James grinned. ‘Good Scottish name. You think I should call her?’
Morag was in her seventies and it took several minutes for James to convince her that he wasn’t trying to sell life insurance, or no-win-no-fee legal services. He explained that he was a police officer, doing some routine paperwork related to the death of Chris Carlisle, and that he wanted to fill in some blanks relating to his career with OME911.
‘The company was set up by myself and a group of maintenance engineers who worked for OME,’ Morag explained in a thick Scottish accent, as James set his phone to record the call. ‘When OME went under, there was still a lot of their equipment installed at oil wells around the world. We bought software and spares from OME and sent engineers all over the world to keep the pumps and control panels running.
‘When we started in ’95, we had six engineers, but the three senior engineers retired, leaving Gordon, Kam and Chris. Over the years most OME equipment was gradually replaced. Even the newest OME gear is now more than twenty years old.’
‘So the business just dwindled to the point where it shut down completely?’
Morag laughed. ‘That’s what we always expected to happen. But the US placed export sanctions on Libya, Iraq and Iran. That stopped them buying new pumping equipment for their oil wells. So the OME equipment stayed in place. And it’s good stuff, some of it’s forty years old and still going strong.’
‘So Gordon, Kam and Chris were the only guys who could fix these oil pumps if they went wrong?’ James asked.
‘Not so much the pumps,’ Morag said. ‘The OME equipment was solid and simple, not like modern kit which is all computerised. Most mechanical things can be fixed locally, but the control consoles do require specialised knowledge. And if you’re losing twenty thousand dollars a day because your oil well has shut down, it’s worth paying the best engineers a few thousand to fly in and fix it properly.’
‘So why did you shut down?’
‘Age and politics,’ Morag explained. ‘Chris was sixty-four when he died. Kam and Gordon are well into their fifties. And with the Arab uprisings, the climate the guys were working in was getting more dangerous all the time. When Gaddafi ran Libya, the guys got three thousand dollars a day, stayed in good hotels and were escorted by armed police. After the regime collapsed, oil industry workers started getting kidnapped and held for ransom. Even guys who had mercenaries guarding them and the political backup of a big oil company were getting murdered in Iraq.’
James nodded. ‘So it just got too dangerous?’
Morag sighed. ‘It wasn’t a question of if one of the guys got kidnapped. It became a question of when. I was getting phone calls with guys offering us fifty thousand dollars to go fix control consoles in Libya, but it was just too dangerous for a Scotsman to set foot over there. The guys decided to retire after we got a very good offer for our diagnostic equipment and spare parts inventory.’
‘Who from?’ James asked.
‘My memory’s not what it was,’ Morag said. ‘Stocky little Asian fellow with a Brummie accent. God, what was his name?’
‘Martin Jones?’ James suggested.
‘Yes,’ Morag said. ‘Lovely fellow. Most of his people called him Uncle. He took us all out for wonderful Thai food after we signed the deal.’
‘Cool,’ James said. ‘So when did you last see Kam and Gordon?’
‘Chris’s funeral, I suppose. They’d both moved down south, because they were always flying in and out of Heathrow. We’d courier parts to their hotels from our warehouse in Aberdeen, but I’d only see them in the flesh a couple of times a year.’
‘Did they have family?’
‘Chris was the family man. Three kids, seven grandkids. Lovely wife, who I still play bowls with twice a week. Frankly, I was stunned when Chris turned up dead in a hotel room.’
James wondered if she suspected foul play, but he was posing as an officer linked to the investigation, so he’d blow his cover if he asked.
‘And the other two, Kam and Gordon?’
‘Kam was divorced. Two daughters, but the break-up was horrible and I don’t think he sees much of them. Gordon, well …’ Morag paused for a sharp intake of breath. ‘I’m fairly certain he was homosexual.’
‘Right,’ James said, grinning at the un-PCness of her tone. ‘Well you’ve been very generous with your time, Mrs Henderson. I’ll try not to bother you again.’
‘Oh, I’m a lonely old bird,’ Morag said cheerfully. ‘You can bother me all you like.’
‘Did you follow that?’ James asked Ryan, after he’d hung up.
‘Most of it,’ Ryan said. ‘So Uncle bought up all the spare parts and a bunch of OME equipment. One of the three guys who can fix the control consoles is murdered in a hotel a few miles from here. The other two are missing, presumably murdered too.’
James shook his head. ‘What use are two dead engineers?’ he asked. ‘What use are all those OME control consoles to Uncle if there’s nobody alive who can fix them?’
Ryan nodded thoughtfully. ‘So what then?’
‘They say Islamic State is the wealthiest terrorist group in history. You know why?’ James asked.
‘Oil?’ Ryan guessed.
‘Exactly,’ James said. ‘Black market oil is a billion-dollar business. Islamic State-controlled areas of Syria, Libya and Iraq are full of oil wells. So I would guess that Uncle has hoovered up the supply of spare parts to keep OME equipment pumping, and has control of the only two guys who can fix things fast.’
‘Kidnapped?’ Ryan asked.
‘We’ll need more evidence to be certain,’ James said. ‘But that’s what it looks like from where I’m sitting.’
24. SMART
Five days later
James had spent the night at Kerry’s thirtieth-floor apartment in London’s Canary Wharf. She’d complimented him on his suit, helped pick his tie and told him he had nothing to worry about, before kissing him good luck. But James wasn’t a suit person. He hated the tie clamped around his neck. Smart shoes scraped the back of his ankles and the trousers itched.
It was peak rush hour as James came off the tube at Westminster. He made the short walk to the Ministry of Defence building in Whitehall, picked up a lanyard at reception and got a security guard escort to an office on the seventh floor. The narrow room had one-way glass, looking over a large conference table in the next room.
‘You look the business,’ John Jones said, as he got out of an armchair and gave James a handshake, followed by a little man-hug. ‘Nervous?’
‘A little,’ James admitted. ‘First time I’ve presented an intelligence briefing. Feels like my first day at school.’
‘What’s to worry about?’ John teased. ‘It’s just the intelligence minister, the defence minister, a full colonel from the SAS, the heads of MI5 and MI6 and a few experts on the oil industry and Radical Islam. Coffee?’
‘Water,’ James said, clutching at his throat.
James shook a few hands as he stepped into the conference room, then practically swallowed his tongue when the intelligence minister came into the room accompanied by the deputy prime minister. It felt like he had a voice in his head yelling, This is a big deal, over and over, but he got a grip once he started speaking.
Since everyone in the room was senior enough to know that CHERUB existed, James gave a brief rundown on his mission in Sandy Green. He then explained how he’d spent the last few days researching the disappearance of Kam Yuen and Gordon Sachs.
‘The pair haven’t been sighted in the UK for over six months,’ James explained. ‘Over the past week I’ve pieced together evidence that Martin Jones – more commonly known as Uncle – paid to have Yuen and Sachs smuggled out of the UK on a privately owned launch and then transferred to a cargo vessel carrying recyclables to North Africa.
‘An electronic monitoring request to GCHQ and the CIA has enabled me to track down several e-mail references to faults at oil installations using OME equipment and controlled by Islamic State. Yuen and S
achs weren’t named in any of the communications, but it does seem that there is a network of engineers working for Islamic State who are capable of sourcing spare parts and repairing equipment at oil wells in Islamic State-controlled areas. Some of these people may be working willingly. Some, like Yuen and Sachs, appear to have been kidnapped and are being forced to work against their will.
‘I then worked with Morag Henderson. We made a list of eighty-three active oil wells that are controlled by groups affiliated to Islamic State, and are still believed to use OME pumps and control systems.’
The deputy prime minister cleared his throat. ‘Oil wells are large facilities that stick out of the ground, yes?’
He got a few nods.
‘So, why can’t we use air strikes to disable the oil wells?’
The head of MI6 answered. ‘US and UK policy with regard to Islamic State and illegal oil exports has been one of containment. Namely, stopping the oil being smuggled to refineries, either by sea or by pipeline. Destroying hundreds of oil wells with aerial bombing would be highly destructive, lead to thousands of casualties amongst civilian workers. It might also lead to retaliatory attacks on oil wells by Islamic State groups, and potential disruption to the global oil supply.’
The deputy prime minister nodded, then looked at James. ‘So we can’t bomb the oil wells, and I assume we can’t move in and arrest this “Uncle” character until the two British hostages are safe?’
James was about to continue, but the defence minister spoke over him. ‘Might I remind you that the current government has a strict non-intervention policy with regard to ground-based operations against Islamic State. Even if we can find Yuen and Sachs, we will not send British special forces in to rescue them.’
The deputy prime minister sat forward. ‘But we’d look very weak as a government if news of this became public and we didn’t act to help two decent men who appear to have been kidnapped on British soil.’
‘But it isn’t public,’ the intelligence minister noted.
One of the oil industry analysts said exactly what James was thinking. ‘First off, I’d like to think that some kind of attempt to rescue these two men is a good thing. Second, OME equipment is twenty to forty years old and probably goes wrong quite frequently. If we remove two critical personnel who are repairing the control consoles, chances are we’d degrade the amount of oil IS is able to put on the black market with minimal casualties.’
There were a few nods around the big table.
‘How much would we degrade the capacity of Islamic State?’ the deputy prime minister asked.
The analyst rocked her head uncertainly. ‘Let’s assume that a third of the eighty-three oil wells stop working within a year. If each one produces five hundred barrels a day, at a black market price of thirty dollars a barrel that’s—’
‘A hundred and forty-nine million, four hundred and sixty-two thousand one hundred and eight dollars that IS groups won’t be getting their hands on,’ James said.
‘You did that in your head?’ the deputy prime minister asked, smirking.
‘I’m good at arithmetic,’ James said modestly, as laughter rippled around the table.
The special forces colonel eyed James. ‘So what kind of operation would you propose?’
James smiled uneasily. ‘That’s more your field of expertise than mine, Colonel. Obviously we need to know where Yuen and Sachs are before we can rescue them. If we found a large well and sabotaged the control systems – perhaps with a small drone strike – there’s a good chance Yuen and Sachs would be sent out to fix it. As long as we don’t arouse suspicion, a small commando-style team on the ground should be able to deal with whatever security team has been put around them.’
‘And your method of escape?’ the colonel asked.
James smiled. ‘Sir, I’m a mission controller at CHERUB. This is your field of expertise.’
The colonel seemed flattered by James’ show of respect. ‘You’d have to pick a well close to the sea, or near a border with a friendly country,’ he explained. ‘As long as you met that criterion, escape would be far from impossible.’
The defence minister cleared his throat. ‘Escape may not be impossible, but the government is in a fragile state and the policy on military intervention on the ground in Islamic State-controlled areas is not about to change.’
The deputy prime minister thumped on the desk angrily. ‘These are British citizens, kidnapped on British soil. Are you really telling me that you intend to do nothing to assist them?’
‘The policy is clear,’ the intelligence minister shot back.
‘The policy is an ass,’ the defence minister roared, as James found himself with another reason to hate politicians.
‘Gentlemen,’ the head of MI6 said firmly, as he got to his feet. ‘It’s not essential that we send in British soldiers, with British uniforms and equipment. What we need is a small force of trained operatives with no links to the British military. If the operation goes wrong, we can deny all knowledge.’
The colonel bristled at this idea. ‘What’s the point having British special forces if we’re afraid to use them?’
But the three politicians instinctively liked the idea of a mission where their asses would be covered if things went wrong.
‘The team can be assembled and trained using British resources,’ the MI6 head said, smiling as he sensed that the politicians were with him. ‘We’ll need someone to lead the operation. It’ll be better if they’re up to speed on the situation and have both combat training and significant experience of working under cover. Of course, they’ll have unofficial assistance from UK special forces, and MI6 can source further expertise from ourselves and the intelligence services of our allies in the Middle East.’
James shuddered as he realised that the head of MI6 and several other pairs of eyes had settled on him.
The deputy prime minister smiled. ‘I’m told your record as a CHERUB agent was outstanding, and you seem like a very bright young man.’
James felt like his tongue was ten times normal size as he looked around at John for support.
‘Can you spare your boy to run this one, John?’ the colonel asked jovially.
John looked at James and cracked a big smile. ‘I think I’ll manage without him for a few weeks,’ he said. ‘So, James, do you think you can pull this off?’
‘I guess,’ James said, half hoping that he was about to wake up and find that he was still in bed next to Kerry.
25. TEETH
John seemed proud as they headed out of the conference room. ‘Good stuff,’ he told James. ‘I’m glad they’re not just gonna abandon Sachs and Yuen.’
‘I don’t know where to start with this,’ James admitted.
But John was glancing at his watch. ‘I’ve got another meeting over at MI6. Chat later!’
Then James found the deputy prime minister shaking his hand. ‘I’ll need progress reports,’ he said. ‘I have every confidence in you.’
James wanted to speak with the special forces colonel, but these were important people and they all dashed off, leaving him alone in a hallway. He loosened his tie and felt shaky as he stumbled into a bathroom, slammed a cubicle door and made a dry heave over a toilet bowl.
James had a pain down his side and realised he needed to sit still for a moment, so he put the toilet lid down, sat and took a slow deep breath. He pulled his phone and tried getting his head around the problem he now had to solve. When the screen came on, he spotted a forty-minute-old message from Kerry.
You’ll knock ’em dead in the meeting. X.
James erupted in a big smile. Thinking how much he loved Kerry. How empty his life would seem if she wasn’t around. He called Kerry’s number.
‘Hey you,’ Kerry said, sounding like she was walking fast.
‘You OK?’ James asked.
‘My boss just dumped on me from a great height,’ Kerry said, her voice all high and stressed. ‘There’s a mistake in a contract I’m wor
king on. Two hundred pages and I’ve got to go through marking up all the mistakes before the lawyer comes in tomorrow. So I’m sorry, but there’s no way I can meet you for lunch today.’
James sighed, but wasn’t surprised. He rarely stayed with Kerry in London during the week, because it was all work and sleep.
‘So how was your meeting?’ Kerry asked, and then she sounded angry after he’d explained. ‘You agreed to do what! Are you nuts?’
James had no way of knowing who was outside the toilet cubicle, so he spoke in a whisper. ‘It was so much pressure,’ he admitted. ‘My boss, a full colonel covered in medals, the intelligence minister, the deputy prime minister. All smiling at me and I’m like, OK, yes sir, I’ll do it, sir.’
‘Islamic State chop people’s heads off,’ Kerry said. ‘This is no CHERUB mission. This is off the chart dangerous.’
‘You think I should pull out?’ James said.
Kerry’s voice calmed down. ‘Only if you really want to.’
‘Are you pissed off at me?’
Kerry sighed. ‘If I sounded that way, it’s because I was shocked. But I’ll support you if this is what you really want.’
‘I want to help those guys,’ James said. ‘But if I get this wrong, people will die.’
‘Then you’ve got to build the best team you can,’ Kerry said. ‘Plan carefully, get good advice and good people working with you.’
‘Do you think I’m a lightning rod?’ James asked. ‘Like, nobody senior will take this on because if it goes wrong it’s a career killer.’
Kerry laughed slightly. ‘If this goes wrong, your promotion prospects are the least of your concerns.’
‘GRRR!’ James moaned, as he thumped the tissue dispenser. ‘Why didn’t I just say no?’
‘You’re brilliant at your job, James,’ Kerry said. ‘You’re just overwhelmed right now. Once you start breaking the problems down and you’ve got decent people around you—’
James interrupted. ‘Kerry, do you really want to spend your life working sixty-hour weeks going through two-hundred-page contracts with lawyers?’
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