by Mark Dawson
‘How does this have anything to do with me?’
Both men spoke quietly, but Isabella could hear them.
Atari folded the newspaper and stuffed it into the seat back ahead of him. ‘There is a conspiracy. You’ve seen it. You’ve been involved in it – both of you. What you did in Syria has put you up against them. You made powerful enemies. You know too much already. If they can’t get your silence by murdering you, they’ll threaten your family to get it instead. There’s more at stake than you know. The men and women responsible for what’s happening will prosper from the world slipping into another grand war. Arms manufacturers will make billions from selling their weapons systems. Intelligence organisations get their budgets increased. Biogeneticists like Daedalus will see the ethical climate shift so they can deploy their new assets. It’s in all of their interests that the situation in the Middle East is allowed to deteriorate. Men like you are pawns in the game.’
‘The attacks in London?’
‘You don’t need to ask that, Pope. You know what happened. They were false-flag attacks. They located a front man who would have credibility within the jihadist community. They picked a preacher and said he was radicalising local boys. The front man located and indoctrinated vulnerable local boys into attacking Westminster. Martyrdom doesn’t leave loose ends. The participants wouldn’t be around to answer questions. You helped there, too. You killed several. One of them lost his nerve, so they killed him and tossed his body in the Thames.’
‘The shoot-down?’
‘The same. If I had to guess, I’d say they smuggled a Russian launcher into the country and used it to bring down the jet.’
It was a wild, unlikely story, but Isabella believed it. She had seen too much to think otherwise.
Atari was on a roll now. ‘You’ve both been involved all the way through. You helped them to establish their story. You delivered the preacher for rendition by the CIA. He’s been taken to an agency black site in Moldova. He’ll confess in due course and then they’ll arrange for him to be executed. Another loose end snipped. Then you established the money trail for them, another line of evidence that the media could follow back to the Islamists.’
‘Salim al-Khawari,’ Pope said.
Isabella thought about the man’s son, Khalil, and what Pope had persuaded her to do in Switzerland.
‘That’s right,’ Atari said. ‘I’m curious. What did they tell you to do?’
‘Isabella broke into his computers. They said he was funding the operations. They wanted evidence.’
‘Not true, I’m afraid.’
‘They told us Isabella was planting a data tap. Something that would enable them to hack him.’
‘We don’t think it was about extracting information. Quite the opposite. Most likely, it was a Trojan horse. It uploaded all the fake evidence they needed to prove that Salim financed the operations. All the proof they needed to link him back to ISIS. But he was just the fall guy. His error was to make a few ill-advised friendships with some unreliable Saudi sheiks fifteen years ago. He was the stooge. And you two set him up.’
‘If that’s right, why did the CIA raid his compound?’
‘Because you were successful. They knew the evidence was in place. My guess? They wanted to take al-Khawari there and then. And that was the moment they would have dispensed with you and her, too. What happened to the rest of your team?’
‘They were killed. We were ambushed outside Geneva.’
Isabella thought of Snow and Kelleher. Pope had told her what had happened.
‘You know who killed them?’
‘Daedalus?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know, but I think it’s very likely.’
‘Can you prove any of it?’
‘Of course not. But we know it’s happening. There are rumours online already, conspiracy sites and the like, but it’s all speculation. There’s no evidence. No smoking guns. Wheaton and Litivenko have given us a way in through Daedalus. Fucking that up for them will be a start. We’ll work backwards from there. Unravel it bit by bit. It all leads back to the same place.’
‘I could go to MI6.’
Isabella watched as Atari aimed a withering glance at Pope. ‘You’d be dead before the day was out. Both of you.’
Isabella and Pope had already worked out at least some of the broader strokes of the plot that they had unwillingly assisted, but Atari’s dispassionate explanation filled in the spaces between the lines. She could see it all now. Salim al-Khawari had been cast as the fall guy. He had been compromised and had fled into Syria with Isabella as his hostage. Bloom had sent Pope to kill him. Bloom had helped Pope get across the border and then assisted him in penetrating deep into the caliphate, but as soon as Salim was located and Pope went against his orders and decided to bring him out alive rather than kill him, that help had been withdrawn. Instead, Bloom had sent a helicopter loaded with agents to kill them.
‘The man I took my orders from – do you know him?’
‘Vivian Bloom? Of course. He’s responsible for darkening the mood in your country.’ Atari nodded down to the folded-up newspaper and the picture of British ships steaming across the ocean. ‘Preparing the English for war. He’s doing an excellent job.’
‘And he knows where my family is?’
Atari shrugged. ‘I doubt it. Why would he need to know that?’
Isabella felt Pope stiffen. Atari looked at him disapprovingly. ‘Are you an idiot? You can’t afford to go after him. He’s too important to them. He’s very carefully guarded. You wouldn’t be able to reach him before they found you. And locating you and the girl is of fundamental importance to them now. All of the other pawns – the boys they sent, the front man, al-Khawari, his family – they’ve all been swept off the board. It’s just you now. You could make a lot of trouble for them.’
‘Don’t worry, we will.’
‘And we will help you do that, but we need to be strategic. We look at Daedalus. We look at Prometheus. Then we look at what their assets have been doing. Westminster. The plane. The whole conspiracy. We’re going to build a case against them that they will not be able to answer. But we need you to help me do that, Control.’
‘Why me?’
‘Because you’re perfect. You have the training. I don’t. Look at me. I’m a keyboard warrior. I don’t know how to do what you do, and we don’t have anyone else to send. And, not to be too crude about it, but you’re motivated. You couldn’t be more motivated.’
Isabella felt Pope stiffen again. His temper was rising. ‘Do you know where they are?’
‘No.’
Pope stared at him, hard. ‘If you’re holding out on me,’ he said, his voice a tight hiss, ‘if my girls have to spend just one extra minute away from me, you’re a dead man. Are we clear?’
‘We are clear, Control. You don’t need to threaten me.’
Pope heard the jangle of the drinks trolley in the aisle behind them.
‘I mean it,’ Pope said. ‘We’re not friends. I’m not doing this to help you. The only reason we’re talking now is because I want them back. If you play me, I’ll kill you.’
The steward pulled the trolley alongside their row. He looked past Pope and Atari to Isabella. ‘Can I get you a drink, young lady?’
‘Orange juice,’ she said.
Atari appeared to have an unending supply of fake documents. He provided two new passports for Pope and Isabella. They were father and daughter once again, but this time their family name was Jones and their cover story was that they were going to ride the Trans-Siberian Express after the conclusion of business in the Chinese capital. Isabella had seen Atari’s own passport as he handed them theirs; the cover was deep blue and marked ‘Canada’ above a royal coat of arms.
Atari disembarked first. He was waiting for them at the air gate and fell into step beside Pope as he and Isabella started up the slope to the terminal building.
‘We need to split up,’ Pope said.
‘I ag
ree. You’re booked at the Hyatt.’
‘You?’
‘The Westin.’
‘When do you want to meet?’
‘Her bus gets in tomorrow morning at one. Before then.’
‘The bus station at midnight?’
‘Fine. It’s Chkalova. I’ll see you there.’
Pope put his hand on Isabella’s shoulder and allowed Atari a minute to put a little separation between him and them.
They set off, following behind him.
‘Cover story?’ Pope asked her as they walked side by side.
‘You’re my father.’
‘And?’
‘We’re here for the Trans-Siberian Express.’
‘Your mother?’
‘Dead. Cancer. That’s why we’re here. I always wanted to come. This is to help me get over it.’
‘All right.’
‘You don’t have to worry,’ she said. ‘I’ve been lying my whole life. This isn’t anything new.’
‘I’m not worried, Isabella.’
They made their way through the airport, walking along utilitarian concrete passageways that were badly lit and cold. Rain lashed down outside, smearing the glass of the wide observation windows that looked out on to the apron and the runway beyond. Russia looked cold and uninviting.
They were able to walk straight up to the immigration booth. Atari was standing at the booth next to them. He was agitated.
‘What do you mean?’ Isabella heard him saying to the guard.
She glanced across.
‘Do you speak English? I don’t understand.’
There was a firm rapping on the window in front of them. ‘Papers,’ the guard said.
‘Sorry.’ Pope took the fake passports and slid them through the slot at the bottom of the kiosk window.
Isabella watched as two armed police officers stepped between the kiosks and approached Atari. The first guard reached for his wrist and grasped it; Atari shook it off.
‘Look at me, please.’
The guards double-teamed Atari, pressing him up against the window and forcing his arms behind his back.
‘Sir. Look at me – now.’
Isabella squeezed his hand and Pope turned back to the window.
‘Sorry. Million miles away.’
The guard examined their passports, thumbing through to the pages with their photographs. He looked up at them and then back down at the photographs.
‘What is your business in Vladivostok?’ the guard asked him.
‘We’re here for the Trans-Siberian.’
‘Very popular with tourists,’ he said with a sneer that made it clear that he did not approve. ‘Where are you staying tonight?’
‘The Hyatt.’
‘If I call them, they will have a reservation?’
‘I certainly hope so.’
He nodded. ‘Want me to stamp the passports?’
‘Yes, please.’
The man brought down his stamp, marking both passports, and then handed the documents back. He gave a brusque nod and then beckoned the couple waiting behind them to come forward.
Pope and Isabella paused as one of the guards took a pair of cuffs and secured Atari’s wrists. The man was forced up against the booth, his head pressed against the glass, but he was facing in their direction and they shared a look for a moment before he was dragged away and marched towards a door with a smoked-glass window and a sign that read ‘Immigration’ beneath the Cyrillic notice.
‘What is the matter with you?’ the guard said to them angrily. ‘Go.’
They started off. Pope held on to Isabella’s hand as they passed through the narrow channel and into the baggage reclaim hall beyond.
‘What happened?’ Isabella asked him in a quiet voice.
‘I don’t know,’ he admitted.
Isabella could speculate. Perhaps Atari had been in Russia before and had caused trouble. Perhaps his own papers were not as good as the ones that he had given to them. She could guess, but it didn’t matter. The man would either be at the bus station tomorrow morning or he would not. Pope and Isabella would be there. They would meet Litivenko on their own if they had to.
Chapter Forty
Isabella followed Pope to the baggage area.
Their carry-on luggage was screened first. Isabella waited and observed as Pope went through. The women operating the scanners were dressed in tight miniskirts with black lace tights. It seemed inappropriate, but as she looked beyond them to where other female staff were wandering the terminal building, she saw that it was the uniform. Pope put the suitcase on the belt and passed through the X-ray arch. The woman who beckoned him to move forward pulled down on the hem of her skirt so as to maintain her modesty. The carry-on passed through the X-ray machine. Isabella was beckoned through the arch; it beeped. The woman who was struggling with her skirt stepped up and indicated that Isabella should raise her arms. She did as she was told and the woman quickly and expertly frisked her. She ran her hands along her arms, down the sides of her torso and then down both legs.
When she was done, she sent Isabella back through the arch and, as she passed back through again, it bleeped for a second time. The woman pointed to a place beneath her throat; Isabella understood and took out the necklace with the locket that Pope had given her. It had belonged to her mother. He had retrieved it from the Americans after Beatrix had blown herself up. The woman took the locket between her thumb and forefinger and opened it. There was a picture of Isabella as a much younger child inside. The woman looked at it for a moment and said something in Russian. Isabella didn’t understand what it was, and as she shrugged her incomprehension, the woman shook her head, fastened the locket again and then stepped aside.
Tourists would not have arrived without luggage, so they had bought suitcases and suitable clothes in Beijing. They had removed the labels and crumpled the clothes a little, keen to ensure that it wasn’t obvious that everything was brand new. They had travelled light up until that point, but Pope had explained that it was likely that their luggage would be checked by the secret police. It would look suspicious if the father and daughter who were here to enjoy a trip on the Trans-Siberian arrived with nothing.
The cases took fifteen minutes to emerge on to the carousel, and as Pope transferred them to the trolley, Isabella noticed that the cellophane sheeting that they had been wrapped in had been removed. Pope gave her a thin smile to acknowledge that he had noticed it, too.
The arrivals hall was cold and empty. Pope stopped at a concession and bought them two large bottles of water. He stopped at an exchange desk and converted some of their dollars into roubles. He led Isabella between the barriers that held back the few waiting onlookers: family members there to greet loved ones, taxi drivers holding up boards with the names of their prospective passengers.
‘We need to stay alert while we’re here,’ he said to her. ‘The secret police are everywhere and they follow tourists. There’s no need for us to worry about them as long as we stick to our story.’
She said that she understood and, satisfied, he led the way outside.
They bought tickets for the Aeroexpress. The airport was in Artyom, twenty-five miles north of the city. A ticket on the train cost two hundred roubles for the fifty-minute transfer. Isabella looked out of the cracked and dirty window at the city beyond. It was grey, with lines of brutal Soviet housing blocks squeezed into the spaces between brand new condominiums and older mansions.
They disembarked the train and took a cab to the hotel. The traffic was heavy, and the drivers were aggressive; their driver, a grizzled Russian who had not uttered a word to them save a grunt of acknowledgement when Pope asked for the Hyatt, cursed and fulminated as he was forced to brake to avoid a bus that cut across their lane. Isabella saw a statue of Lenin pointing east towards the United States. They crested a hill with a view of the city. The Golden Horn spread out on either side, the arms of its twin peninsula reaching for distant Russky Island. The dock accommodated a
whole line of Russian cruisers that had been tied up along a long series of jetties. One of the warships was equipped with four rocket launchers on each side, and the missiles must have been enormous if the size of the silos was a reliable judge.
The driver pulled up outside the hotel and took the two suitcases out of the trunk. Pope thanked him, paying him and adding a tip. Isabella noted the colour of the bill and saw that the tip was generous but not too generous. Neither too small nor too large, the kind of amount that would be gratefully received without sticking in the mind for excessive parsimoniousness or extravagance. Her mother had taught her the importance of that. You didn’t want to be memorable. That could be dangerous in a place like this.
The Hyatt was an ugly building close to the Golden Horn Bridge.
Atari had booked two adjacent rooms. Isabella’s was old and tired. The refrigerator was ancient, chugging away noisily with a pool of moisture gathering on the floor around its base. The room was small, with not much space on either side of the bed, and the paint was peeling away on one of the walls, patches of damp revealed beneath it. There was no air conditioning, and everything was unpleasantly stuffy. Isabella went over to the window and opened it, allowing a waft of damp air to seep inside. The view outside was obscured by the decorative curlicue of a wrought-iron figure, but, looking down, Isabella could see men and women going about their business, restaurants and shops, and, higher up, boxy air-conditioning units fixed to the walls and satellite dishes attached to the roofs.
She turned. The bellhop was waiting at the door.
Pope appeared behind him. ‘Thank you,’ he said.
The man waited.
Pope took a note from his wallet and gave it to him.
The man grunted and left.
Pope came inside and shut the door behind him.
‘Pleasant rooms,’ he said, making no effort to mask the irony.
She sat on the edge of the bed, picked up the remote, clicked on the television and channel-hopped to a news channel. The midday bulletin was just beginning. The anchor was discussing reports that the British government was sending five Royal Navy warships and two thousand personnel to the Eastern Mediterranean. HMS Ocean, one of the Navy’s amphibious assault ships, was being sent to join the nuclear-powered Trident submarine that was also said to be in the region. The anchor said that heightened activity was also being reported at the Royal Air Force base at Akrotiri in Cyprus. There were reports that Special Forces were already active within Syria.