Zero Hour (2010) ns-13

by Andy McNab

  The cross-governmental Cyber Security Operations Centre was another new one on me. It had recently been set up to deal with any threat Britain might face from the Internet - and to carry out some cyber attacks of its own.

  All the guys on the upper floor spent their time studying intelligence on everything from terrorism and nuclear proliferation to serious organized crime and counter-espionage. It was no place for the likes of me. Neither was the basement. I remembered the huge halls with endless rows of blinking computers. In all there were about ten thousand square metres of the things. They generated so much heat they needed a cooling system that used a lot of local water. During the floods in 2007, the mains were cut and special supplies had to be tankered in.

  We passed something I didn’t remember from past visits: a small memorial honouring the number of GCHQ staff who had died in service. More had been dropped in Afghanistan in the past few years than anywhere else.

  6

  I followed Jules from the bright, fluorescent corridor into a room where the only light seemed to come from the glow of plasma screens mounted on a walnut-veneered wall.

  As I closed the door behind me, the hum and chill of air-conditioning took over. A dozen solid walnut chairs sat around a huge oval walnut table. The room was carpeted with Axminster’s finest, and it smelt like it had only just been laid. I wondered if it was the fruit of some kind of government initiative to boost local industry or Tresillian cocking his leg and marking out his territory. If they’d given Anna the cheque-book and an hour in Ikea she could have saved the taxpayer thousands.

  At the far end of the table, below a vibrant plasma screen, I saw the world’s most pissed-off face. There were far too many wrinkles in it for a man in his early fifties. His hair was thinning on the top and swept back. Either it was wet with sweat or he’d stepped straight from his office shower.

  Charles Tresillian looked like he’d sprung from a grainy black-and-white of Shackleton’s final expedition and spent his Saturdays running from office to office, encouraging the troops. The set of his jaw certainly suggested he had a country to protect, and he expected to lead from the front.

  A map of Moldova, wedged between Romania and Ukraine, north of the Black Sea, was spread across the screen behind him.

  For fuck’s sake - these guys must see me as a one-trick pony.

  Tresillian kept his brooding gaze on me as I crossed the carpet. He slid two files across the table at no one in particular. I went to the right and Jules to the left.

  ‘You’re our man, are you? Are you as good as Julian says you are?’ His voice was deep and clipped. His finger provided the punctuation. ‘He tells me you’re shit-fucking-hot.’

  People expected the shits and fucks to tumble from mouths like mine because they assumed we wouldn’t know the difference between a thesaurus and a brontosaurus. But from a posh well-educated lad like Tresillian they somehow carried the same gravitas as one of Churchill’s soundbites.

  I nodded. ‘Yeah, I am.’

  ‘Well, I’m the shit-fucking-hot man with the big picture. Sit.’

  Jules and I took chairs facing each other. I leant forward and dragged one of the buff-coloured folders towards me.

  ‘Gentlemen, shall we?’

  Tresillian opened his folder and we followed suit.

  ‘This is the situation, Mr Stone. It is one that you will endeavour to make good. Hector Tarasov is a friend of the UK in Moldova. Our sources in-country tell us that his daughter has gone missing. We want to find her for him, in as covert a way as possible.’

  ‘What does he do?’

  ‘He’s an industrialist.’ He tapped the printout of the map. ‘Here, in Transnistria.’ His finger stayed on the narrow sliver of land to the east of Moldova. ‘When it was part of the Soviet Union, Moldova had its share of factories, many of them military. With independence, in 1991, the eastern strip of the country, known as Transnistria, east of the Dniester River, seceded.’

  I tried a smile. I wasn’t comfortable with the Mr Stone business, and even though my head was starting to pound again, I wanted to see if I could lighten the tone a bit. ‘Sounds like one of those lunatic names the head sheds give a country during battle training.’

  It wasn’t going to happen.

  ‘If only, Mr Stone. Transnistria was Moldova’s most industrialized region, as well as its most Russified. Moscow intervened to stop a civil war over the secession, and since 1992 Russian troops have watched over what is being termed a “frozen conflict” that has left Transnistria isolated, unrecognized by any nation but Russia, and Moldova divided.’

  He raised a finger at the plasma screen. ‘The reason our friend is very important to us is because this strip of land is a major producer of Russian arms for worldwide export. It has the largest steel-production plant that the Russian Federation has access to.’

  ‘What does Tarasov’s factory make?’

  ‘Tons of mind-your-own-fucking-business.’ His lips pursed and his frown added another ten years to his age. ‘This operation is about the daughter.’

  I looked down at an eight-by-five colour picture of a young woman with dyed blonde hair that reached her shoulders. The roots showed through in the centre parting. She’d gone for the Goth look; her pale, almost translucent skin made her look like she belonged in a teenage vampire film. A bare male arm hung loosely round her neck. She was trying hard to smile into the camera, as you do at family events when you’re having a shit time. The image almost filled the page. There was no information about where or when it might have been taken.

  ‘Her name is Lilian Edinet. She’s twenty years old. This picture was taken approximately seven months ago. We have, of course, checked on all social networking sites to see if we could get any information on her whereabouts or any more recent photos.’

  Another image was pasted over the map on the screen - the wide shot her face picture had been lifted from. She stood in front of a T55 tank mounted on a stone ramp surrounded by plaques: a monument to the great wheat harvest or whatever. The arm belonged to an older man, who looked a lot happier than she did. He was in his mid-forties and had very dark, almost jet-black hair and a dental plan that only money, not God, could give you. Peas out of the same pod, they looked like a double act. Behind them was a massive chunk of boring grey factory. Red signage proudly covered the top third of the building.

  Tresillian looked up. ‘That is Hector Tarasov.’

  He turned to Jules. ‘I don’t care too much for Facebook myself. I can’t see why anyone would want to make so much information freely available. It’s out there for ever. Good for us, though, eh?’

  My head filled with questions. ‘Can I make contact with Tarasov? Find out what he knows? What about her mother?’

  ‘On no account must there be any contact with Tarasov.’

  ‘He must be taking steps of his own to—’

  Tresillian was dismissive. ‘More from Julian later. As I said, it’s the girl we’re interested in. She is the sole reason you’re here.’ His eyes searched mine to make sure I was getting the message.

  I nodded. ‘Lilian - she doesn’t look that happy, does she?’

  ‘On the contrary. By all accounts this young woman is quite a feisty little piece. However, she is missing, and you will find her at all costs. UK plc does everything within its power to help its friends.’ He paused. ‘Do you understand?’

  ‘Of course. You want leverage to score some big Brownie points off the Dadski.’

  He didn’t answer or smile. Nick Stone was too far down the food chain to make funnies. He reminded me of some really good officers I’d come across in the army. They weren’t your best mates, but you knew where you stood with them, and exactly what was required. If you didn’t fuck them over, they might not fuck you over. But it still all depended on what side of the bed they got out of that morning.

  ‘Exactly, Mr Stone. We’re not a fucking charity, are we?’ He turned his head. ‘Isn’t that right?’

  ‘
Exactly, Mr Tresillian.’ Julian’s teeth gleamed in the subdued lighting. ‘We have a job to do.’

  He turned back to me. ‘I cannot impress on you enough, Mr Stone, that this matter is of national and international importance. It is critical that this young woman be found and delivered to us. When you find her, a contact and safe-house will be available until arrangements are made to bring her back to the UK. She will never leave your sight, and only when she is physically under the contact’s control will the task be complete.

  ‘If you find her and she’s dead, I still want the body. However, you will not kill her to make your job easier. Nothing and no one must be allowed to stop you achieving your aim. Nothing. No one. Is that understood?’

  I nodded. Hector Tarasov must be one powerful player. Tresillian even wanted bragging rights delivering the body.

  He nodded back. ‘That’s very good. One last thing. This situation is very fucking delicate. Only the three of us in this room and eventually the contact will ever know that it’s happened.’

  I nodded again.

  ‘Good. Has Julian completed your financial requests?’

  ‘We haven’t discussed that yet, but finance—’

  ‘Good.’ He slammed the palms of his hands on the table as he stood up. ‘Very good.’

  Julian and I pushed our chairs back and stood up. Tresillian advanced on me with the relentlessness of a large armoured vehicle. ‘Julian will brief you now. The next time we meet will be to congratulate you on a job fucking well done.’

  As he gripped my hand I smelt tobacco. A splash of Old Spice and an anchor tattoo on his forearm and he could have been a ringer for my granddad.

  He went out, leaving his folder on the table.

  7

  We sat back down. The gentle hum of the air-conditioning replaced Tresillian’s growl.

  I pointed at the now vacant chair below the screen. ‘He seems a lad. I bet he’s changed more than just the carpet.’

  Julian carried on extracting sheets of paper from his folder and lining them up on the table. All I got from him was a wry smile.

  ‘She attends Moldova State University in Chisinau, the capital. Do you know Moldova?’

  Not much. Particularly with a splitting headache. I’d never operated there. ‘Only bits and pieces. It’s best known for arms smuggling and people trafficking. What about the police - is anybody liaising? Is there someone in the British embassy I can rely on?’

  ‘Out of the question, on both fronts. The local police are either useless or corrupt. If it turns out she’s been kidnapped they might even be part of the problem.’

  ‘When did she go missing?’

  ‘Ten days ago.’

  ‘Who’s been looking for her?’

  ‘Only the father. He’s frantic, according to our sources. He’s hoping he either gets a ransom demand or she’ll be back in touch. Kids that age drop off the radar all the time without thinking of the implications.’

  I pointed up at the screen and the green-glossed T55, its barrel facing forward, ready to attack. ‘He’s an “industrialist”, right? The tank outside the factory provides a bit of a clue. Any known enemies in the arms world?’

  ‘None. He manufactures for the Federation so he’s one of the bad guys but, as I understand it, he’s our friend and we want to keep it that way.’

  I focused on the picture of the girl. ‘She speak English?’

  ‘Probably of the cable-TV variety, same as any other kid anywhere.’

  ‘And you have nothing at all from the networking sites?’

  ‘She closed her Facebook page two weeks ago. She’s not on any other site.’

  ‘You’ve checked flight manifests out of Moldova?’

  Julian nodded. ‘And visa applications that come into the Hungarian embassy in Chisinau - they deal with all applications for Schengen countries.’

  ‘Tell me about the name.’

  ‘Edinet was her mother’s maiden name. She died when Lilian was little. It helps her keep a low profile. We don’t think anyone at the university knows who she is - it reduces the kidnap risk.’

  ‘Can you give me addresses?’

  ‘We don’t have her latest details. Like a lot of students, she’s floated from flat-share to flat-share. The last sighting was at the university a couple of weeks ago.’

  ‘What about Tarasov himself?’

  ‘He can’t go to the police, of course, because they’re too corrupt. Alert the Mafia and all of a sudden he’s facing a massive ransom demand if they find her. He’s bound to be looking. But stay away from Tarasov, Nick. He’s strictly off limits - Tresillian wasn’t joking.’

  Fair one. ‘What’s she studying?’

  ‘Sociology.’

  ‘Does she have any medical conditions?’ If she needed insulin injections or whatever, I had to know. And if she’d been kidnapped, she might be dead already.

  Julian shrugged.

  Something else really puzzled me. ‘Why is this an MI5 job and not the Firm’s?’

  ‘With Tresillian at the helm of both, the demarcation lines are blurring.’

  I swallowed another couple of Smarties as he glanced back down at Lilian’s picture.

  ‘As Tresillian said, nothing must stop you finding her. Of course we’re going to deny anything to do with the operation, but you will have secure comms with me at all times. I’ll help you as far as I can, but we cannot be seen poking around in-country. It wouldn’t help our relationship with Lilian’s father, and certainly not with the powers that be.’ He gathered up the paperwork. ‘Why don’t we get some coffee while I give you the lowdown?’

  I followed him to the door. Bright light flooded into the room.

  I couldn’t help smiling to myself. I was back at work. One last kick at life.

  And I now had a really good reason to phone Anna.

  PART THREE

  1

  Monday, 15 March

  10.47 hrs

  The International Airport Chisinau is the biggest in the Republic of Moldova. It’s a member of Airports Council International (European region), the massive posters in the revamped terminal proudly proclaimed, as well as the Airport Association of CIS Civil Aviation and the ALFA-ACI (L’Association des Aeroports de Langue Francaise Associes a l’Airports Council International). What was more: The main priorities of the personnel’s activity consist in providing a high-level of flight safety and qualitative services.

  But for all its fancy new associations with the West, old habits died hard. I was held by three Customs guys in a side office ten seconds after they saw a European passport and no mates tagging along. There was a special tax I needed to pay. Since I was only carrying a day sack, they pegged it at thirty dollars.

  I’d now been waiting for Anna’s flight from Moscow Domodedovo for close to five hours - the last two because her Air Moldova flight was delayed. This was probably the eighth time I’d gone back to the coffee shop in Arrivals, treated myself to a milky Nescafe instant, and soaked up the propaganda as I sat and sipped it.

  I’d even resorted to reading the warnings on the packet of Nurofen I dug into occasionally. Long-term kidney damage wasn’t high on my list of concerns, so I popped another couple out of the blister pack, grabbed some more Smarties and washed them all down with a swig of coffee.

  I’d transferred my two-week supply of shiny red pills into a plastic Superdrug case. It was easier to shove into my pocket than a big fuck-off bottle. Also, the label had my name on it and I couldn’t be arsed to scratch it off.

  It had taken me seven hours from Heathrow with a Munich connection. Normally that wouldn’t have been much of a problem; I was used to living in airports. You just find some seats, lie down, read posters, drink brews. If you’re lucky, you go to sleep. But that wasn’t going to happen. My head was pounding - but I think it was mostly about seeing Anna again.

  Fetch up in Moscow, with the biggest collection of billionaires on the planet, and you can’t move for fancy foreign labels. Moldo
va’s old split-level Soviet-era airport had had a major refurb, but Starbucks and all the high-end brands had still given it a miss. Jules had told me that its earning potential outside the small capital was the same as Sudan’s, so I guess it was no surprise.

  Despite Julian’s briefing, I wasn’t exactly sure where Moldova stood in relation to the rest of the planet. Some guys immersed themselves in demographics and GDPs and could tell you the ten most popular names for girls and boys wherever they fetched up, but I never saw the point. This place was land-locked, and had a population of five million. The industrial strip, whose name I kept forgetting, ran along its eastern border. That was all I knew, and all I needed to know. All I had to do was find the girl, grip her, and hand her over.

  I took out my new BlackBerry and checked for messages. The Tefalhead at GCHQ who’d briefed me on the encryption system and then got Mr Lampard to sign for it had been very pleased with his toy. Apparently it contained both a hardware and software-based secure communications solution that protected GSM cellular communications with a unique authentication service and advanced end-to-end encryption software. I hoped it worked better than the one I’d been issued with three years ago.

  ‘Combined with a secure mobile authentication solution it is capable of ensuring that all mobile voice and SMS communications, as well as data-at-rest within the device, are fully protected. It offers security against any attempt to intercept active communications both from inside a telephone network as well as over-the-air.’

  That was all well and good. I just needed to know that, when I switched it on and pressed the security app icon, Jules and I could talk without anyone else listening in.

  The security technology was based on encryption algorithms as well as a user/device authentication process, the Tefalhead explained. I could pretty much grasp that. But I got lost when he started talking ciphers and 128-bit block sizes.

  ‘Your BlackBerry uses these algorithms simultaneously as well as a 4096-bit Diffie-Hellman shared secret exchange to authenticate each call/device/user, in order to provide multiple layers of security and an effective fall-back inside the crypto-system design.’