“Why?” Jane pressed.
“Because you can’t showboat quietly. What’s the point? Sooner or later we’re going to find out where James is because Sahef can’t keep quiet about it.”
Sam, who, as always, had remained quiet throughout the meeting, put up her hand.
“Sam?” Jane gave her the opportunity to say something.
“Is there any chance that they might be trying to convert him? Could we, potentially, lose him?”
Mo continued, “It’s possible. But I reckon in a very low-key way. Make him attend prayers. That sort of thing. There’s always a possibility that he might just become affected by the Stockholm syndrome and convert without being pressed. Who knows what state his mind’s in.”
Sam nodded a “thanks”.
“Anything else?”
Nothing came back from Jane’s question, just a flat hand from Mo.
“OK. Tim. What about the attack on David? Does this sort of approach ring any bells from your days on the other side of the Iron Curtain?”
Tim puffed himself up a bit.
“The KGB, the East German Stasi, the Hungarian AVH, and the Polish SB have all used ricin to murder opponents when the target needed to be eliminated without being brought in for questioning. Or where they’ve wanted the hit to be undertaken at a distance. Put air between them and the murder.” Tim used his hands to demonstrate a gap. “Ricin is reasonably easy to manufacture and contain, but it will kill you if you ingest, or get injected with, just two milligrams. To be clear, a normal paracetamol tablet is five hundred milligrams.”
“And remind us where it comes from?”
“It’s made from seeds of the castor oil plant. Simple as that. My understanding is that Porton Down might have developed an antidote, but it’s never been tested on a human.” Tim was enjoying himself.
“And Clostridium botulinum?”
“It’s botulism. A bacteria found in some foods, but never normally in its most deadly form. It doesn’t last long outside of a donor and cannot survive at temperatures greater than one hundred degrees. In a reasonable dose, it’s the most dangerous toxin in the world.”
Tim paused for a second, looking around the table. “Combining the two has the advantage of keeping the lethality of Clostridium botulinum, whilst mixing in the fairly swift effect that ricin has on the body. As a compound, it is also very difficult to separate and very confusing to a toxicologist. I’m not surprised it’s taken the quacks this long to establish a cause. However, and this is key, I was in the Berlin Embassy for six years, and I have only heard of the combined compound being used twice before. Both cases were in the early eighties. And both were used to murder political opponents in East Germany—at the hands of the Stasi.”
Sam let out an involuntary snort on hearing the word Stasi for a second time in under a minute.
“Sam? You OK?”
“Sure, Jane. Thanks. Just got something caught.” She tapped her throat with her hand.
“So, Tim. Can you dig deeper and see what you can find out about how the compound might have made its way to Westminster Bridge? All the usual: delivery method; transit; setup; likely protagonists; backing et cetera. We’re calling this Operation Umbrella. It’s hardly original, but at least it paints a picture.”
“Sure. Will do, Jane. Thanks.”
Jane ran around the houses at that point. Sam had something on the tasking of new satellite images, which Jane agreed with some negotiation among the group, but there was little else. After that, she quickly brought the meeting to a close.
She was the first out of the room. Time was precious. She really needed to do what David used to do. Find a moment and a couple of blank sheets of paper, step back, and try to visualise both operations: Glasshouse and, now, Umbrella.
She knew she was far too deep in the details. She needed to lift herself out of the tactical and start to work at an operational level. She would do that now and blow the consequences to her burgeoning in-tray.
The Royal College of Music, Prince Consort Lane, London
Wolfgang did love the College, and it was good to be back inside the old red-and-white building, its facade very similar to that of the Catholic Westminster Cathedral. Here, of course, the god was music. Absolute reverence was paid to it in that regard. It made him smile to think that Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber and Mika were both alumni of the College. That was the beauty of the place. Music was music, whatever the genre. Classical to pop.
He still had his entry swipe card. Just before he’d left four years ago, on one of his many forays onto the College’s mainframe, he’d allocated the card “all area access” and given it a “no runout” date. Getting in had been easy. Thankfully, nobody recognised him—yet. For him, today, it wasn’t a security concern. It was that he had too much work to do and didn’t have time for pleasantries. Not now.
Sam had left the apartment well before him. She had managed to get from her bedroom to the bathroom wearing just a simple nightdress, without being bothered that he was snoring away on her couch. To be accurate, he did have one eye on her as she came back out, still in her nightie. She wasn’t Claudia Schiffer, but she really did look after herself. Bright, resourceful, and fit? He was glad she was on his side.
Maybe when this is all over? Would he ask? And might she refuse?
They had agreed that if she found time today, Sam would do some more investigation into Herr Bischoff. Importantly, she would aim to leave the office at 5.00 p.m. on the dot. She had taken her overnight gear, so she could travel straight to whichever airport Wolfgang had chosen for them to fly from.
He would lock up the apartment and turn his telephone on every hour for five minutes, so they could communicate. He’d decide on the weekend’s itinerary and book the necessary flights. She had given him strict instruction that she needed to be back in the apartment no later than midnight on Sunday. She was always very clear, but not necessarily in a bossy way. Just very military. Something that no longer surprised him, as the one thing he had uncovered last night was that Sam Green was an ex-sergeant in the British Army’s Intelligence Corps.
Impressive. If slightly scary.
He had a mental list of things he needed to get done at the College: book flights and car hire; try to establish an exact location in New York for the three e-mail addresses his electronic “open and grab” had managed to secure from the other night; and reinterrogate the Lattice, to establish if there were other individuals on the manifests who might have been involved in energy industries.
But at the top of his list was his mother. He’d already phoned her. The cover story was that he’d read somewhere of a new wave of kidnapping and extortion, targeting the rich in southern Germany and Austria.
“Have you heard about it, mother?’
“No, dear. Do you think I should be concerned?’
“Yes, of course! And please speak to Inspector Danzig. You gift enough money to the polizei’s annual fundraising. He would be delighted to pay a little bit more attention to the countess, I’m sure.” Wolfgang played to his mother’s gentle vanity.
“Do you really think so?”
“Yes. And please text me when you have spoken to him. Do it today, Mother. Please?”
“Yes, of course, Wolfgang. If you insist.”
“And brief Klaus to be extra vigilant around the house, especially when locking up at night.”
His mother sighed, a wistful, motherly sigh. “Of course, Wolfgang. Of course.”
He was delighted when he put his phone on at eleven to find that she had already texted him back to say that she’d spoken to the inspector.
Wolfgang wasn’t sure how credible the threat was, or how much him digging deeper would endanger himself and those he loved. It all seemed so unreal. In a matter of days, the situation had transformed itself from interesting hobby to life-threatening spy thriller.
He was confident that his father wouldn’t have stood idly by. So neither will I.
He was on one of th
e College library’s computers, thankful that they hadn’t moved the furniture around since he had left. As a result, he was able to sit at the only monitor that was hidden behind bookshelves and a poster screen. If anyone interrupted him, he’d be able to clear the monitor before someone could be nosy.
Using the College machine, he accessed his servers in Munich and got to work.
SIS Headquarters, Vauxhall, London
First thing—and she had been at work very early—Sam had looked through all of the “open” and “closed” source images from Saudi and Yemen, but she found nothing of consequence. She had come to realise that the net they had thrown wasn’t wide or deep enough to guarantee finding Captain Tony James. OK, they had eyes on the Sana’a safe house. GCHQ, with support from the Americans, had gotten much of Yemen covered for mobile traffic. They had also physically tapped the safe house in Sana’a. And their agents and informers in Yemen were sniffing around, looking and waiting for titbits of intel.
The problem was they didn’t have anyone within Ali Abdullah Sahef’s inner circle. Reports from Tim and Justin suggested that they were trying, but they hadn’t been able to get their hands on an informer. Tim was pressing the team in Yemen, but Daesh were very good at allegiances. Apparently they regularly murdered members of their team to keep everyone on their toes.
It wasn’t worth snitching on Sahef.
Mo Alfari’s point, that sooner or later Sahef’s boasting about “owning” Captain James would pop up as an opportunity, was all well and good. But it was hardly proactive. So, Sam had attended this morning’s Glasshouse meeting with a new request: to spread the keyhole imaging wider, to include seven hamlets she had identified in Yemen.
“Where did these come from, Sam?” Jane had asked. The rest of the Glasshouse team members were looking at Sam as though she had spoken out of turn.
“There is no direct intelligence linking any of these with Sahef,” Sam replied confidently.
Tim let out a derisory snort.
Sam pressed on. “But there is some logic. I assumed that Daesh deserted the Hajjah compound at one thirty, just after the Saudi SF attacked their targets. It gets light at six thirty, and I guessed that Sahef wouldn’t want to be driving in daylight with the SRR hostages on board. Based on an average speed of twenty clicks an hour—the maximum anyone could possibly drive on these Yemini roads and tracks—and heading south, or southeast, toward Sana’a, these seven come into range. As I’ve said, it’s logic, not intelligence, based.”
“But there could be seven more?”
“Actually there are at least twenty-nine more. I used Google Earth. I narrowed it down to just seven by ensuring there were hills close by, but not mountains—to match the execution video shoot. I then discounted anything as large as a village, where Sahef’s influence might not be able to spread as wide as the whole population. Hence, the shortlist of these seven hamlets within ninety clicks of Hajjah, where the topography looks like the execution video. I can produce a slideshow brief if that would help.”
“No, no, Sam. That won’t be necessary.” Jane looked down at her tablet. She seemed to type something. She lifted her head back up again and looked directly at the analyst. “You understand, Sam, that if we target these with the level of satellite imaging you’d need, it will eat into the one hundred and fifty thousand pounds that’s just been allocated to widen the informant network in Sana’a. We’re talking of maybe reducing that total by as much as forty thousand pounds.”
“How much useful intel have we had over the past three months from Daesh informants in Yemen?” Sam was on a mission. She knew the answer was none. Even the intel on the original SRR-overwatched terrorist training camp had come from US sources.
Jane looked across at Tim and Justin.
“Justin? It’s a fair question.”
Justin looked uncomfortable. He glanced at Tim, who was absently tapping his pen on the notebook in front of him.
“Sam’s right. Our agents are running seven informers in Sana’a and one in Taiz. They’re spread between links to Al-Qaeda, the local rebels, and one in government. The team is finding it impossible to recruit a Daesh man at the moment. Truth is, we may not be able to spend the new money. Although we’d be loath to give it away.”
Jane thought for a moment.
“OK, Sam, you’re on. And, Mike, can you speak to the Doughnut to see if they could target these hamlets for SIGINT? And I’ll liaise with the Americans, reference the imaging. We should, all being well, get our first satellite shots by”—Jane closed her eyes in thought, her head nodding as if counting the hours—“tomorrow morning. But it could take two or three days to get all of it.”
Sam knew she had chanced her arm, but she was tired of waiting for images that, in the case of Tony James, might actually make a difference.
After the Glasshouse meeting, Sam had got straight on with looking at the new “open” source images that Marvin had put on the cloud. She was about halfway through her work when her e-mail box lit up. It was a message from Wolfgang.
She checked her watch: 11.10. So he’d managed to get off the couch, then? She couldn’t help but smile to herself. It had been a very relaxed, but hardly romantic, evening. She was happy with that. It was just great to be doing something outside work—even if it was just like work—with someone different. Someone kind, intelligent, and amusing. Although, she thought, “amusing” should be caveated with “in a German sort of way.”
She smiled again when she thought about how she’d showered and then walked back to her room wearing just her skimpy nightdress. She knew she was in good shape and was pleased that she’d spotted Wolfgang discreetly following her with his eyes, even though he pretended to be asleep.
So the current score was: British spy—one; German count—zero.
She opened up the e-mail.
Hi Sam,
Spoken to Mother. She will look to be more vigilant; she has contacted the police.
We’re booked on BA 136 leaving LHR for MUN at 19.20. Will be in Munich at 20.00. I have booked a hire car. It will take us about an hour and a half to drive to the schloss.
Have also managed to establish the location of one of the three e-mail addresses in NY. I can only get to within one apartment block—I won’t disclose details here. However, click on this web address http://cnn.com/1206.345.45.1. It’s all very interesting.
Am now looking over the Lattice to widen the search for energy moguls among the list. I should be closer to that when we meet later.
Have you got any timings?
Wolfgang xxx
Sam clicked on the link and was taken straight to a recently archived CNN clip: a reporter was standing outside of a New York apartment block. She pressed “Play.” The clip concerned the apparent suicide of a British man. He’d hung himself from the ceiling of a reasonable-size office, an office that the presenter was pointing to over her shoulder. Sam guessed the block was the same one associated with the e-mail account that Wolfgang had hacked, otherwise why would he have sent it to her. The reporter went on to say that what was odd about the whole affair was that the office was devoid of all furniture and equipment. There was nothing at all in the room other than a single chair. It had been apparently been knocked over to enable the man to hang himself. The police’s initial thoughts tended to suicide, but they couldn’t comment until after the postmortem and inquest.
Could it be that this was all linked? The threatening note, the arson of Wolfgang’s apartment, and now the apparent suicide of a British man in slightly macabre circumstances in New York? Oh, and David’s attack. The comment this morning by Tim, that the only organisation he knew with links to a Clostridium botulinum/ricin concoction was the Stasi—the same organisation Herr Bischoff originally worked for.
There were too many similar threads for all of them to be coincidences. Surely?
She replied to Wolfgang along the lines of “interesting video clip” and told him she would meet him in Terminal 1 at six fifteen. Al
l being well.
She had run out of Yemeni images to look at, but she was expecting some more just after lunch. She should have moved on to Ukraine—there was still work to do there. Jane had a key report to put together for the chief by the middle of next week. And they needed to identify a couple more Russian soldiers among the rebels’ ranks to fully expose Russian Army involvement in Eastern Ukraine. But that could wait. Just for a bit.
She accessed an area of the cloud that she didn’t normally need to look at: right-wing disturbances: Germany.
In the folder there were a hundred and seventy-five images and sixteen video clips. SIS had little interest in this murky area of German politics but kept some useful information just in case.
Sam looked at her watch. It was 12.05. Twenty-five minutes and then off to the gym for a session.
Here goes.
She started with the video clips that were taken around the time that Bischoff was cautioned. They were hopeless. Poorly shot. She discounted them for now. She looked at the photos. She was able to flip through at about one every five seconds, stopping here and there to mark a photo. After five minutes she had reduced the images to just five that she thought might be relevant.
She was looking for a medium-built man with Bischoff’s face, lurking somewhere in the crowd. The problem was that all those who looked menacing had their noses and mouths covered with a scarf or were wearing hoodies that threw shadows over their foreheads and eyes.
But, in her chosen five images, Sam found him. She thought. The second image provided the initial “spot.” It was the rubbish blue-and-white Nike sneakers that she’d caught sight of in Wolfgang’s flat that grabbed her attention. She looked up at his chin and his mouth. Yes, it was the same man as the Interpol mug shots. Gotcha! Here he was wearing a grey hoodie, sporting a Bayern Munich football team logo on its breast. Now that Sam had him, she was able to refine what she was looking for.
She discounted two of the five photos. But the other three were positives. In the first two photos Bischoff wore the same clothes: the sneakers, the blue jeans, and the grey hoodie. In one of those he wore distinctive brown gloves.
Fuelling the Fire Page 24