Traitor

by Duncan Falconer

  The operations officer tapped several keys on his console and the large monitors came to life.

  ‘Now,’ Sumners said, clearing his own throat. ‘Where does that leave us and our counter-operation to retrieve our stolen goods? Well, Vlad Robalesk owns several mines, two of them in the Plesetsky area.’

  One of the monitors gave a satellite view of the vastness of Russia before zooming in on the central region.

  ‘Some forty years ago the Russians converted an old mine into a research and development laboratory. The reason they needed something deep in the ground was, you won’t be surprised to hear, not only security against prying eyes in the sky but also because it was to be a chemical and biological weapons laboratory. They needed to be able to seal the place off if something went wrong. The facility’s in this area here.’

  A large square graphic appeared on the screen.

  ‘Robalesk acquired the converted mine shortly after the collapse of the communist government, apparently with the intentions of cleaning it up and reopening it as a going concern. We don’t think that happened. And neither did he close the facility down. Now this is where it helps to have an intelligence organisation that knows how to cross-reference information not only by subject but also in depth and time. Two years ago, when the Inessa was being fitted for its current role, in our efforts to try to discover its purpose we naturally followed every lead we had, in and out of the shipyard. One of them led to the chemical warfare mine, as it became known, in Plesetsky. It was from there that we constructed our understanding of the relationship between Vlad Robalesk and certain players in the FSB and the Russian government. We have been closely observing the area for the past two weeks and there has been significant activity along the road that links the town of Plesetsky to the laboratory. Vlad Robalesk has been identified twice, along with several other significant players. This is certainly an indication that something of great interest has recently arrived at the mine.

  ‘The surveillance photography, if you don’t mind,’ Sumners asked the operations officer.

  Several grainy photographs appeared in layers on the screen. They were of a sedan driving along a road covered in snow. The photo zoomed in to reveal a figure seated in the back. It was difficult at first to identify him but as the pixels adjusted his features became clearer. Other similar images appeared, a time-line shot of the same vehicle moving along the road.

  ‘A close examination of the photographs confirms it is indeed our man Binning. These photographs were taken eleven days ago. The Inessa arrived in Sevastopol two days before. One might be allowed to assume that Binning was on board. A day of debriefing and then to work. I think it’s also safe to assume that Binning has not only provided them with the tile but that he also has a new employer.’

  Sumners took another moment to allow the information to be digested.

  Stratton was already thinking ahead to what the operation might be.

  ‘We currently have a surveillance operative in the area, the person responsible for the photographs. Binning appears to commute to the town of Plesetsky where he is staying in a house. He doesn’t travel every day. Sometimes he overnights at the mine. We don’t know how long these circumstances will continue. Therefore it has been decided that we should act as soon as possible.

  ‘And so,’ Sumners expressed with theatrical fatigue, as if he had finally reached the point of his presentation. ‘The operation. You will of course present the details but while I’m here I’ll provide the general outline. We are going to pay Mr Binning a visit. We are going to find out where our tile is. We are going to find out as much as we can from Binning about the operation, the players, et cetera, et cetera. And then we are going to terminate Mr Binning.’ Sumners looked directly at Stratton as he said it.

  A phone console buzzed and displayed a flashing red light. Mike quickly answered it. ‘Okay,’ he said before replacing the receiver. ‘Your guest has arrived,’ he said to Sumners.

  ‘You can bring him down.’

  Mike excused himself from the briefing.

  ‘The task is being offered to you, Stratton,’ Sumners said, examining the screen without looking at him. ‘I assume you will take it and do a good job. I think you owe us that much.’

  Stratton didn’t respond immediately, not even with his facial expression. His crime as he saw it had been to use government property to try to rescue an old friend. He’d do it again if he had to. Binning stealing the tile and everything else had nothing to do with him. Sumners had chosen to put it in a manner that suited his own mean streak. He was being a prick as usual, and this time for an audience. Yet Stratton realised his own suitability for the operation. For a number of reasons. He knew Binning for a start. Bringing in other players would only increase the number of people who knew about it. This entire affair had to be kept as secret as possible. Yet somewhere within him he knew that wasn’t enough. There had to be something else, some other, more substantial reason why he had been selected. He couldn’t think of it at that moment. He might never know. But of course he would do the op. In fact, he was looking forward to it. As usual Sumners was trying to wind him up and Stratton would not dignify the attempt with any sort of reaction.

  But Sumners wasn’t finished yet. He had his little ace to play. ‘You won’t be going alone, of course. I need someone to keep an eye on you.’ The MI6 man looked towards the back of the room, waiting for the visitor to arrive. As he did so Mike stepped through the black curtains and Jason Mansfield walked in behind him. There was an air of authority about him.

  Stratton looked around and could not believe his eyes. He looked at the CO for a reaction. The man was far too professional to give him one.

  Stratton’s head was filled with questions that he couldn’t ask. Dominated by one in particular: what was a civilian with no experience in this kind of operation doing here? Yet it was pointless to complain. The decision had been made at a very high level. This was an extremely sensitive operation with many potential repercussions if it went wrong. He decided to keep his mouth shut and wait for the rest of the briefing.

  Jason came over to Stratton, wearing that same supercilious smile he’d worn when they’d first met. It was as if he had been cleansed of the past and everything was the same between them. ‘Good to see you again, Stratton. You all healed up?’

  Stratton remained sitting and looked up at the man. ‘I’m fine,’ he replied dryly.

  Jason leaned down and spoke softly. ‘You don’t look pleased to see me.’ He stood upright and said, as if for the room’s benefit, ‘Hopefully this won’t be as vigorous as our last adventure. ’

  The man was talking like he’d been doing it for years and that they were old operational buddies.

  ‘This is the SBS CO,’ Sumners said.

  Jason took the CO’s hand and shook it. ‘Good to meet you. I’ve been looking forward to visiting Poole for such a long time and to meet the people who play with the toys I make.’

  Stratton cringed. Any positive feelings he’d developed about the man after his actions on the platform withered.

  ‘Have they sorted you out a room in the mess?’ the CO asked.

  ‘Yes, thanks. Very comfortable.’

  ‘Good. Right, then. Shall we get on with the detailed briefing? You both have an early start tomorrow and we’ve got a lot to cover.’

  ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Sumners said. He took a black woollen overcoat off the back of a chair and pulled it on. ‘Don’t be offended if I don’t wish you luck, Jason.’ He wrapped a scarf around his neck. ‘I never do. Don’t believe in it . . . which is something of a surprise after witnessing Stratton’s activities all these years.’

  Jason made a poor effort of trying not to smirk, as if he was in the know.

  Sumners nodded farewell to the CO and ops officer and headed for the curtains. Mike escorted him out.

  The CO leaned close to Stratton. ‘You have my sympathy,’ he whispered. The comment had a calming effect, no doubt its intention
.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ announced the operations officer. ‘If you would like to be seated, we will proceed.’

  Jason sat beside Stratton and took a notebook from a pocket.

  The ops officer saw him scribble a couple of lines on a page. ‘You can take notes of the briefing, Mr Mansfield, but nothing leaves this room.’

  ‘I fully understand, Captain,’ Jason said, with barely a glance at the officer. ‘I have a photographic memory. All I need do is write down the relevant data and then I can immediately dispense with it.’

  Stratton glanced round at Mike who had returned in time to hear the comment. The sergeant major grinned broadly at his friend, knowing how painful this was for him. He pointed to Jason and gave the thumbs-up, mouthing the comment ‘Top man.’ He then pointed to Stratton and mimicked a wanking motion.

  Stratton faced the front. He felt inclined to agree with his old friend concerning the latter gesture.

  14

  Stratton sat in the train, looking out of its window as it clattered through a vast countryside, the view an endless portrait of winter, black leafless trees and hedges the only contrast to a frozen white backdrop. Long icicles, pointing at steep angles towards the back of the train, had formed along the outside edge of the glass. The flat and featureless land stretched to the horizon, punctuated occasionally by small rustic villages on one side or the other, some like cosy straw hamlets while others were more modern, concrete and drab. Passing through one small town, Stratton saw a man standing in the road with a goat on a leash. The man watched the train. He looked cold and hungry. It all seemed so isolated and vacant. So many miles of empty and seemingly untouched land.

  He had been staring outside for hours and his eyes began to ache. He looked back inside the carriage. It was the image of uncomfortable sparseness, communist-inspired, as if nothing had changed since the fall of the Wall a couple of decades earlier. Short, stubby icicles hung from the centre of the ceiling along the length of the long carriage. A handful of people occupied the pewlike bench seats, each of them silent and unsmiling. A man snored intermittently in the row beyond Stratton’s, an empty vodka bottle in his hands, although he could hardly be heard above the clatter of the wheels. He had joined the train at Moscow with a full litre and within an hour had drunk it and fallen unconscious. He wasn’t the only heavy drinker on the train. Boozing seemed to be a national pastime.

  Jason sat across from Stratton, in the corner, staring out of the opposite window. He had kept to himself since they’d caught the plane at Heathrow. Stratton assumed it was a reaction to being ignored since they’d left Poole. But then halfway through the flight he had leaned over and quietly apologised for his stand-offishness and explained why he’d been aloof. Jason had done some kind of one-day MI6 course on travel security as preparation. He had learned how best to act when travelling in potentially hostile environments. Stratton knew what such courses consisted of. They were pretty much advice for beginners - comprehensive but common sense and rather obvious to someone at Stratton’s level. He had on occasion been asked to instruct MI6 and MI5, teaching various operational procedure lessons. Jason would have done the usual hotel, office and home security course. He might have sat through a presentation on anti-surveillance techniques by foot and by vehicle: how to detect if he was being being followed, how to prove it, and what to do and what not to do about it. The man had clearly absorbed it all and was living the role. All he needed now was the experience.

  When they’d landed in Moscow his arrogance had extended to taking over the travel procedures by suggesting they move separately. It was as if Stratton had never done it before and Jason had become his mentor. They kept apart the whole time after that, except when Stratton had climbed into a taxi at the airport. Jason began some kind of pantomime for the sake of the taxi driver, asking Stratton if he minded sharing the cab. Jason said he’d overheard that Stratton was going to the railway station, which also happened to be his own destination. Stratton found himself shaking his head - mentally, at least - on more than one occasion.

  After that they had separated again. Stratton didn’t say a negative word about it. The separation procedures suited him perfectly. He had been wondering how he was going to ignore the other man as much as possible throughout the operation and to his relief Mansfield had come up with the solution himself. Sitting opposite each other in silence on the day-long train journey across a big stretch of Russia was apparently acceptable.

  Stratton felt curious about one thing that Jason probably knew about: Rowena. Considering that she was technically a member of the British military and was now more than likely being held captive in Russia, it seemed to him that very little action was being taken to resolve the issue. Then perhaps there wasn’t much that could be done about it. The Russians couldn’t admit to having her without admitting their involvement in everything else. And then coming up with a sound enough reason for keeping her was equally complicated. Stratton had found her to be a most irritating, cold and obnoxious bitch, but by the time they had climbed the platform he had developed a degree of admiration for her. She’d had no doubts about the dangers but she’d gone anyway. But if she hadn’t done it because of Jason and her relationship with him, why had she gone along? It niggled him. He did not sense the same level of loyalty in Jason. He wanted to understand some things a little deeper and perhaps Jason had answers.

  ‘You’ve not mentioned Rowena,’ Stratton said. They were the first words he had spoken to Jason in half a day.

  Jason looked at him as if his mind had been on another planet and was scrambling to come back down to earth. ‘I think of her all the time,’ he replied eventually, looking away. ‘I was thinking of her just then. Between you and me, we were quite close. Personal relationships in MI16 are frowned upon. But I knew Rowena long before I came to the organisation.

  ‘We first met in Oxford.You think she was strong-headed when you met her. She was even worse then. And I gather that was an improvement on how she’d been as a teenager . . . Rowena was adopted. I don’t know anything about her natural parents. She walked out of the house when she was fourteen to join some kind of intellectual commune in Canada. She told me she was bored, not stimulated. In short, her adoptive parents were too thick.’ Jason chuckled at the thought.

  ‘We didn’t see each other in college, not in any kind of carnal way. She didn’t like me very much then. She said she did but I didn’t believe her. She was - is - a brilliant physicist. Being beautiful and brilliant she needed to be headstrong. No one ignored her, that’s for sure. She got her doctorate at Princeton and then flitted around a few places. An audio-electronics company in Japan for a few months. Then NASA for a year. Got bored there, too. Then she did something completely radical and joined MI5 - a fast track to some undercover surveillance unit that operates in places like Iraq and Afghanistan. She completed the selection and training course but didn’t join the ranks. Someone up top recognised her potential and had her transferred to MI16. I suspect it was Jervis. She’s never talked about that to me. I read it in her file. I think she wanted to join that unit because she had something to prove, not to anyone else but to herself. But she never got the chance. I think that’s why she came on the platform operation even though she didn’t approve. I have a strong feeling she’s fine and well and will return safely home.’

  ‘Based on what?’

  ‘Intuition. I’m rather keen on mine.’

  Stratton could have guessed as much. ‘I need a wee,’ he said, getting to his feet. The uncomfortable seats felt cold and he wanted to stretch his legs to warm up a little - the icy air had a way of finding his joints. He was well dressed against the cold, a good thing too since the carriage was an icebox. He also saw it as an opportunity to take a look at the characters on board. Paranoia was a healthy attitude, particularly in Russia. The two men had entered the country as engineers: Stratton a pipe welder and Jason a designer, naturally. A British pipe-welding company did actually operate on a gas pipeline a few
hundred miles north of Moscow - not where the two men were ultimately heading but the company’s books had been amended to support the cover story. However, the FSB were, by profession, a suspicious lot. Stratton would not have been surprised if they’d been tagged from the airport. The plan had taken such a probability into account, of course. But the more prepared they were, the better.

  He walked along the coach, surreptitiously checking out every individual as he passed them. The unconscious drunk had vomited down his clothes. In the next row a couple sat with three remarkably quiet young children. The low temperature might have had something to do with their silence. An old couple next, sitting huddled together against the cold, woollen scarves wrapped around their heads. A couple of families in another row, eating a communal meal of bread, meat and cheese. And vodka.

  The rest of the carriage was empty except for the second row from the end. Two men sat on opposite sides, one young, the other mature, both dishevelled, shifty-looking. They eyed Stratton, no doubt taking in his comparatively expensive clothing. They didn’t appear to be together but Stratton sensed a common attitude between them. He pegged them more as thugs than secret service.

  At the end of the carriage he could find no toilet. The door at the end had a glass panel in it but he could see nothing through the thick coating of ice. Stratton wondered if he could get into the following carriage. If that had no toilet either, well, he’d have to urinate into the freezing cold outside. He grabbed hold of the door handle and applied some pressure to push it down. Eventually the handle moved but the door wouldn’t open. It was stuck solid.

  He pulled on a pair of gloves and, gripping the handle with both hands, put his weight into it. He leaned back, raised a foot up onto the frame and gave it a powerful shove. The door cracked open and the freezing air ripped inside. Stratton looked back but no one had leaned into the aisle to investigate. It was something they were no doubt used to.