‘Thanks. Sure. The other branch heads are aware of the threat and we’re all meeting with the Chief later today. I’ll interrogate them then. But thanks for the reminder.’ She opened both hands. ‘Now, what about the target? Thoughts? Anything?’
The Special Forces rep, a Major John Laing, chipped in.
‘I’ve prepared a map of the major US bases in and around the Saudi peninsula. Shall I cast it?’
‘Yes please, John.’
The major swiped at his tablet. The result was a map of the Middle East displayed on the interactive board at the end of the table. The map showed 15 red and six blue circles dotted over the map. Most were on the Persian Gulf, although a couple were inland in Saudi Arabia. Two were south of the Strait of Hormuz.
‘The red circles are aviation bases - the blue ones, naval. I’ve sent this round to all of you by secure email with accompanying notes. We’ve completed an IPB, sorry an Intelligence Preparation of the Battlefield, on the bases - that’s an enemy’s overview of the most cost-effective target. Largest bang - smallest cost and risk. There are three targets that stand out. And one of those is head and shoulders above the other two.’
The major swiped again. A second slide appeared. It was an overhead photo of a naval base.
‘This is US Naval Support Activity, Bahrain. It’s a 62-acre site with both large and small craft-berthing facilities. It’s also the HQ of the 5th Fleet - the US’s ‘go to’ group of ships in the Middle East and the west Indian Ocean.’
Another slide - this time a larger-scale map of Bahrain.
‘You’ll probably all know the geography, but as a reminder: Bahrain is a blister on Saudi’s eastern coast. It’s in easy striking distance of Iran, Kuwait and Iraq. Deep water approaches are good from all directions east, and to the west is the largest desert this side or the Sahara. There’s a 360 degree attack arc. Sea and land, with minor natural defences.’
Another slide showing a list of units that occupied the site.
‘The key to NSA Bahrain as a target is two-fold. First, as I’ve already mentioned, it’s the HQ of the 5th Fleet. It would be like attacking Portsmouth in the UK. You’re striking where it hurts most - and where the PR impact is greatest. Second, it’s not a war-fighting establishment. Yes, it holds lots of key stores and equipment, and there is always the odd decent sized ship at berth, but the rest of it is admin and assorted crap.’ The major was highlighting units on the list with a laser pointer as he briefed. ‘It’s the US Navy’s R&R centre. As such it’s a soft target. The US have recently spent $580 million on upgrading the base. The two biggest infrastructure projects were a mall and a bowling alley. The boys and girls here will not be on their mettle. They’ll be shopping, going to the cinema, and one or two of them will be drunk as skunks. It’s a great target. A soft target.’
The major stopped, waiting for a reaction. There was none. He swiped again. His final slide was the SAS’s badge: the winged dagger accompanied by the motto: Who dares wins.
Jane had taken it all in. The military were very good at that - thinking like the enemy. It was a clear presentation and a sensible conclusion.
‘Any questions for John?’ Jane asked.
There were a lot of shaking heads around the table.
‘OK, thanks, John. That’s clear. Doubtless the US will have undertaken the same assessment and come to the same conclusion. But, I’m speaking to the DD later and I will pass this on. If no one has anything else to add, let’s meet at the same time tomorrow, unless something else comes up to expedite that meeting. And, I’ll pop an email round after the Chief’s cabal. Keep at this please. There is something going on. Ergo, there must be something we’re missing.’
With that Jane called the meeting to a close. Her team left, but she stayed at the table. She wasn’t ready to go. Just yet. It was the something she had thought of earlier.
Ebola.
The threat, four years ago. It came from the US without any verification - until it was almost too late. It had been a ruse to warn them, to get the hares running. But not enough for the intelligence services to unpick the threat themselves.
Could the same thing be happening now? But in a different way? This time the threat was being fed into the US from sources that they trusted. Staged to make them scamper around with their heads on fire. A misinformation campaign? Make everyone believe the threat was a US military base in the Middle East, but actually it was something else? Somewhere else?
The lack of corroboration unnerved her. They, SIS, always had something. One of their people would have a sniff. You can’t keep this sort of attack under your hat. Two years ago - and the radiation bomb destined for Rome. It was a Saudi-sponsored operation, but they heard about it from Kabul. The terrorists couldn’t keep the lid on it completely. It leaked.
What had the DD said? Eastern Europe, South America and the US. That’s where his sources were. For an attack in the Middle East?
And then there was the GPS malarkey. The US ship. And the UAV that had been forced off course whilst surveying the Venezuelan jungle.
It just didn’t add up.
Or did it?
Jane swiped on her tablet and opened up the latest Section sitreps from South America and Europe. She scanned the headlines. Europe looked uninteresting. Its three main stories were: migrant movement and its ability to hide sleepers; the inextricable rise of the Hungarian far-right; and Russian war games on the Baltic States’ border.
The South America brief was short. The UK had little interest in the continent as most of the countries were ex-Spanish and Portuguese colonies; only Guyana on the north coast, to the east of Venezuela, was in the Commonwealth. The Guyanese High Commission had one SIS case officer in situ. Jane read the summary of his latest report:
Georgetown remains relatively quiet. The recent election result has been approved by the EAD (UN’s Electoral Assistance Division) and the Commonwealth Observer Team. However the opposition PPP (People’s Progressive Party) have still not ratified the result. They believe the ruling coalition APNU-AFC (A Partnership for National Unity - Alliance for Change) conducted widespread voter fraud, both at the ballot and with unlawful social media influence. They want the result annulled and the election rerun.
PPP are encouraging direct action from its supporters and intend to hold a mass rally outside the parliament building on Tuesday.
Jane checked the date of the report. The demonstration would have been last night. She read on.
Local media believe that the PPP has been infiltrated by subversives from the Venezuelan (VZ) ruling party, loyal to President Maduro - the de facto dictator in VZ. The considered opinion is that Maduro/Venezuela is trying to undermine Guyanese (GY) politics. My contact in the PPP has yet to confirm this report. I am meeting with him this evening.
Exactly why the VZ government would want to do this is unclear. One potential reason is that the APNU-AFC are looking to close the VZ/GY border to stop refugees from the emerging civil war in VZ from spilling over into GY. If that border was to close the VZ government would have a major refugee crisis on its own border - something which Maduro doesn’t need.
Assessment. This situation needs closely monitoring. Should the PPP resort to direct action it wouldn’t take much for Guyana to descend into civil war. With 21,000 expats in Georgetown alone, a NEO (Non-combatant Evacuation Order) would be a huge undertaking for the British military.
Jane closed the tab and opened the latest sitrep from the British Embassy in Caracas. SIS had no presence in Venezuela, but the British Embassy produced a weekly sitrep. She read the latest two-pager.
The country was a mess. President Maduro was cementing his position as an authoritarian leader. All but one of free-press broadsheets had been closed down - the one remaining open was pro-government. The TV was now restricted to two channels - both government controlled. And the internet was closely monitored. Both Facebook and WhatsApp were being continuously blocked. Emails were being intercepted. Scores of independe
nt news websites had been struck off, and around 100 people had been arrested in Caracas for publishing web-based anti-government propaganda.
The opposition leaders Lopez and Ledezma, who were arrested by Maduro last year, were still in custody and no one was being allowed to see them. The mass rallies of the autumn had become less frequent, and those that did happen had reduced in size. The opposition was losing the will to fight back.
The security situation was deteriorating for visitors and tourists, and the embassy continued to recommend that Venezuela remain an ‘at-risk’ country on the FCO’s travel website.
Jane closed the tab and turned off her tablet. She stared into space hoping for inspiration.
None came, but Claire did. She was carrying a cup of coffee. She put it down in front of Jane.
‘Thanks, Claire.’ Jane smiled. ‘Sit down.’
Claire did as she was asked. Jane stared straight ahead, her fingers tapped on the table.
‘You’ve seen some of the traffic on the US threat, but let me remind us both of where we are. The US think something big’s going to happen in the Middle East. And soon. Their sources include, among others, an informant in South America. South America: that’s all we know. As far as the UK is concerned, other than the continued export of hard drugs to the US via The Caribbean, the only thing of note in the area is the hardening of authoritarian rule in Venezuela. And the possibility of that being exported to its British colonial neighbour Guyana, which might inflame its own civil war.’
Jane looked at Claire.
‘You with me?’
Claire nodded. Jane didn’t really expect an answer.
‘The last time we received an unspecified threat such as this was when David Jennings was in this chair.’ Claire was David’s PA before Jane took over. ‘Without Sam Green’s intervention, a London tube station would have been subject to an Ebola attack. Hundreds would have died. Thousands more would have become infected.’
‘The Church of the White Cross.’ Claire finished the summary for her.
‘Exactly. The Church of the White Cross. And that’s what Frank is looking at now. In Germany, with Sam’s pal, Wolfgang. And then there’s this GPS interference that’s keeping the CIA awake. With a link to Venezuela.’ Jane paused. ‘Could it all be part of the same puzzle? The threat? GPS? South America? The Church of the White Cross? Could the timing just be coincidental?’
Claire sat impassively, the perfect sounding board.
‘Let’s get Frank on the phone.’
Foreboding
Chapter 15
Simón Bolívar International Airport, Caracas, Venezuela
Austin was hot and bothered. He was fretting about whether or not he’d get a three-month tourist visa on entry into the country. In the rush to get his wife to his sister’s, and then pack everything a soldier might need for a prolonged stay in a foreign country - much of which was jungle - he’d overlooked the need for a visa. On the taxi ride to the airport he’d checked the State Department’s advice on their website. It wasn’t clear. Apparently some airlines refused to accept passengers without a valid visa. Others seemed happy for them to take their chances on arrival. He’d had little choice and adopted the latter approach.
And he thought he might just be in luck.
In the queue ahead of him was a mid-height-and-build white woman. She was carrying a rucksack (no hold-luggage); he recognised her from the flight. She was odd. Intense. She’d spent a good portion of the early part of the four-hour flight popping to the restroom. Austin thought it more likely that she was walking up and down the aisle subtly checking the other passengers. He was sure she had given him the once-over a couple of times. Maybe she was a sky marshal? Yes, that was probably it. With the dodgy situation in Venezuela, he guessed that the US crammed their planes full of security personnel.
Whatever. Eventually she had relaxed into her seat and stopped stalking about. And now she was in the same queue he was. There were two passengers between them, and it was her turn to buy a visa from the tourist-entry desk. Austin moved to one side a fraction so he could get a good view of the exchange.
She had just handed over money. The official behind the desk was moving paper about, and stamping something. It was a slow process. The intense woman had turned her head to one side, her eyes were closed and her fingers were rubbing her forehead as though she had a headache. Or she was preventing some frustration or other from boiling over. Eventually the official finished the procedure and handed over her passport and papers. The odd woman said ‘thanks’, turned and walked quickly to passport control.
Austin shuffled forward. As he stopped he looked behind him. The woman was staring straight at him. She was early-30s, attractive but not beautiful. She had a full head of auburn hair which needed some remedial work.
He smiled at her. She scowled back at him, and then she was gone.
Who is that?
Sam had clocked him in the departures hall at Miami. A Morgan Freeman lookalike: mid-60s, in good shape and dressed like he was heading off into the jungle for a couple of weeks. His clothes had more pockets than there were things in the army surplus store to put in them. He wore a khaki hat with a breathable strip above its rim, and his choice of footwear was sand-coloured, lightweight US army boots. They were good; she’d swapped her British desert wellies for a pair when she visited Bagram a number of years before. He finished the Bear Grylls fashion parade by attaching two multi-tools to his canvas belt along with another US Army accoutrement, a green-metallic angled torch. She felt like going up to him and asking him where he kept his parachute.
He wasn’t a threat to her, but there was no doubt that he was interesting.
A game-fisher? Possibly. Ex-military? Could be.
She’d never know.
The rest of the passengers were benign. And so far, Caracas airport - crazy as it was - looked clear. No tails.
The Consulate had set her up as ‘Annie Wild’, a geologist working out of the UK Embassy. They had provided her with a passport, a driving licence and a bank card. Frank, bless him, had authorised the latter using an op code. She had $10,000 of credit, after which the card would fail. Both she and Frank hoped that would be enough. Venezuela wasn’t an expensive country. And it wasn’t as though there was much to buy in the shops, such was the desperate state of the economy.
It was getting dark and, having carried out a final check for a tail outside the terminal building, Sam did her usual SIS play and picked the third taxi along, much to the frustration of the first two drivers. The taxi was a white Toyota Corolla, decorated with a stripe of yellow and black squares down its side.
‘Marriott Hotel, por favor.’
The taxi driver replied, ‘Sí,’ and pulled out in front of another car - which had to slam on its brakes. A loud hoot of its horn followed.
‘Idiota!’ Shouted the taxi driver; his hands flew off the steering wheel, just when firm direction was what the taxi needed most. Somehow they missed a second car and only just avoided a concrete bollard. Sam had read that, depending on traffic, it was a 40-minute journey from the airport to the centre of Caracas. This could well be the longest journey of her life.
In the end, the taxi made it to the hotel without major incident. She paid the driver in US dollars, who was very pleased with the exchange, and made her way up the entrance steps into the brick-and-concrete tower block that was the Marriott. She booked in for a night using her alias, asked when the restaurant closed and took the stairs to the seventh floor - she needed the exercise.
Having sorted out her few things, she went out onto the balcony and took in the scene.
Inevitably Sam had done some research. Before she had left Miami she’d asked Google to list the most dangerous cities on the planet. Six out of the top ten were in South and Central America. Caracas was in the top three - although the list probably hadn’t been updated since the onset of the country’s latent civil war. Law enforcement was at best poor and, at worst, part of the proble
m. Corruption was rife and high levels of male unemployment, widespread poverty and the equatorial heat added to the combustible material.
It didn’t help that Caracas wasn’t by the ocean, even though on a large-scale map, it appeared as though it were. The city was in a bowl, surrounded on all sides by spiky hills. The only sensible way to reach the capital from the thin coastal plain was through a motorway tunnel. The city’s two-million inhabitants had expanded to fill the bowl; and where they had run out of room, urbanisation had spread into the hills. Densely-populated shanty towns, similar to the favelas in Rio de Janeiro, clung to the precipitous, jungled hillsides by their concrete fingernails. The difference in Caracas was that there was neither the political will nor the money to clear the favelas and create better homes for their occupants. The situation was dire.
The city was a tinderbox and, as Sam stared out from the balcony, she sensed the hardly-contained anger. On the journey from the airport she’d witnessed signs everywhere of recent clashes between protesters and the police. There was anti-government graffiti on every spare surface - one very colourful wall had been painted with the scribble, ‘gringo go home’. She had decided not to take that personally. A long stretch of the motorway was closed, its tarmac charred and burnt, the safety barriers ripped up and strewn over the carriageway. She’d counted six police armoured personnel carriers - painted incongruously white - parked at strategic points. There was one outside her hotel. The policemen looked edgy and they all carried automatic weapons. It wasn’t a combination that filled her with confidence.
The climate was different from that in Miami. There, the heat was mostly dry - the humidity low. You sweat, it dries. Here, in the equatorial climate, Sam’s blouse stuck to her like a wet paper towel. Her bra was clingy, and rubbed - she knew she’d have red marks under her arms and across her back.
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