A Shadow Intelligence

by Oliver Harris

  I saw a store security guard watching me from the end of the aisle, speaking to two men in GL5 uniforms, then realised they were talking about me. The contractors walked over.

  ‘We’ve been instructed to get you somewhere safe,’ one of them said.

  ‘Where would that be?’

  ‘Everyone’s convening at the Saracen headquarters. We may have to get out of the country.’ He sounded Australian. I said I’d make my own way. They were having none of it. We went out to where a Nissan 4×4 was waiting.

  The guards were silent as we drove, eerily calm behind their shades, the man in the passenger seat cradling a semi-automatic. He looked South East Asian. Inside the vehicle were steel lock boxes for weapons, medibags, an axe affixed to the back of the driver’s seat. There were chemsuits and atropine autoinjectors: antidote for nerve agents.

  ‘Know anything about the patrol boat in the Caspian?’ I asked, to get a reading of them, at least; their tension, their accents. ‘Is this true?’

  ‘We can’t comment on that,’ the driver said.

  ‘Are you guys in the Caspian?’

  ‘No comment.’

  The business district was crawling with riot police, sniffer dogs, busy within the red and blue flashing lights. Only speed, visible weaponry and a uniformed gravitas kept us moving. Piper called again.

  ‘Galina’s conscious. She was still in the hotel when it happened. The bomb went off beside the President.’

  ‘There was a battalion of security at the hotel. How did they get that close?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  We sped up. I was about to ask Piper about the security setup at the hotel, then it occurred to me that GL5 must have been involved somewhere along the line. I said I’d speak to her at the office and hung up. My chauffeurs faced frontwards, unmoving. The doors were centrally locked. I reached down and clicked the release for the hand axe, then checked we were on the correct route. We arrived at the Saracen offices a few minutes later, which didn’t feel like a huge relief. I was hustled past security barriers to the lift where, to my surprise, we went down.

  Doors opened directly onto a bunker office, one half of which was crowded with forty staff. The other half, through a glass partition, was a conference room with a large oval table. Both ends had multiple TVs showing CNN, BBC, Al Jazeera, Russia’s Channel One – plus screens carrying maps and satellite feeds of the various fields. The lift kept chiming, Saracen executives arriving from the party in their evening wear, faded by ash. Medics had set up a small first-aid station in the corner. Piper had a list of names, hammering the phones, checking off all employees and members of the trade delegation who were in the area. Some of the Kazakh staff were crying.

  I went over to a live satellite feed of the Conqueror field and tried to see activity. Nothing, which was ominous in itself. The Sigma battalions were preparing, I felt sure. Piper hung up and came over. Tiny specks of glass glittered in her hair.

  ‘We’ve got a plane on stand-by to evacuate the delegation, soon as we know it’s safe to get there. Trying to get clearance to fly.’

  ‘Where’s Callum?’

  ‘On his way. I just spoke to Galina. Obviously she’s not in a good way psychologically, but her injuries are superficial. She wasn’t at the front when it happened.’

  Through the panic and confusion, the trained officer in me still felt the need to brief those in a position to act.

  ‘There’s no succession plan. There’s nothing to guarantee she ends up in charge.’

  ‘That’s what we’re worried about. This went live a few hours before the bomb.’ Piper showed me a website on her phone: an organisation called Corruption Watch, based in Helsinki, had come into possession of data hacked from Galina’s financial adviser: emails concerning a BVI-registered shell company used to buy a 23-metre yacht and three properties in London. Someone had got footage flying over a mansion: tennis courts and a boating lake, a chain of interconnecting pools, some sports cars and a helipad. The cover was off the pool, furniture out. It had been filmed in summer. Someone had waited for the right moment.

  ‘We can get it onto the second page, at least. That may be all. Same accounts pushing photos of Galina with Carter at the party last night, and a story about Galina wanting to take Kazakhstan into NATO.’

  It was on at least three reputable sites. Her photo was placed beside one of the NATO Secretary-General. It is unlikely the invitation to begin accession talks will appear anytime soon, but the meeting indicates Galina’s willingness to reorient the country her father has steered for so long …

  ‘That one appeared about an hour after the bomb,’ Piper said.

  A lot of Kazakhs had begun demanding free elections: bots, calling out for representation. The Kazakh people deserve to choose! They had memes: ballot boxes with the Kazakh flag on the side and a cartoon of Galina stealing a map of the country behind the backs of grieving citizens.

  ‘Get pictures of Galina injured,’ I said. ‘She’s a hero now. She survived an attempt on her life. Remind people that democracy’s divisive and what we need now is unity. Make it clear that any free elections would be won by Islamists. Point towards Egypt.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘So we’re going to let Galina unite Kazakhstan and steer us through this difficult time. Emphasise that she’s a victim of last night’s attack. Get pictures of her injured face. Everything needs to be about her now. Continuity.’

  ‘We can’t get access to the hospital.’

  ‘They didn’t get access to the party but they’ve got pictures of it. Photoshop something.’

  Politics has two speeds: glacial and crisis. Crisis is a storm in which all the little laws are up in the air, the dice of history tumbling. You have a window before reality congeals again. Hours, sometimes minutes.

  By 3 a.m. they’d managed to assemble all the big names. Those in Kazakhstan stood around a conference table in the corner office. Their London colleagues streamed in on a video screen. I recognised Charlene Hayes, who used to chair the Joint Intelligence Committee. I also recognised John Weston, former British ambassador to NATO and the UN. Walker led with the intel he’d received.

  ‘The President’s dead. That’s confirmed. The bomber’s believed to be Samat Baysufinov – Kazakh, from Shymkent. Twenty-eight years old, no known affiliations.’

  He hadn’t been flagged by the services. Used false papers to hire a Mercedes 220, attached fake diplomatic plates, drove up to the front of the hotel past six hotel security and almost twice as many members of the presidential guard. That was insane, and suggested inside support, which was currently a high-priority line of investigation. Nine minutes to eleven, Baysufinov parked a few metres away from the entrance. The President went downstairs at 11.03.

  Forty-two injured, seventeen dead. If I’d made it downstairs thirty seconds earlier it would have been eighteen.

  ‘Do we have a group responsible?’ Weston asked.

  ‘Not yet.’

  People kept one eye on the TV screens as it hit: Reports coming in of a bomb … Normal broadcasting ceased. Kazakh channels, KTK News and Channel 31, cut to visibly distressed presenters. The President is reported to have been injured …

  Someone had to say it. In the end it was Hayes.

  ‘Who’s going to be giving the green light now, when it comes to Conqueror?’

  ‘It’s not clear.’

  ‘We’re going to have to move carefully,’ Piper said. ‘We know Galina’s been supportive so far. Obviously this will ruffle a lot of feathers. And we don’t want to seem to be taking advantage.’ Something caught in her voice. It sounded wooden. She turned to me. ‘Thoughts?’

  ‘This is going to plunge their economy into crisis,’ I said. ‘That’s our opportunity. Objectively speaking, they need this deal now more than ever. Show them UK investors standing firm. We won’t be cowed, Kazakhstan won’t be cowed.’

  There were nods. I felt like I was watching myself from a distance. Everyone agreed to sp
eak again in an hour. I took Piper aside, removed some of the glass from her hair. She looked at me with a strange smile.

  ‘Toby, are there any aspects of Vectis that I need to know about? What you do, what’s going on?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean aspects of Vectis that I shouldn’t know about.’

  Walker arrived before I could think of an answer.

  ‘Zhaparov is directing pretty much everything, as far as we can tell.’ He had signals intelligence. ‘The head of the Kazakh Defence Force is on his way to the anti-terrorism HQ. There are calls from Zhaparov’s advisers to senior figures in the Kyrgyz, Uzbek and Russian governments, all made less than an hour after the bomb. The calls lasted five to ten minutes, enough to get guarantees, establish details, chains of command.’

  ‘And China?’

  ‘Expressing concern.’

  ‘That’s screaming fire,’ Piper said, as if we hadn’t just had our inconclusive exchange. ‘For Beijing.’

  ‘We have a fairly strong indication that there’s going to be another attack in Astana,’ Walker said.

  ‘What kind of attack?’

  ‘A bomb. That’s all I know.’

  ‘Who’s feeding you this?’

  ‘Reliable sources.’ He wouldn’t say more. I wondered which of his friends in Six were slipping him this information, and why.

  The story hit international news at 5 a.m. Word of an alleged terror attack at an event attended by Kazakhstan’s President … Statements from world leaders scrolled across the screens. Nothing yet from Kyrgyzstan, with its Russian bases. Nothing yet from Tehran. Mass arrests had started under Zhaparov’s instructions. The official Russian statement: Nazarbayev was a pillar of stability in the region and Russia will do everything it can to preserve peace and security for the people of Kazakhstan. Which meant it was ready to invade.

  I logged in to the VKontakte account of Aslan Cherchesov, my Russian seaman, checked his military friends. Leave had been cancelled. I posted: Can’t believe leave’s cancelled. Going to miss my girlfriend’s 21st birthday. Where are you being sent?

  A hush fell across the headquarters. I looked up and saw Zhaparov on the screens. He stood in the lobby of Astana’s Parliament House, surrounded by senior military.

  ‘The President is in a very critical condition. I want the people of Kazakhstan to know, we will stop at nothing to catch those responsible. Nowhere on earth will be safe. They will see what happens when the Kazakh people stand together.’

  Zhaparov declared a state of emergency. Vladislav Vishinsky stood in the crowd behind him. Walker touched my arm.

  ‘Come with me.’

  Was this it? I wondered. Was he leading me to some form of incarceration or worse? I considered running. In the end I pocketed a biro on the way, as a last-ditch form of defence.

  We walked the length of the ground floor to a door that opened into a gym. No cameras. One shaven-headed individual guarding a scratched brown briefcase. The man departed with a nod at Walker. The case sat there beside a rowing machine.

  ‘It’s what he asked for,’ Walker said. ‘There’ll be another million in his designated account if the field’s in GL5 control this time next week.’

  I lifted the case by the handle. It was heavy. I sat on a bench, lifted it onto my lap and slid the locks. The money was portioned into clear bags of several thousand dollars, a mixture of bank-fresh and used notes, both with plain seals.

  ‘I’ve arranged guards,’ Walker said.

  ‘We need to keep it light.’

  ‘I get that. You can appreciate our concern.’

  I called Satayev. He called me back within a few minutes.

  ‘We’re in a position to help,’ I said. ‘We are ready to fight. But people need to hear your government say they are with us.’

  ‘I’ve got what you asked for. I’m not doing this on behalf of the government.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘It’s the truth this time. I need you to know that.’

  I told him how much money I was about to deliver and he relaxed.

  ‘Take it to my colleague.’

  ‘Someone you can trust? This is a big delivery.’

  ‘He is my righthand man. I will give you the address.’

  ‘Go for it.’

  He gave me an address in the Triumph of Astana.

  FIFTY

  Apartment 601. No name. I was told to buzz, say I had a delivery, get the lift straight up.

  Satayev ended the call, and I was left staring across the gym equipment. I was being swept along by something. This was my last chance to escape, I thought, but I knew I was kidding myself. That moment had long passed. I wanted to know what story I was in.

  Walker had arranged a driver. He put a tracker on the case, the size of a memory card. Morbid curiosity kept me moving.

  The dawn was dreamlike and fragile. People huddled at the bus stop in the grey sunrise, looking at phones. There was heavy activity around the government district, tactical vehicles containing special forces driving in. A city in shock. Viewing it through tinted glass didn’t help shake the sense of travelling through a dream. Towards a dream.

  I kept the case on my lap as GL5 drove me there, but that made me self-conscious so I put it on the seat beside me as if it was just another load of paperwork. I had an earpiece that connected to GL5 high command, a discreet microphone on my jacket. The vehicle would be tracked on satellite. None of this helps you feel secure. As a rule I don’t handcuff briefcases to my wrist: it’s blatant, and arms get severed for a lot less than 1.5 million dollars. Still, you never get used to carrying that amount around.

  We turned north. The Triumph appeared. I felt a heavy, sleep-deprived wave of dread. Something was making sense in a way I could only associate with impending death.

  ‘I want to walk in on foot,’ I said, trying to keep some kind of control on the situation.

  He shook his head. ‘That is not possible.’

  We entered the building’s shadow. Barriers for the underground car park sank into the ground and we sped down the ramp towards a lot of high-end vehicles under neon.

  There was a lift in the underground car park, with its own armed guard.

  ‘I think I’ll be okay from here.’

  ‘We’ll stay by the car.’

  The lift took me up to the ground-floor reception where I had to cross the lobby to another set of lifts. These lift doors opened to reveal a gleaming interior of polished brass and mirrored walls. I stepped inside, reflected to infinity – me and 1.5 million dollars rising through the building, asking myself why I was still alive.

  The doors opened on a long corridor, five doors in each direction. Number 601 was the furthest to the left. The beige carpet absorbed all sound.

  I knocked. The door opened. He wasn’t in the dark suit, but it was him – the man in the clip. He wore a white shirt, open at the neck, sleeves rolled up, beltless black suit trousers, leather slip-ons. He glanced at the case.

  ‘Come in.’

  He asked me to take the battery out of my phone. The place was over-carpeted and overheated. I followed the corridor to the room where I had supposedly been filmed.

  It was the same room: same view, same cupboard with mirrored panels. The rug had gone and there was a new sofa: brown where the one in the clip was pale. A TV was on: shots of troops marching. The assassination opens up a Pandora’s box as Russia, China and Turkey contest for control of the region. An emergency summit had been called in Brussels. The first crowds had appeared across Kazakhstan, holding images of Nazarbayev.

  ‘We must be quick,’ he said.

  I glanced up to where a camera might be. I couldn’t see anything, or anywhere you’d hide one. I walked over to the mirror, ran a thumbnail over the crack, then stood back and looked at myself in it. I had the case gripped in my hand.

  ‘Who are you?’ I said.

  ‘A friend of Akan Satayev.’ He watched me curiously.

  ‘I
don’t work with people I don’t know.’

  ‘You don’t need to work with me,’ he said.

  ‘Do you know who I am?’ I asked.

  ‘Akan says you can be trusted.’ The man wanted this over, but was cautious. He didn’t offer a drink. Someone wanted me here, I thought. I checked the view from the window. ‘We don’t have long. Show me what you have.’

  I lifted the case to the coffee table, slipped the locks and nudged it towards him. He checked a couple of the blocks then went and made a call, moving stiffly.

  I looked for papers, post, anything with a name, pressed the pedal of a bin in the corner but it was empty. I picked up a jacket slung over the arm of the sofa and retrieved a receipt for a Visa card in the name of B. Golovkin. Golovkin, if it was him, remained in deep discussion in the kitchen. He spoke in Arabic. I heard the words ‘two hours’ and ‘cleaning up’. I messaged the name to Reza Nikfar, picked up an open laptop beside the table. No folders or documents saved, just news streaming: Turkey had stopped a Russian ship from passing through the Bosphorus Strait. NATO vessels from Spain and Italy were moving towards Georgia. Saudi Arabia had described Kazakhstan as a friend, and any threat to the country’s independence and integrity as unacceptable. There were Chinese troops at Khorgos. The ruble had sunk to 59 per dollar.

  West united in warning to Russia. Territorial integrity is the foundation of international law.

  The man returned and nodded.

  ‘Okay. Now we move forward. Akan will be in touch.’ He took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and tapped one against the box. That was when I saw his fingernails. They were blackened and stunted – where they’d grown back at all. It meant someone had seen fit to remove them at some point. Time spent in the hands of those people explained the care with which he moved, the unblinking eyes. I imagined seeing him through bars, without the suit, in Kabul’s Policharki prison, in Baghdad’s Karrada district hellhole. What else did it explain?

  ‘How long have you lived here?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t live here.’

  I returned to my reflection in the mirror: the bruising, the new coat I’d stolen. You start operations in control, you end up looking like you’re on the run. Reza messaged back: Golovkin = high alert. What do you know? Call me.