by Andy Maslen
“What about the cops, Boss?” Gabriel asked. “Have they got anywhere with the mercs?”
“Yes, they have. They found a business card belonging to a chap called Max Novgorodsky. It appears he works for an organisation called, and I hope I’m pronouncing this correctly, kuznitsa. They Googled it. It’s Russian and it means—”
“Smithy,” Gabriel said.
“What?” Eli said, interrupting Gabriel’s own interruption.
Gabriel turned to her.
“It means forge. Like a blacksmith uses.” A morphine-dream swam into Gabriel’s consciousness. Russian! “One of them had a tattoo on the inside of his right wrist. I missed it at the time but it said ‘Kill ’em all’ in Cyrillic.”
Don frowned and rubbed fiercely at the end of his nose as if he had an itch.
“We have a quartet of highly trained, well-equipped mercenaries, of whom at least one was Russian, tooling around in a top-of-the-line Mercedes owned – probably – by a man with a Russian-sounding surname and a business card for a Russian company called Smithy or Forge. Anyone want to contradict me if I say we have a few Reds under the bed?”
Gabriel and Eli both shook their heads.
“People like that don’t come cheap,” Gabriel finally said. “At least five hundred a day plus expenses. So that’s two grand for the four of them, plus all the weapons they had with them. And the car was at least a hundred grand.”
“So whoever was after you – or rather, trying to stop you dealing with Darbandi – has deep pockets,” Don said. “Which complicates matters when I look at our list of suspects. None of them is exactly a millionaire.”
“Are you watching them, Boss?” Eli asked.
“Not yet. That’s what my humble pie-eating is all about. But we can’t afford to wait while we track our mole down. You need to get back out there and finish what you started. Why don’t you give your old boss a call in the morning?”
All Our Force, Pursuit and Policy
After Gabriel and Eli left, Don pulled his phone out and called Callie. His Irish setter, Fingal, had just padded in from the garden, claws clicking on the polished wooden floorboards. He reached down absent-mindedly and scratched the dog behind the ear while counting the rings. He’d just reached the point where he expected Callie’s recorded voice to click in, asking him to leave a message, when the woman herself answered.
“Don! I just can’t seem to get rid of you, can I? Sorry for the delay in answering. I was just getting ready to go out.”
“Somewhere nice, I hope. Not another meeting.”
“No. We’ve tickets to see Shakespeare at the Barbican Theatre. Troilus and Cressida .”
“Well, let me keep this short. I wouldn’t want to make you late for the Bard. It’s about Max.”
“Oh, yes? Max ‘we’ll take it from here’ Novgorodsky, you mean?”
“Yes. And I’m sorry if I came across as high-handed. It turns out we’re not quite so equipped to penetrate the dark web as I’d imagined.”
“Well, that’s quite all right. Do you want to come in and chat? I’d love an excuse to change tomorrow morning’s schedule, believe me.”
“Would ten be all right?”
“Ten would be perfect. You’ve just got me out of not one, but two meetings.”
“Then I’ll let you go. Enjoy the play.”
The following morning, Don drove his Jaguar into the carpark behind Paddington Green police station and found a space. Collecting his briefcase from the boot, he made his way through reception and security and up to the seventh floor, where the Special Investigations Unit had its base.
Callie was waiting for him when the lift doors parted. She smiled, and as he shook her hand he thought how attractive she was when she wasn’t scowling at him.
“How are you, Don?” she asked as she led him through a pair of card-operated doors and into an open-plan office.
“Very well, thank you, Callie. And you?”
“Mustn’t grumble. Though if I have to sit through another bloody meeting this week, I swear I’ll do more than bloody grumble.”
He smiled. A kindred spirit.
“You have my sympathies. It’s the PowerPoint I can’t stand. Bloody civil servants reading to me off a screen when I’ve already reached the end of their stupid slide.”
“I know!” she exclaimed turning to him, eyes wide. “In my day – Oh God that makes me sound about a hundred years old – but anyway, we were taught to keep it short and simple. Say what you have to say, ask questions, then shut up and listen.”
Continuing to share examples of what they most disliked about admin, they made their way to Callie’s office, where a young black man dressed in clothes Don felt sure Gabriel would admire was waiting for them.
Callie turned to Don.
“Don Webster, meet Lucian Young. Lucian is the best forensic scientist in the Met. And Don – ” In the microscopic pause, Don wondered how Callie planned to introduce him, “ – works in another branch of law enforcement. Don’t you, Don?”
Wondering whether her pursed lips and narrowed eyes signified disapproval or an arch sense of humour, Don simply smiled at Lucian and extended his hand.
“Pleased to meet you, Lucian.”
Lucian smiled.
“Likewise. And I’m flattered by Callie’s description, but really I have an excellent team under me.”
“As do I,” Don said. “Which is rather why I’m here. It’s about that business card you found.”
Five minutes later, coffees procured and a laptop occupying centre stage on the circular table in the corner of Callie’s office, Don turned to Lucian.
“We need to get to this chap. He may have ordered, or was ordered to arrange, an attack on two of my people. From what Callie told me, it’s probably not wise to just send him an email. I wondered whether you had any ideas?”
Lucian blew his cheeks out and picked the card off the table, where Don had placed it.
“The challenge, obviously, is to make contact without revealing that we’re the law. Any computer connecting to Max over the dark web will be forced to give up its IP address. From that he could narrow down the PC to a city using publicly available tools. But he’ll have people who can get right to a physical address. We could cloak it, but that would send a warning signal to Max that something wasn’t kosher.”
“Don’t his kind routinely keep their identities secret?”
“They do, of course. It just means there’ll be another level of security to get through before we get anywhere near Max.”
“How about using a phone instead of a PC?”
“I haven’t managed to unlock the mercenaries’ phones yet. And any contract mobile we use will reveal enough information about its owner for Max to trace them. Checking bona fides is fine if it comes back registered to an Albanian drug smuggler or a Colombian cartel boss …”
“But less so if it says Metropolitan Police.”
“Exactly.”
“So can we set up a fake account? Or buy a burner?”
“We could do that. In fact, it’s how we figured out the comms format that Max is using.”
“But?”
“But then we face the same problem as with a cloaked IP address.”
“What about if we had the computer or phone of someone who was already a contact?” Callie asked.
“Then we’d be home free,” Lucian answered. “Just message him about a new job, or the existing one if you know the basics.”
Don leaned back in his chair, making the wooden frame creak. He pinched the skin at the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes.
Finding Max was important. But it wasn’t as big a priority as completing the operation against Darbandi. And from what Lucian had been telling him, an operation to infiltrate Kuznitsa would be expensive and time consuming. He sighed and opened his eyes again to find both Callie and Lucian looking at him.
“Here’s what I think,” he began. “We need to find the mole first and get his,
or her, phone. Then we use that to contact Max and take things from there.”
“And how do you propose to find the mole?” Callie asked.
“We’ll play the hunter with all our force, pursuit and policy.”
“Are you quoting Shakespeare at me, Don?”
“Troilus and Cressida . It seemed appropriate. How was it, by the way?”
“It was fine. What do you mean, ‘We’ll play the hunter’?” she asked, fearing she already knew the answer.
“I need eyes on a couple of people who work at MI6. Discreet, deniable eyes, but eyes nonetheless.”
He gave her a description of the targets, one codenamed ‘Hare’, the other ‘Rabbit’, and, after listening to her complaints, references to protocol, and mini-lecture on due process, thanked her warmly, got up, shook hands again, and left.
Callie glared at Lucian, who was grinning.
“Typical. He plays the hunter, but with our force, pursuit and policy.”
“Stella! Got a minute?” Callie called from her office door.
Detective Inspector Stella Cole left her desk and joined Callie and Lucian in her office, closing the door behind her. She sat opposite her boss.
“What’s up?”
“I’ll tell you what’s up. We’ve to put a couple of MI6 intelligence analysts under surveillance. I want you to take one of them.”
“Who?” Stella asked, as if spying on spies was second nature to her.
“Here.”
Callie pushed a sheet of paper across the desk to Stella, who picked it up, read it then handed it back.
“Rabbit? Why not his real name?”
Callie shrugged.
“Above my pay grade. Maybe Don Bloody Webster enjoys playing secret agents.”
Stella grinned. She’d met Don once, briefly, a few years earlier. He’d seemed more the friendly uncle type.
“When?”
“Start right now, please. Get yourself over to Vauxhall Cross and when you see him, stay on him. If he just takes himself off home, go back tomorrow. And you keep going back until we have him. I’ve got his home and mobile phones tapped, but to be honest, I’m not really expecting him to be that stupid. No. It’ll be a face-to-face meeting.”
The Sands of Time
The next day, while Don was talking to Callie and Lucian, Eli called her old boss at Mossad, Uri Ziff.
“Elisheva!” he’d said, when she identified herself. “How are the British treating you?”
“Well. Although I need somewhere nicer to live.”
“And the work?”
“Is good. And also why I’m calling you.”
Eli explained how their initial attempt to get to Darbandi had failed, and why. Given that The Department was working to help Israel, could Israel now work to help The Department?
Ziff answered immediately.
“Of course. Why don’t you come here? Bring your partner. We will equip you, and together we will work out a new plan.”
Bird's Eye View
US surveillance satellite “Groucho” completed its thirty-thousand-and-nineteenth orbit. On its thirty-thousand-and-twentieth circuit of the blue-and-green planet, its cameras picked up movement in the desert of Iran between Nojeh Air Base and a small town called Vareshabad north of Tehran. A convoy of slow-moving vehicles was tracking east along the Tehran-Saveh Freeway.
The pictures relayed back to the National Security Agency HQ at Fort Meade, Maryland made for interesting viewing. At the heart of the procession of vehicles, four huge, wheeled transporters crawled along. Each bore upon its back a long cylinder whose profile identified it incontrovertibly: a Soviet-made Pioneer medium-range ballistic missile. Fore and aft, the missiles were escorted by a motley collection of armoured vehicles, also of Soviet manufacture. Motorcycle outriders led the way and brought up the rear: mosquitos to the larger vehicles’ bumblebees, beetles and locusts.
Once the on-duty intelligence analyst monitoring the feed identified the convoy, she kicked it up the chain of command. Twenty minutes later, it had found its way onto the desk of the Director, NSA, known throughout the organisation as DIRNSA. From the expanse of mahogany in DIRNSA’s office, the intel passed to his boss, the Director of National Intelligence in Washington, DC. The DNI frowned and sent it onward to her boss, the National Security Adviser.
The National Security Adviser informed the White House Chief of Staff of the situation.
Having been informed of the development, the Chief of Staff ran, literally, along the corridor to the Oval Office where, uncharacteristically, the President happened to be in residence. Advising his boss that discretion was advisable, he left to convene the relevant parties in the Situation Room.
The President read the report. Looked at the screengrabs. Looked again at the analyst’s three-sentence comment at the bottom of the first page.
Cannot avoid conclusion Iran is routing four medium-range, nuclear-capable missiles to its research facility at Vareshabad for arming . No threat to USA. Most likely target of any attack: Israel.
The President laid the report aside and frowned. Then he spoke to the empty room in a low growling voice.
“Discretion be fucked!”
He marched out of his office and along the thickly carpeted corridor towards the Situation Room. There, he found his Chief of Staff, the National Security Adviser, the Joint Chiefs of Staff already convened.
The Chief of Staff spoke first.
“Mr President, sir. We thought we’d make a start. DIRNSA is onboard a military flight heading in as we speak. We need to discuss the options, and outline the available scenarios. Then we can answer any questions you may have, sir.”
The President stuck out his lower lip and glared at the men in the room.
“I only have one question.”
“What’s that, sir?”
“Has anyone called the Israelis yet?”
“No, sir. As I said, we thought it best—”
The President’s face suffused with blood.
“I don’t give a rat’s ass what you thought. Give me that phone.”
The Chief of Staff handed the secure phone over.
“This is the President. Get me the Israeli Prime Minister on the line. Now.”
Then he sat down in one of the padded leather chairs to wait.
His friend’s voice travelled along the secure line as clear as if he had been sitting right there.
“Wallace. Always a pleasure. But this is an unscheduled call. What’s happening?
“Listen, Saul. I just saw an intelligence report. From one of our spy satellites, OK? And it concerns you.”
“What is it?”
“It’s the Iranians. They’ve got four medium-range nuclear missiles on the move. Sounds like Israel’s the target.”
“My God! And this is credible? The intelligence, I mean. You believe it?”
“Me? Of course I believe it! We have eyes-on, Saul. A bird’s eye view from, whatever, like ten miles up. It looks like it was taken on someone’s iPhone for Chrissake. No offence.”
“Thank you. I have to go. You understand? But, thank you.”
The President looked at the phone in his hand. He shook his head.
“Go and kick some ass.”
Telephone Diplomacy
OFFICE OF THE DIRECTOR, CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE AGENCY, LANGLEY, VIRGINIA, USA
Arlene Mackie picked up the phone on her desk.
“Director, ma’am? I have the office of Mossad Director Peretz for you.”
“Put him through.”
The line clicked a couple of times.
“Director Mackie?”
“Speaking.”
“Connecting you with Director Peretz now.”
Two seconds of complete silence followed, followed by a click and a buzz.
“Arlene. How are you?”
“I’m fine Daniel. How are you? How’s Avigael, and the children?”
“All fine, thank God. And Raymond?”
“He’
s fine, thank you. What can I do to help you?”
“We have a problem. I need your help clearing an airborne operation over a few friendly countries’ airspace.”
“Strictly speaking, that’s the State Department’s role.”
“I know. But this is urgent. We both know how slowly the diplomatic wheels grind.”
“I’m listening.”
OFFICE OF THE UNDERSECRETARY, NATIONAL INTELLIGENCE ORGANIZATION, ANKARA, TURKEY
“Sir, I have the Director of the CIA on the phone for you.”
“Very good. Put her through.”
“Undersecretary Özdilek. Thank you for taking my call.”
“Anything for our friends at the Central Intelligence Agency, Director Mackie. How may I be of assistance?”
OFFICE OF THE AGENCY EXECUTIVE, NATIONAL SECURITY SERVICE, YEREVAN, ARMENIA
“This is Demirdjian.”
“Good morning, sir. I have CIA Director Arlene Mackie on the phone for you.”
OFFICE OF THE DIRECTOR, STATE SECURITY SERVICE, BAKU, AZERBAIJAN
Director Hasanov nodded as the most powerful woman in the global intelligence community outlined her requirements. When she finished –
“… and free return passage over Azerbaijani airspace.”
– he nodded, even though she couldn’t see him. This was a coup. He could assist the CIA at no cost, thus building both his country’s international prestige and his own, within the domestic corridors of power. Then he answered.
“Of course, Director. As a member of the NATO Partnership for Peace programme, Azerbaijan is always ready to help our allies, especially America.”
OFFICE OF THE DIRECTOR, INSTITUTE FOR INTELLIGENCE AND SPECIAL OPERATIONS (MOSSAD), TEL AVIV, ISRAEL
“Director, I have CIA Director Mackie for you.”
“Thank you, Rachel. Please put her through.”