A Friend in Deed

by G D Harper

  ‘Yes, please. My flight is in three hours, will that be okay?’ Without waiting for an answer, I added, ‘I’m going up to my room to pack. Can you have the car ready to leave when I get back?’

  ‘Yes, of course. You will have to be quick. It will take maybe two hours to get there in traffic.’

  I ran off, cursing myself for dawdling in the Metro. What did I think this was, a sightseeing trip? I bundled everything into my rucksack and was about to head back downstairs when I thought of Dmitry and Sergey. If this was happening to me, things could be even worse for them. I looked at my watch to decide whether I had time to call now or do it in the car. One quick call, I promised myself.

  I dialled Dmitry’s number. He answered and I heard a baby screaming in the background. ‘Dmitry, I need to be quick. I’m heading back to London straight away, the next flight home.’ He started to speak, but I talked over him. ‘No, please don’t interrupt. I’ve got to rush if I’m to make the plane. Someone knows I’m here and has made it clear I’m not welcome. That means they also know about you. And you’ve got to get in touch with Sergey, warn him, I don’t have his number. Can you do that?’

  Dmitry started demanding more information but I had to be curt. ‘I’ll call if I’ve got time when I get to the airport,’ I said, ignoring his questions. ‘Look after yourself, Dmitry, and make sure you call Sergey. I’ve got to go now.’ I hung up and switched off my phone.

  The receptionists were all serving other guests and I waited to be checked out, shifting from foot to foot. Finally, I was in the car and off to the airport. My driver couldn’t speak any English and I kept staring out of the window, looking for landmarks I might recognise from the journey in. I willed the car to get through every light, prayed for every traffic jam to clear. We turned onto a motorway with an airport sign – I could just about decipher ‘Sheremetyevo’ from the Cyrillic. I looked at my watch. An hour and a half till departure. I might just make it.

  I sank back into the seat and started to breathe normally for the first time. My rucksack was lying next to me on the back seat and I decided to organise the contents and get my passport ready, to save time at the airport. I opened up the bag and stared in horror. There, in the zipped compartment of the bag, was the folder that Dmitry had given me at breakfast. In my rush to get off to the airport, I had completely forgotten about it.

  I stared at it as like it was an unexploded bomb. What to do? We were tearing along the motorway; there would be nowhere to stop until we got to the airport. Besides, if I chucked it into a rubbish bin I was throwing away my story and any chance of future cooperation from Dmitry. I gingerly opened it, looked at the incomprehensible computer code, a mix of Cyrillic Russian and English computer terms. I hadn’t felt so scared since that day I helped Bobbie pack up her flat and escape down to London. Whoever gave me this ticket expected me on that flight and they would surely be waiting for me at the airport to get their hands on anything incriminating I had picked up while in Moscow.

  I stepped out of the taxi with twenty minutes to go before the flight closed. I walked up to the BA desk still unsure of what to do.

  ‘Anything to check in?’ I heard the guy say, distant in the red mist of panic that was enveloping me. Suddenly, I realised what to do.

  ‘Yes, this bag.’ My rucksack was tagged and I watched it move down the conveyor. No one stopped it as it disappeared through the wall and into the baggage area. Unless someone was standing on the other side of the entrance, the only way to get to the bag would be to delay the flight while they searched for it. And if that happened, good luck to them. They could have the contents of the bag without having to confront me. If the rucksack wasn’t there when I got back to London, the evidence would be gone. But I had no choice.

  I arrived at the gate. Boarding was almost finished. I had a few minutes to call Dmitry back. I switched on my phone, noticed two missed calls from him and two voicemail messages. No time to listen to them. I called Dmitry and he picked up straight away.

  ‘Richard, what’s going on?’ Dmitry sounded more annoyed than scared. ‘You sounded like a madman.’

  I told him about the plane ticket and that I was at the gate, ready to board.

  ‘Did you get hold of Sergey?’ I asked, full of trepidation.

  ‘Phone switched off, no voicemail. But that is normal for Russians, voicemail expensive. I’ll text him now I have the full picture.’

  I could sense the resentment in his voice that in my panic it had taken me this long to call him. I flushed with embarrassment at my cowardice as I noticed that the last passenger had boarded. The boarding staff beckoned me to come over. I gestured I’d be one more minute and replied to Dmitry.

  ‘Keep trying. He’s in danger. I should never have agreed to this. I’ve taken advantage of his problems and if anything happens to him I’ll never forgive myself.’ An image flashed into my mind of Sergey being bundled into the back of a police van, a look of terror on his face. ‘And you, Dmitry, what are you going to do?’

  He gave a throaty chuckle. ‘You are Moscow virgin, my friend. Don’t worry; I am not on my way to gulag. That is only for big fish these days. Russian government says everything I say is lies, don’t you remember? No one listens to me and they know to keep it that way, it is best to ignore me. If I disappear, my friends make noise. But little Sergey, yes, for him I worry. I tell you what I find.’

  The boarding staff were becoming more and more insistent that I go through, so I said goodbye and got on the plane. Cocooned in the Britishness of the environment and sitting in unaccustomed luxury at the front of the plane felt completely incongruous. I was four rows from the cabin door and I didn’t take my eyes off it, waiting for the appearance of the authorities to arrest me, or worse. Then came the captain’s announcement that we were delayed thirty minutes because of air traffic delays. My paranoia convinced me they were after my bag and the incriminating evidence inside it.

  The plane started taxiing out to the runway, stopping in a holding bay a few minutes later. That was a good sign, I convinced myself. If I was to be bundled off the plane or my rucksack confiscated, they would surely have done that before we left the gate.

  I peered over the shoulder of the guy sitting next to me. I saw a yellow flashing light and strained to see what it was. My neighbour was getting irritated with me, but didn’t offer to swap seats. Whatever the flashing light was, it disappeared back to the terminal building, then outside was only darkness.

  When the plane took off, I almost felt like crying, the release of tension was so great. My eyes never left the flight tracker; I knew roughly where the national boundary was and I wasn’t going to fully relax until we had left Russian airspace. Each time the map refreshed there was a shiver of adrenaline that the plane had moved closer to safety. I told myself I was being ridiculous, that turning around a British Airways plane in mid-flight would be an international incident. And I was right. We landed at Heathrow and there was my rucksack on the carousel, nothing touched.

  There was a text from Dmitry, telling me there was still no news about Sergey. I texted back saying I’d arrived in the UK and would call tomorrow.

  Someone wanted me out of Moscow, and they wanted me scared stiff. They had succeeded on both counts.

  chapter ten

  I was too scared to go back to my flat that night, so checked into an anonymous motel near the airport. When I woke in the morning, there was still a sickening dread in the pit of my stomach. I had got myself into something that was turning out to be much more serious than I could have ever imagined. Yes, the story I was investigating was a dramatic one. But piecing it together had been like a puzzle, something abstract that didn’t have any real-life implications. Now someone had threatened me. Someone who was powerful enough not only to know that I’d gone to Moscow, but also what I was doing there, even what hotel I was staying at. The only people who knew were News Today. But why would the
y compromise a source?

  I forced myself to structure my thoughts. There were three things that I had to worry about: the safety of Dmitry and Sergey; whether I could trust News Today anymore; and the folder that Dmitry had given me.

  There was nothing I could do about the first; I had warned Dmitry and had no way of getting in touch with Sergey directly. As far as the second was concerned, if someone at News Today was a mole for Act Now! I needed to be very careful what I told Alex. I couldn’t hand over the video of my interview with Sergey. Someone could make a copy and give it to the Russians to identify him from his voice or from something he said that needed to be edited out. And if I handed over the folder, the same could happen; a copy would allow the Russians to take down the site and cover their tracks before the story broke, maybe even identify who it was that had given it to Dmitry. I could tell News Today I’d come back empty-handed and publish the story on my blog, but then the story would never have the impact it needed to become a major scandal.

  Alex thought I was still in Russia, so I reckoned I had a day’s grace before I had to hand over whatever I thought was safe. I had to give her something. If I held back on my story and it appeared elsewhere, she’d never work with me again. But I couldn’t take the risk that I might endanger the people who helped me.

  I decided. Nigel must know a way to make an audio copy of the video interview and put a voice disguise on it. I’d say that my informant only agreed to audio and had put the voice distortion on it before I left Moscow and kept the original. I’d tell them everything that Dmitry told me, but not hand over the file. News Today would still have the story, but not the raw intelligence behind it.

  That left working out what was in the folder. Another job for Nigel, but everything was in Russian. I could either find someone to translate it for me or I could go to Tanya. That would be a shitty thing to do; I’d already involved her far more than she deserved. But finding a translator, that was also a risk.

  In the end, I decided it needed to be Tanya, at least to get started. I’d ask her to have a quick look, to give me the gist of what it was saying and then help Nigel navigate around the website.

  I texted Tanya and asked if I could see her, very important and urgent. Got a reply saying it was a busy day, but we could have a quick meeting at lunchtime. I called Nigel, telling him I was heading out to his flat and what I needed him to do. Before I left, I decided to contact Dmitry and see if there was any news about Sergey. He said he’d call me back from a different phone. I used to think all these precautions were a bit over the top; now I was convinced otherwise.

  I accepted a video call from an unknown number, said hi to Dmitry and went over the story of the plane ticket again. I could hear the consternation in his voice and was annoyed with myself for being so wrapped up in concerns for my own safety. I was two thousand miles from whoever was threatening me.

  I told him of my suspicions that News Today had leaked my investigation to someone in Russia, and that I was going to be very careful what I shared with them. He told me there was still nothing from Sergey and he was starting to get worried.

  ‘So, what do you want to do?’ I asked. ‘I’ve still got the document you gave me. No one tried to take it off me at the airport. If you want me to, I’ll destroy it and won’t print a word about what I found out.’

  I willed him to say yes. It would make it a whole lot easier for me to walk away from this if I did it to protect the safety of someone who had trusted and confided in me. But he didn’t.

  ‘It couldn’t have been the FSB that left you that plane ticket. They would have been at the airport waiting for you, confiscated the folder, your computer and everything else you had. And if the Russian government didn’t want you in Moscow, they would have refused your visa or deported you once you arrived. No, it must have been an individual, most likely an oligarch who didn’t want you screwing up some business deal they’d arranged through Act Now!. That does suggest there’s a person at your TV station who is in the pocket of someone powerful who wants to scare you off the story. And if they know about you, they know about me. But if they’d wanted me silenced, I wouldn’t be talking to you now. I’ve got nothing to lose. I’ve had threats hanging over my head for years. If you want to go ahead, go ahead.’

  Damn.

  ‘Well, I’m not going to trust News Today again until we get to the bottom of the leak. I’ll give them enough to run the story, a disguised audio file of my interview with Sergey and everything you told me, but not the folder on the bogus website. That is, if you are okay with that.’

  ‘“He who does not risk will never drink champagne.” Old Russian proverb. I am a known troublemaker here in Moscow. One more piece of bad behaviour will make no difference.’

  ‘Okay then, here’s what I’ll do. It’s going to take a while to fully understand what’s in that folder you gave me. We’ll go in the back door tonight at midnight UK time, the middle of the night in Moscow. And if we find anything, I’ll give the story to my old newspaper. I’ve known the editor there for years, and if the Russians have got their tentacles into every media outlet in Britain, we may as well give up now. News Today will be furious, but I can say that I uncovered it after my Moscow trip, so felt it was a different story, not covered by the scope of our agreement.’

  ‘Da. Okay.’

  ‘I’ll get the audio file made now. Let me know if you hear anything from Sergey.’

  ‘I am going to drive out to his flat right now to find out what is going on,’ replied Dmitry. ‘Good luck, Mr Richard Foxe, you have been making people upset with your investigating. I send you text now, with username and password I promised you. This phone number is still secret, I hope.’

  There had been two messages on my voicemail from Alex already. I couldn’t put off contacting her much longer. I texted her back, saying I needed to clarify something before we talked and then headed off to Nigel’s. If I was quick, I could be back in time to meet Tanya for lunch. Then I needed some time to collect my thoughts.

  I took Nigel through the events in Moscow. I thought he was going to spin himself dizzy when I explained about the plane ticket and my tension-filled flight back to London. He’d already set things up to do the voice change and I handed him the video file.

  ‘What voice do you want?’ he asked. ‘I’ve chosen Cyborg Warrior, but Cave Troll is also pretty cool.’

  I looked down the choice of voices on offer. Golem, Zombie Man, Orc, Half-Orc, the list was endless. I was obviously in super-geek paradise. And what on earth was the difference between Orc and Half-Orc?

  ‘None of these look right, Nigel. I need something that will make people take us seriously. Have you got something more normal?’

  ‘We can do Human Woman if you like. But that’s boring.’

  ‘No, it’s perfect. Get started.’

  Nigel pressed a few keys and began Sergey’s aural sex change. When it was done it sounded nothing like him, but not too goofy either.

  While the file was ripping, I told him of my plan to bring Tanya along that evening to help translate and navigate the Russian website. Nigel’s mood changed from the euphoria of playing secret agent to one of outright hostility.

  ‘I don’t like new people. Especially girls. We’re Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson. They didn’t need girls to help them.’

  ‘She’s ten years older than you, Nigel, she’s not a girl. We need her because she speaks Russian. She’s not a detective.’

  ‘I can do Russian. I can use Translate. If she turns up with you, I’ll tell her to go away.’

  ‘Nigel, we need to be smart here. We only have a short time inside the website. We can’t afford to go back and forth if we come across something that doesn’t translate. Sherlock Holmes had Mrs Hudson to help him sometimes. Think of Tanya as Mrs Hudson. Once she’s helped us, it will be only Holmes and Watson again.’

  At Nigel’s in
sistence, I made this a solemn promise and that satisfied him. Now I had to convince Tanya to help us. If she didn’t, I was stuffed.

  I met her at a coffee shop in Mayfair, tucked down one of the side streets in St James’s. She greeted me with a relaxed, disarming smile.

  ‘Hey guy, what is big panic?’

  ‘Would you believe me if I told you I’ve been given the blueprints for a website the Russians built to hack Act Now!’s political opponents? I’ve been in Moscow the last two days to meet with a guy who said he could help me expose what’s going on. I was wondering if you could have a look at the blueprints and tell me roughly what they say.’

  Tanya’s eyes narrowed. ‘You have been to Moscow, Duncan? And you tell me when you come back? That is not behaviour of a friend.’

  ‘It was dangerous, Tanya, that’s why I didn’t tell you. And it turned out to be even scarier than I thought.’

  I told her about the plane ticket. The phone in my pocket started buzzing. A text from Alex. I could guess what it was saying.

  ‘I’ll get that later,’ I said. ‘So, given what I told you, do you want to see what I brought back with me? If you don’t want to get involved, I completely understand.’

  ‘You kidding? This is hot stuff. Show me.’

  She flicked through the folder, then looked up at me. ‘It is coding for website. I not know what it means, you need expert. I can tell them what Russian means, that’s all.’

  ‘That’s what I thought you’d say. I’m going to see Nigel this evening, the computer guy who helps me with my stories. Could you come along, explain it to him?’

  ‘Sure, I think no problem. He know about me?’

  ‘A little. I should warn you Nigel’s a bit odd. Not very good with new people, so you need be very careful around him. Don’t move anything in his flat and whatever you do, don’t touch him. He hates that.’ I stirred my coffee. ‘Oh, yes. And you need to call yourself Mrs Hudson. That’s the name I gave you. She was Sherlock Holmes’s housekeeper. Elderly lady.’