I was woken by a knock on the door.
‘Mr Bell?’
It was the receptionist. When I opened the door she stepped aside and a team of four men pushed their way in, forcing me back into the room and closing the door again.
‘Take a seat,’ one man said, in English. He wore a suit and holster beneath a grey winter coat. He gestured at the bed. There was another plain-clothes officer and two uniformed police as backup. One radioed confirmation that I was here and they were in.
No badges or warrants shown. The senior officer was tall, the long coat accentuating his height. He had paperwork in his hand: documents from the car-hire company.
‘Mr Toby Bell?’
‘That’s right. What’s going on?’
‘When did you arrive in Kazakhstan?’
‘Saturday afternoon.’
‘Passport and visa, please.’
I gave him my passport and visa. He checked these while his colleagues checked the cupboards, moved the curtains, peered inside the bathroom.
‘What are you looking for?’ I asked. They ignored me.
‘The nature of your business in this country?’ the senior officer said.
‘Why? What am I meant to have done?’
‘You have hired a car?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you been to Malakhov Street while you’ve been here?’
‘No.’
‘Would you unlock the safe please?’
I unlocked the safe and stepped back while he sifted its contents. Then he straightened.
‘Get dressed. You come with us, please. It is necessary that we ask you some questions.’
‘About what? What’s going on?’
‘Quickly. Then this will all be over.’
I dressed smartly, knotting a tie. The younger of the suited men took my passport and the key fob for the Hyundai. They led me downstairs to a black Audi with police lights on the roof. I was squeezed in between the uniformed officers.
‘Where are we going?’
No answer. We drove north, the rising sun reflecting off the snow and glass, turning the city into fire. After fifteen minutes we arrived at an anonymous, new-looking building, four floors with bars on the lower windows. No state vehicles parked visibly outside, none of the aerials or antennae you’d expect on a police station.
I stepped out of the car. Ten metres of drive led to a narrow, bomb-proof door, with electronic barriers visible inside. Two men in black uniforms stood beside it. It looked like somewhere you went in rather than out. I felt the first stab of real fear. If I was going to run, it was now or never.
Six men against me, at least three carrying small arms, two that looked like they had some pace. Most stood to my left, between me and a six-lane road. Best option would be running towards them – past them – which was counter-intuitive therefore surprising; it meant they’d have to turn, with a complicated backdrop for sighting weapons, plus each other getting in the way. We were still in a public space, and these men were trained, which was sometimes a help: it meant they calculated, and that could slow you down.
There are always worse options than running. I would have the cover of two Land Rovers and then the corner of a building in approximately four seconds. Against a .22 or a .38 from a pistol, a car is going to be an adequate block. But once you start running you can’t stop. That was game over. I felt a step closer to finding what I came for in the first place. And I don’t really do running while being shot at.
The bomb-proof door led into a tiny security room lined with thick bullet-proof glass. I was searched with cold efficiency. My bag and phone were taken ‘for security’. Then the officer on reception duty produced a device that looked like an iPad. He told me to press my fingers against the screen.
‘What’s this for?’
‘Records.’
When they had their records I was directed into a corridor, through two sets of doors with swipe entry, each feeling like another layer of soil above my head, into an office. Not the interrogation cell I’d been braced for. The Kazakh flag was in place behind the desk, beneath a framed photograph of the President, who looked like the Dalai Lama compared to the individual sheltering beneath his gaze. He was small, with dark eyes and a dark suit, handkerchief in the breast pocket, which suggested an ominous amount of pleasure in his role. No computer, laptop or mobile visible. The phone on the desk was a corded black Siemens.
I could tell he was senior. I tried to read the room again, noticed one other framed image on the wall: three men in traditional Kazakh clothing above a line of text: If there is no owner of the fire, your motherland will be enveloped in flames.
The man stared at me, tapping the Toby Bell passport against his desk.
I prepared myself mentally. Keep calm. But Toby Bell wouldn’t keep calm, or quiet, and one technique for interrogation scenarios was noise. The more noise you make the fewer questions they can ask, the less chance they have of tripping you up. Outrage was a kind of silence of its own.
‘What the hell is this? I’ve been here less than two days. I have no idea what’s going on, but you’ve arrested a British national for no good reason. I believe your government has close relations with the UK, that a lot of potential investment could be jeopardised if Kazakhstan is seen to intimidate visiting business people at random.’
‘You flew in last week.’ He spoke calmly, in accented English.
‘I flew in two days ago, from Kiev.’
His face was a mask, eyes showing neither doubt nor disappointment.
‘The flight number?’
‘I didn’t memorise it,’ I said. The flight number would be a step closer to tracing me to twenty-four hours in Zagreb, and I wanted to delay that revelation. He established my time of arrival and gave instructions to a man beside the door to go and check it. I wondered if they noticed that I didn’t ask to speak to my embassy.
‘And where were you before?’
‘London.’
‘But you have been in Kazakhstan previously.’
‘Never.’
‘Who do you know here?’
I told him about the meeting with Toreali, then asked who exactly I was talking to. He ignored the question, asked for passwords for my phone and laptop. I refused.
‘Why do you refuse?’
‘Why should I give them to you? I haven’t done anything.’
‘What would we find?’
‘Nothing.’
He asked who I had previously worked for, and then before that, going back years. After a while, as I’d been trained, I just refused, played indignant. I considered making noise about legal representation.
‘When did you begin working for Vectis?’ he said. So he had that much. Not great, but it made me quantifiable at least.
‘I don’t know any Vectis.’
‘Saracen?’
‘The oil company? I’ve got nothing to do with Saracen.’
He nodded as if he’d expected this disappointment, nodded to one of the guards. I was lifted up and removed from the room. Then things turned nasty. My hands were cuffed behind my back. We reached the top of steep concrete stairs down into darkness. Someone tripped me and caught me before I fell.
‘Be careful.’
‘Get the fuck off me.’
I felt the rising panic of powerlessness. Then I was slammed face first into the wall. Blood began to trickle into my mouth. The front of my skull throbbed, but I hadn’t blacked out.
‘Next time you fall down them.’ One man turned me around and the other punched me hard in the stomach. I dropped to my knees, winded. There was a voice close to my ear.
‘You think anyone knows you’re here?’
It was a good question. The Lion Hotel’s sleepy receptionist had some awareness of my predicament. Callum Walker knew I was in Astana; he didn’t strike me as someone who’d make much noise in the event of my disappearance. Hugh Stevenson might raise the alarm after a week or two. Was I about to find out how Joanna had van
ished? About twelve people had witnessed me in the hands of the Kazakh state, and not one of them would remember if they were told not to.
I was uncuffed, given a wad of blue hand towels and taken back to the office. My interrogator hadn’t moved, only the papers on the desk had been rearranged.
‘You are sabotaging our country. You come here and bring trouble with you. We are peaceful and you create war.’
I shook my head and staunched the blood.
‘You think there is no law here?’ he asked.
‘I’ve been in this country less than two days.’
‘We know who you are, what you are doing here.’
‘Apparently not.’
He opened a file and pushed a printout towards me, a poor-quality image of a man walking between a dusty Mercedes and a residential building with steps and an intercom. It took me a few seconds to think where I’d seen him before. It was the man with me in the fake clip. Here, he wore an open-necked shirt and sunglasses.
I tried to see the paperwork that came with it: Catalyst in Astana? It was MI6 paperwork, apparently intercepted and now stamped with the crest of Kazakh Anti-Terrorism. I knew that their anti-terrorism was run by a man called Rakim Zhaparov. His name came up in debates over the use of intelligence produced during torture. Identifying him wasn’t entirely comforting.
‘What is this meant to mean?’ I asked. ‘Who is he? Why do you think I know him?’
Zhaparov nodded to someone standing behind my right shoulder. A few seconds later a device pressed to my ear. There was a beep and then it felt like a nail gun had fired into my brain. I fell off the seat, temporarily blinded, arms wrapped around my head. Before I could recover, I was picked up and sat back down, ears ringing. I felt sick, and registered the beginnings of dread. What was that device? What kind of long-term effects were we looking at? I really didn’t want to emerge from this mentally degraded.
‘Tell us what you’re doing here.’
‘You’ve just got yourself in a lot of trouble.’ My voice came out weakly.
‘No, I think you really don’t understand who is in trouble.’
I felt the electricity souring my muscles. Everyone has a breaking point, no matter how distant. What did I have to give them, even if I wanted to? What did they want?
The guards lifted me up, one on each arm.
‘Have a think,’ Zhaparov said. ‘See if you remember.’
The doors at basement level were battleship grey with magnetic acoustic seals. The air was freezing. I was pushed into a cell, five metres by five, with a wooden bench along the back wall, uncuffed.
‘Your clothes.’
‘Fuck off.’
‘Then I’m sure you don’t mind if we undress you.’
They had restraint equipment – ankle cuffs, fabric restraints, stun belt. Four men, with more behind them. I undressed. They gave me a grey tracksuit, then someone threw a bucket of water over me.
‘You have a right to be washed.’ The door slammed shut on their laughter. I started shivering uncontrollably. I took the top off and used it to dry myself as much as possible. I tried to keep moving, heart pumping, brain working. I didn’t have long before hypothermia set in. Options: I play along, giving fake information, buy myself time. Or I wait it out. They didn’t want me dead. If they knew who I was, I’d be too valuable. If they didn’t, they might be under the impression someone would care. I could try to scare them with suggestions of Toby Bell’s own importance. I knew enough about government and the diplomatic service – maybe get the embassy involved after all. Who knew where that would lead? The next flight back to London, most probably.
The door opened three times in the next hour. Once was a cursory check by the guards, once I was given a polystyrene cup of milky coffee. The next visitor was a man with a Russian accent. He had a goatee, black hair swept back so strands fell around his face, an expensive-looking cashmere coat. He saw me, shook his head and swore at the guards.
‘Get him a towel and dry clothes.’
The guards looked disgruntled. A rancid towel was tossed at my face, then my clothes were returned.
‘Come on,’ my visitor said. ‘Let’s get you out of here.’
TWENTY-THREE
I wasn’t in a position to say no. He led me back to reception, where I signed paperwork that declared my treatment at the hands of the security services had been impeccable. My other possessions were returned. A lot of men watched us leave; I had become quite an attraction.
‘Animals,’ my companion muttered.
He led me to a dark grey Land Rover with a suited driver at the wheel.
‘Are you okay?’ he asked.
‘I’ve been better. Who are you?’
‘My name is Sergei Cherenkov. Please, get in.’ His English was good. The vowels suggested time living in an English-speaking country, maybe some education there. Our driver was thick-necked, shaven-headed.
‘Where are we going?’
‘Let’s get some breakfast,’ Cherenkov said.
We drove to a café with no lights on, but my companion appeared to know it would be open. The driver stayed in the car. The café owner turned the lights on for us. Cherenkov ordered teas.
‘You drink tea, no?’ He took a cigarette from a packet of Kent, looked around for an ashtray. The health warning on the pack was in Arabic. He wore rings on each hand.
‘What the hell is this about?’ I said.
‘I work on cultural matters with the Russian embassy. I know Dimash Toreali. Did he show you the Palace of Peace and Reconciliation? I was advising him on an opera he wants to put on there. To sponsor.’
‘And?’
‘I was trying to get in touch with you, at your hotel. They said you’d been taken. It took me an hour to find out where you were.’
Toreali didn’t know where I was staying, but I let this slide. Cherenkov was Russian intel – he could have surveillance on me or on the people who’d arrested me.
‘What did they want?’ he asked. ‘Your captors.’
‘I’ve no idea.’
The teas arrived with a glass ashtray. Cherenkov looked at them with an air of dissatisfaction. He browsed the menu.
‘Would you like some eggs? An omelette?’
‘No.’
He ordered himself some eggs. As well as the rings he wore leather bracelets on his left wrist, over a smudged tattoo.
‘I am not happy at the way they treated you. They are basic, Kazakhs. They think you connect to a murder. I can see you are not a murderer. Could your embassy not help? Where are they?’
‘I’ve no idea. I’m here on business, not diplomatic duties.’
‘And what is the business?’
‘I’m looking into some investment opportunities.’
He nodded, sipped his tea. Eventually he said, ‘What if we said we knew where she was?’ He met my eyes. His were bright. Then he looked away again, as if embarrassed.
I forced myself to say, ‘Who?’
‘We don’t. No one does, it seems. But what if we found out?’
‘What do you want?’
Cherenkov scratched his goatee.
‘Building D,’ he said. ‘Shefford. I would like you to give me a glimpse inside. What has been going on there?’
I was transported briefly back to Bedfordshire. He had created the link I had been looking for, even if it led through unknown terrain. Joanna’s disappearance connected to her earlier work. At the same time, he’d shown me his cards. When you know what your enemy wants, you’re halfway to owning them.
‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,’ I said.
‘You’d let her die rather than helping me.’
‘You’ve got me confused with someone.’
He nodded.
‘The situation is this, Mr Kane: you are in trouble. You need a friend. Not ideal, a Russian friend, but here I am.’
‘I’m leaving now. Don’t try to stop me.’
‘How could we stop you? At the
same time, what are you going to do? I don’t want you to be killed. But I think there are people who will kill you, Elliot. If any more unpleasant circumstances arise, we may not be in a position to do much. Then you will want to help us and it will be too late.’
Cherenkov reached inside his jacket. I checked my exit route, potential cover, potential weapons of my own. He produced a silver case, gave me a business card with the Russian doubleheaded eagle. Dr Sergei Cherenkov, Assistant to the Cultural Attaché, Russian Embassy, Astana.
‘You’re expecting me to work for you?’ I said.
‘In my experience, you’re working for whoever keeps you alive. Help us or leave fast, that is my advice. Give me a call any time. We can find Joanna together.’
‘Joanna who?’
He shook his head sadly. ‘We’ll give you a lift back to your hotel.’
‘I’ll walk.’
‘Wrap up warm.’ The eggs arrived and he spread a napkin on his lap. I left the café, hailed a cab from the next street, took it to the centre of town.
So Russian intelligence wanted to know about Building D. Either Joanna’s previous work had followed her over here, or she never stopped.
Stevenson called.
‘We’ve got a small lead.’
‘What is it?’
‘A codename, issued June 2014. Perfect Vision.’ He waited. ‘Heard of it?’
‘No. It sounds like software, a program of some kind.’
‘That may be the idea. It sounds like software, but it’s a hell of a lot more. Tom Marsh got a lead from an internal directory. I ran the name against what I could. The budget for Perfect Vision is hidden in Requirements and Production, but it’s around seventy million over two years, including the use of Building D in Shefford Park. Building D had 130 members of staff cleared for entry at the peak of the operation last year.’
‘That’s huge.’
‘Huge, maybe compartmentalised. I doubt many of them knew what they were working on.’
‘What kind of staff?’
‘A lot seconded from GCHQ. Others, from what I can tell, were academics – psychologists, an anthropologist, historians; experts in China, Russia, Central Asia. I’ve tried to get hold of them but every single one is incommunicado. It was officially designated a research group, but the security set-up suggests it was operational. It wasn’t just producing papers.’
A Shadow Intelligence Page 16