aged woman; slim-built and well dressed. She was looking very defensive and appeared to be trying to get a word in, but failing as Freddie lashed at her with his tongue.
The fourth was a man. Casually dressed, almost like he'd come off a yacht. He had one hand on the woman's arm. It could have been an affectionate hold, but Jakov thought that unlikely. It was as though the man were holding the woman still. Like she wanted to go somewhere, be somewhere else, but he wasn't allowing it.
Freddie, whose face was red and sweating, stopped berating the woman. There was a momentary gap in the argument. The woman went to say something but was beaten to it by the man holding her arm.
'Vicky will stay the course. She will. It's too far gone now. There's no turning back. For any of us.’
He shook her arm, as if by doing so he'd get her to respond.
The woman, Vicky, was just about to say something when she looked down the corridor directly at Jakov. She was red-faced and tearful. She spotted him. And he, her. There had been a connection.
Shit.
Her mouth opened to say something - maybe shout out that she’d seen an intruder. Instead, she caught herself. She looked back at Freddie.
'I'm not happy. I can't say I am. But Paul is right. I will do it. I will.'
Jakov didn't wait to hear or see anything else. He turned on his heels, checked the corridor was empty behind him and dashed for his room.
Headquarters SIS, Vauxhall, London
Jane was holding a cabal with her team. Present were the desk officers for Afghanistan, Syria, Yemen, I&I (Iraq and Iran) and ROME (Rest of Middle East) - each overseeing their in-country SIS cells. Also in attendance was a GCHQ rep and their on-call Special Forces liaison officer. Over the past decade the relationship between SIS and the SAS/Special Reconnaissance Regiment (SRR) had grown stronger and stronger - in particular they relied heavily on the SRR to provide video and photo intelligence in places where their case officers couldn’t recruit informants and agents. Today, intelligence-gathering and analysis really was a multi-agency business.
The cabal had one purpose: did anyone have anything on the US’s undefined, imminent, Level 5 threat in the Middle East? Jane had looked over the initial reports from the team. The headline was that there was nothing from the ground to add any substance to the CIA’s alert.
Jane was going round the table for any additional news or thoughts.
Julie Bartram, who had just come back from Kabul
and was now coordinating SIS effort in Afghanistan, raised her hand.
‘Yes, Julie.’
‘Thanks, Jane. From an Afghan perspective, the focus at the moment is the expanding Taliban influence in-country. We have two live ‘red-level’ threats, but they’re both Afghan-centric. One is directed at the Green Zone in Kabul - probably a large, vehicle-borne suicide attack. The second is the recruitment of IS players coming out of Iraq and Syria to assist with a late-Spring assault on Mazar-e-Sharif. Even the Pakistani Taliban and IS are being introspective at the moment. There is no outward-facing focus as far as we can tell.’
‘Thanks, Julie.’
‘Anyone else?’
There was a murmuring of ‘nos’.
Jane sighed. She couldn’t remember a time like this before. Where they had an immutable, high-level threat from the US which they, the UK, had nothing to add to by way of corroboration.
Had they?
Maybe they had?
The biological threat in 2013 had originated in the US - from the CIA. It was the thwarted Ebola attack on central London. Its genesis was West Africa, from a secret US laboratory which studied infectious diseases. Then the UK had had no authenticating evidence until Sam Green had blundered into the terror cell by accident. It was her tenacity - more like bloody mindedness - that had prevented the attack, not any detailed intelligence-gathering and analysis. The US were left with egg on their face as the mastermind behind it had been … The Church of the White Cross, based in Abilene, Texas.
It was all coming back to her. A rogue threat - and The Church of the White Cross.
‘Jane?’ It was the Syrian lead.
She came to.
‘Sorry. What?’
‘You said the US sources were South America, Eastern Europe and the States itself. We, here, clearly have nothing - other than the US believe that the target is somewhere in our AOR (area of responsibility). Have you tried the other branches? Europe, The Americas?’
A good point.
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