Scorpion Trail

by Geoffrey Archer

  ‘If there is time later, we can wisit here,’ Katzfuss gestured.

  The path began as a farm track leading diagonally up a southwest facing slope, terraced with vines. The winter pruning had been done and the plants looked stunted and dead.

  They walked for five minutes. Then the path levelled out and began a gentle descent, the sun, where it pierced the mist, glinting on the river below.

  ‘Okay, gentlemen. I guess we should start our business.’ The CIA man was tense, finding it hard to reconcile the informality of the setting with the seriousness of their purpose.

  Katzfuss glanced round. No one else about, crazy enough to be walking this early.

  ‘You know the agenda,’ Rudi began. ‘As chairman, I think best I report you first about Schwarzes Gold.’

  ‘Thursday’s arrests in Berlin?’ Sanders checked.

  ‘Ja. Exactly. Two Italians caught with four hundred grams of Plutonium 239, which was eighty-five per cent pure.

  ‘As you know, this was a trap by a BfV agent pretending to be from the Middle East. The Italians had Mafia connections in Russia.

  ‘The aim was to learn if such material is possible to buy . . . We know now the answer is yes. And that it came from a Russian laboratory, Chelyabinsk-70. The scientists there have not been paid since last year.

  ‘We don’t know how much can be bought, or if it is enough for a weapon. And the BfV don’t know who wants to buy it – apart from themselves,’ he added wryly.

  ‘Yesterday the Kriminalpolizei made a press conference, and the German government asks Russia to have stronger control over these materials.’

  ‘Sounds like your boys have been having a bit of fun,’ Sanders told him. ‘If MI5 pulled a stunt like that, there would be howls of protest in parliament.’

  ‘I think that same noise is just beginning here . . .’ Katzfuss confessed.

  Jack Kapinsky held out his arm for them to stop. Walking and talking was not his scene.

  ‘Look, let’s discuss this in the van. I’ve had enough scenery. And there’s something big we’ve got to decide on.’

  They turned and walked back the way they’d come.

  ‘And I’ll tell you something,’ Kapinsky continued, ‘when the Russians trade seriously in this stuff, they won’t do it through Germany, particularly after all this high-profile police activity.’

  Back at the Espace, Sanders wrestled with the floor clips and spun the two front seats round to face the rear two. Then he unfolded a small table. Their conference room was ready.

  ‘Now look . . . we have something new on this nuclear business,’ Kapinsky explained.

  He had their full attention.

  ‘First, let me say that in Washington we don’t believe those labs like Chelyabinsk will leak enough material to feed a bomb programme. We don’t believe either that there’s a terrorist organization out there able to make a bomb from the sort of stuff your guys picked up in Berlin, Rudi.’

  They had one of the windows open for ventilation. Far away they heard a tractor start up, and to their right a flock of pigeons took to the air startled at the sound.

  ‘The people chasing Russian plutonium are the same ones who’ve been trying to produce their own stuff for years,’ Kapinsky continued. ‘Iran, Iraq, Libya, to name but three. And what they’ve got their eyes on is all those warheads being taken apart under the disarmament agreements. There are two thousand a year being dismantled, and all that plutonium’s just being put on the shelf. You can’t destroy the stuff. At Nizhnaya-Tura and Svatusk and Penza there’s enough for thousands of bombs.’

  ‘That of course we all know,’ Katzfuss chipped in defensively. ‘And in principle that must be the greatest danger. But in the BND we believe the risk of that material getting on the market is . . .’

  ‘It’s minimal,’ Sanders agreed. ‘Jack, you know that too. The 12th Main Directorate has those places stitched as tight as a duck’s arse. For plutonium to leak from there you would have to have a total breakdown of military authority in Russia. I mean, they’ve plenty of problems, but we’re not seeing anything like that yet.’

  ‘A few days ago, we would have agreed with you . . .’

  Kapinsky’s words floated before them like a mine.

  ‘We’ve just learned that the Iranians think they’ve cracked the problem.’

  ‘C’est incroyable!’ Vaillon spluttered. ‘What source do you ’ave?’

  ‘I don’t know that. Humint of some sort. But it’s grade one.’

  ‘What exactly do you know?’ Sanders asked.

  ‘The Iranians believe they’re in contact with a group of middle-ranking Russian officers who control security at one of the storage sites. They say they can supply twenty kilos of ninety-three per cent Plutonium 239.’

  ‘Jesus wept!’ Sanders breathed.

  ‘I am not the technologue,’ Vaillon ventured. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Sufficient for maybe four bombs . . .’ Katzfuss explained.

  ‘And what is the price?’ Sanders asked.

  ‘One hundred million dollars.’

  ‘The Iranians will never pay that much!’

  ‘Maybe not. But that’s how much the Russians are asking. Foreign bank accounts, the lot.’

  ‘How do they plan to do it? Twenty kilos? That’s a hell of a lot to handle.’

  ‘We don’t know the plan,’ Kapinsky explained. ‘Only that the Iranian who is running the show is due to meet the Russian go-between pretty soon. The Russian has to show a sample to prove it is from a warhead stockpile.’

  ‘Where’s the meeting to be?’ asked the Frenchman.

  ‘That’s the trouble. We don’t know that. Not yet. We think maybe somewhere in the Balkans. Bulgaria, Romania, who knows.’

  The mist had cleared but the sun retreated behind a cloud. Across the valley they could see the first streaks of rain.

  ‘Have you talked to the Russians about this?’ Vaillon asked, uncertain how much co-operation they could expect.

  ‘We’re doing it now,’ Kapinksy answered. ‘I know what they’ll say; that their security measures are as tight as they can be and such a leak of materials is impossible.’

  The tractor they’d heard earlier appeared on the brow of the hill behind them and approached rapidly.

  Katzfuss opened an attaché case and handed them each a small schnapps glass. As the tractor slowed to pass their van, they raised the glasses in a toast to the driver. He mouthed the word Prost!

  When the tractor was gone, the four bunched together again.

  ‘The Iranians have been flirting with nuclear power for thirty years,’ Kapinsky continued. ‘When the Shah had control he launched a thirty billion dollar civil programme that would give him plutonium as a spin off. That idea died when the Mullahs came in. The two plants being built at Bushehr were abandoned, and then in 1987 the Iraqis bombed the shit out of them just to make sure.

  ‘But in eighty-nine, Rafsanjani said Iran couldn’t ignore the reality of nuclear power. He meant military power. Since then they’ve set up a cadre of technicians at the Nuclear Fuel Cycle Research Centre at Isfahan. And they’ve built a secret weapons development centre near the Caspian Sea at Moallem Kelaieh and another in the desert near Yazd.

  ‘Our source is very close to the top. The man who’s made the breakthrough with the Russians is a Dr Akhavi. Speaks Russian and did a year in Gorky in nineteen-ninety.

  ‘Akhavi’s connections are entirely personal. The guys in the Russian military who claim to be willing to supply, know him and no one else in the Iranian hierarchy. He’s the only one they trust.

  ‘Our proposal is this – remove Akhavi from the equation, and the whole deal should collapse.’

  Sanders stroked his chin. He knew what was coming next.

  ‘My people in Washington believe that if some way can be found to stop this trade, we should take it,’ Kapinsky declared. ‘My chief wants us to agree a plan. A plan to eliminate the problem.’

  They all
knew what that meant.

  Murder.

  Something they hadn’t involved themselves in since the Iraqi Supergun affair.

  ‘We’ll need a lot more information,’ Sanders stated blandly. ‘What are you proposing, Jack?’

  ‘We don’t have a proposal. I guess that’s for the four of us to work out. But it seems to me if we eliminate Akhavi and the Russian go-between, we’ve won.’

  ‘For this time,’ Katzfuss commented. ‘As long as there is a market, there will be others.’

  ‘Oh, sure. The long-term solution lies with the Russian military keeping the stuff locked up. We’re just in the business of crisis-management on this one. But the immediate crisis is that Iran looks dangerously close to a deal.’

  They sat in silence for a while, staring out of the windows.

  ‘You trust your source a hundred per cent?’ Sanders asked.

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘But you’ve got nothing from the Russian side?’

  ‘Nope. You neither?’

  The three Europeans shook their heads.

  ‘You think you’ll get notice of when and where this meeting is to take place?’ Sanders queried.

  ‘If we don’t, then we can’t even start anything . . .’ Kapinsky shrugged.

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘Our hope is that we would get maybe two or three days’ warning. What we have to do is set someone up who can move fast. A freelance. Someone who’ll do it without asking why, or who’s paying.’

  ‘Always remembering the Ramblers’ eleventh commandment . . .’ Katzfuss warned.

  Kapinsky frowned, not understanding.

  ‘Thou shalt not get caught . . .’ Sanders explained.

  Five

  Monday 21st March

  London

  THE BREAKFAST NEWS on the television at the Acton boarding house reported more fighting in Bosnia and the death of a French photographer, killed when his Land Rover was hit by an anti-tank rocket.

  Alex expressed some concern but McFee assured him it wasn’t as bad out there as it looked.

  They were leaving early the following morning. McFee was to drive them to Farnham, and leave his car at the warehouse. Then they’d collect the van filled with supplies and be on their way to Dover, the Continent and Bosnia.

  Alex had been introduced to Major Allison on Saturday. The Surrey epicentre of Bosnia Emergency’s activities had been chaotic, but impressive. Stacks of old clothes, tinned food and basic medical supplies being sorted into boxes by a handful of volunteers. The place throbbed with goodwill. Allison had shown Alex photographs of the villages and villagers they’d helped.

  The warehouse was on an industrial estate, deserted at weekends. Alex had never driven anything as large as the former bread van he and McFee were to take to Split.

  McFee, who for some unexplained reason had acquired a Heavy-Goods Vehicle licence when he was younger, showed Alex the ropes.

  ‘By the time we reach Ancona, you’ll be an old hand,’ he’d declared.

  ‘What about a licence?’

  ‘Ach . . . tell them it’s in the post.’

  Less than twenty-four hours to go, and Alex felt far from prepared. He still had to buy that sleeping bag. But first there was a phone call to make.

  The voice at ‘C’ Branch answered at the second ring.

  ‘Ah! So pleased that you called,’ the man wheedled. ‘There’s someone upstairs who’s very keen to talk to you. Says he’s an old friend.’

  Alex’s heart sank.

  Roger Chadwick. It couldn’t be anyone else. It was thanks to Chadwick that he’d spent the last twenty years in hiding. They’d gone to the same school and the man had used that flimsy connection to suck him into his world of betrayal.

  ‘I’m not so sure I want to talk to him,’ Alex growled. Chadwick spelt trouble.

  After a slight acquaintance at school, they’d met again on a nuclear disarmament demo in the sixties, quite by chance. Alex had been marching with Lorna Donohue. Chadwick was a new boy in MI5 then, trying to make a name for himself by spotting the anarchists in CND.

  ‘He’s booked a table at the Monteverdi Restaurant in Church Street Ken for one o’clock today,’ the voice said. ‘Is that all right?’

  ‘Oh, I suppose so,’ Alex sighed, suspiciously.

  ‘He says it really is essential you meet. Says he owes you a lot and has something for you.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Sorry. There’s nothing more. Monteverdi at one. I’ll tell him you’re on?’

  The outside of the restaurant needed a lick of paint. A window box filled with bone-dry earth held the remains of some pelargoniums, cause of death unknown.

  He checked the name sign again, then pushed open the door.

  ‘For one, signor?’ asked a weary waiter, eyeing his casual clothes and marking him down as a tourist.

  ‘No. I’m meeting someone.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Dear boy!’ The shout came from the back of the restaurant. A large, dark-suited figure arose from the gloom, flapping a hand at him.

  Chadwick had put on weight. A good two or three stones heavier than when they’d last met in Belfast.

  ‘Alex! What can I say . . .?’

  He reached out with both hands.

  ‘Roger . . .! It’s been a long time. And you don’t look a day older,’ Alex lied.

  Chadwick’s laugh boomed out. He examined Alex up and down.

  ‘Sorry if I’m a bit scruffy,’ Alex apologized.

  ‘Not at all. But I’m glad you’re having trouble with the waistline too,’ he chortled, patting his gut. ‘The beard suits you, by the way. Gives you the wiry look of a Border terrier. Pulls the birds, does it?’

  Chadwick gestured to the chairs.

  ‘Only the nesting kind,’ Alex retorted. ‘Had to cramp my style, Roger, as you well know . . .’

  He stroked his chin.

  ‘Anyway, I think I’ll shave it off. Too many grey bits showing through.’

  ‘Keep it. Particularly if you’re intending to “come out”, as they say.’

  Chadwick grinned, then switched quickly to an expression of sympathy.

  ‘So sorry about your son.’

  ‘Stepson, actually.’

  ‘Of course. But I know how you felt about him.’

  Did he know? Had he been watching him that closely all these years, with those small, conspiratorial eyes behind the horn-rimmed spectacles?

  Alex told him about Kirsty’s breakdown and then stumbled into talking about the accident itself, and the sense of guilt that still followed him like a cloud. Hadn’t meant to open up like that. Not always a safe thing to do with Chadwick. But he felt better when he’d finished, realizing he’d needed to tell someone.

  ‘It was an accident, my friend. That’s all. Not your fault in any way,’ Chadwick assured him.

  ‘I know, I know. Anyway, you didn’t invite me here to talk about that.’

  Chadwick pursed his lips.

  ‘Not entirely . . . You know me too well. I do have some business in mind. But later. Later. Let’s have a drink and pick something from this magnificent menu!’

  It was pizzas and pastas. The restaurant had been chosen not for its cuisine but for the wide gaps between the tables and the muzak which would prevent their voices being overheard.

  The waiter delivered bottles of Corvo and San Pelegrino.

  ‘Never cold enough,’ Chadwick complained, feeling the wine. ‘Never mind. If we drink it quickly we won’t notice!’

  He filled their glasses.

  ‘Cheers! A toast to . . . to putting the past behind us?’

  His eyes seemed to be pleading. Alex guessed this was the closest Chadwick would ever get to saying sorry for the pain he’d inadvertently caused him.

  ‘To the future,’ he replied, simply.

  They drank.

  ‘So, what are you up to these days,’ Alex asked. ‘Still in “F” Branch, chasing subversives?’

&n
bsp; ‘What a memory! No. I’m up in the rafters now. Director of something or other. Paper-clips, I think. But I’ve always kept an interest . . .’

  Alex’s eyebrows bushed into a frown.

  ‘An interest in your well-being, Alex, that’s what I mean,’ he growled. ‘You did us . . . did your country . . . a great service twenty years ago, you know.’

  Alex doubted that. ‘I helped you kill three IRA men. It didn’t exactly stop the war, did it?’

  ‘They were three top-drawer murderers, Alex and don’t you forget it. If their jail break had succeeded, there’d be even more police and army widows now crying in their pillows. You paid a heavy price, that’s what’s unfortunate about it. And that’s why I insisted “C” branch took such good care of you for the past twenty years. It was personal for me, Alex,’ he added, overtly sincere. ‘That’s why I knew about Jodie, you see. Anything new, anything bad, “C” Branch had orders to tell me.’

  Too smooth, too much oil, Alex said to himself. Chadwick was after something. Better keep his wits about him, and play for time. He asked Chadwick about his own family.

  ‘Children both at University now. Amazing how time passes. And my wife’s quite remarkable. Hardly a cross word in twenty-five years! Amazes me how she puts up with my life . . .’ he added, patronizingly.

  The first course came and went and they were into the second before Chadwick finally turned to the purpose of their reunion.

  ‘So, you’re off to Bosnia, then. To do good deeds,’ he began. ‘Nasty place. D’you know where you’ll end up precisely?’

  ‘Vitez.’ McFee had shown him the map at the weekend. ‘Where the British troops are based. It’s the safest place to be, I’m told.’

  ‘Exactly, Exactly,’ Chadwick mused. ‘Sounds all terribly worthwhile and rewarding. And very brave.’

  ‘Don’t know about that . . .’

  ‘You always did have a lot of guts, Alex. No false modesty, now . . .’

  He could feel Chadwick slipping the ring through his nose, just as he had when he’d persuaded him to identify troublemakers on the CND rallies. Just as he had too, a decade later in Belfast.

  ‘Okay, Roger,’ Alex sighed, ‘what is it you want?’