The Code

by Nick Elliott

  Of course, he knew all about it. ‘Well, there you are. Case closed, old boy!’

  ‘You mean it was our Tochka?’

  ‘Yes, of course. We sent an SBS team in last night as the ship approached the Lebanese coast. Same lot we used to rescue dear old Valdis in the Sulu Sea.’

  ‘And what happened?’

  ‘The vessel in question, the Aegean Leader, is now under escort from a couple of RN patrol boats, Dasher and Pursuer. The crew have been detained on board and a riding crew are manning her until she reaches the Akrotiri Mole in Cyprus. It’s a secure berth within the RAF base there. The Tochka will be safely removed from there.’

  ‘Have you told Iveta?’

  ‘Yes. She knew all about it through the IAEA’s Incident and Trafficking Department. But I understand the Aegean Leader is entered for P&I cover with your friends the Caledonian Marine Mutual. Her Greek owners, prima facie, are legitimate enough, but she’s on long-term timecharter to a Georgian firm and they in turn have voyage-chartered her to a shadowy Russian outfit controlled, we suspect, by a group of ex-GRU agents, most probably the same rogue outfit you and Valdis came across in Latvia.’

  ‘Why Beirut though?’

  ‘Al-Qaeda is our best guess. They’re increasingly active these days, you may have noticed.’

  ‘You think they had a specific target in mind?’

  ‘We don’t know that. We do know the broker these Russians have been talking to. He’s a Lebanese with a ships agency business. We suspect from our Beirut sources that he is, shall we say, sympathetic to the Al-Qaeda cause; certainly to the Wahhabi ideology. So for now we can only make an educated guess, but we’re following it up. Meanwhile, you may wish to speak to Grant Douglas at the CMM. I understand you’ve met him haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I was over there recently. A fondness for all things Scottish.’

  ‘I’d noticed that. He’s just acquired some old pile in the Scottish Borders. He has the notion that his ancestors were reivers from that part of the world.’

  The Admiral invited me to an island in the northern Aegean where he spent much of his time. I said I looked forward to it, but wanted to get the business established before taking time off. We agreed to stay in touch and rang off. I poured myself another whisky and went back onto the balcony. It was almost dark now and the lights glittered in the harbour from the ferries, gin palaces, yachts and, further out in the Saronic Gulf, the tankers, bulkers, bunker barges and workboats servicing the ships at anchor.

  Next morning I phoned Grant Douglas. We discussed the case and I asked if they wanted me to get involved in the Aegean Leader’s case.

  ‘Not at this stage,’ he said. ‘The owner hasn’t paid his premiums. He says the charterer hasn’t paid him charter hire for the past six months. Now the ship’s in detention alongside at your British government’s pleasure in Akrotiri. It’s a goddamn mess but we’ll let you know if we need your help. One way or another we’ll be ditching the owner. Should never have taken them on in the first place but, hey, hindsight’s a wonderful thing.’

  So that was it. Or was it? What about the GRU gang who had brokered the deal as they had previously for the Black Hand? They’d failed twice now but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t keep trying. They were still out there, as were other loose nukes. I thought back to my days in prison with Valdis, of our perilous escape, of Vienna and Belgrade, Iveta and Aleksandar, and of the Surgeon’s bloody end. Had it all really happened? But particularly I thought of Kirstin. We’d spoken regularly and she’d agreed to come down to Greece for a holiday. The Admiral had been pressing her to visit his island too.

  ***

  It wasn’t until a crisp, bright morning the day after Boxing Day that year that the Admiral called, just minutes after I’d arrived in my office. Making no reference to the events of the summer or our conversation in October, he asked whether I’d like to join him and some friends for the Millennium celebrations. I had no firm plans so accepted the invitation there and then. ‘Where’s it happening?’ I asked, thinking he might be inviting me to his island.

  ‘You’ll see. Get yourself down to Limassol and they’ll meet you at the airport. Just drop me a fax to let me know what flight you’re on. Make sure you arrive on Thursday and I’ll organise things from there.’

  A few days later I came out of the terminal at Larnaca airport to be greeted by a uniformed driver who saluted sharply and took my bag. ‘This way, sir, if you will.’

  We walked out to where a Land Rover was parked, and with its RAF pennant fluttering, headed west towards the Akrotiri peninsula. At the airfield we drew up alongside a large, cumbersome-looking aircraft.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Boeing C17 Globemaster, sir. She’s a long-range old bird but it’s a long flight so you’ll be refuelling at Ascension, I wouldn’t wonder.’

  ‘Where the hell am I going then?’

  ‘Caribbean I heard, sir. But they don’t tell the likes of me the specifics. It’s all a bit hush-hush, I gather.’

  I looked out of the window as we took off over the peninsula. There was a landing craft and the two fast-looking patrol boats alongside the mole, Dasher and Pursuer I assumed, but no sign of the Aegean Leader.

  Chapter 26

  The Caribbean

  31 December 1999

  As predicted by the RAF sergeant in Cyprus, the flight landed at Ascension Island in the middle of the Atlantic. The deceptively named Wideawake Airfield housing the RAF base on this burned-out volcano was strewn with potholes. Was that why it was so named, I wondered – to alert sleep-deprived pilots on the approach? We were on the ground there for an hour, refuelling and changing crew before heading west again. I dozed throughout the flight still wondering what I was doing travelling halfway round the world for a party.

  ‘Welcome to Gitmo,’ said another uniformed military man who greeted me as I came down the aircraft steps at my next stop. ‘Here, let me take your bag. You came from Akrotiri, right? Tiring flight I guess.’ He didn’t wait for a reply. Instead he gave me a potted history of the base as we walked away from the plane. He’d introduced himself as Captain Dave Schlumberg of the United States Air Force. ‘The rank is equivalent to an army colonel,’ he told me, in case I needed to know. ‘Got forty-five square miles of land and water here. Guantánamo Bay is on the south-eastern end of the island – Cuba that is. The US leased it to use as a coaling station and naval base back in 1903. Since the revolution here in ’59, the Commie government has been protesting against our presence on their soil. They claim it’s illegal and was forced on them. We call it a fait accompli.’

  The midday sun burned down on my head and I could feel the heat thrown up from the tarmac through the soles of my shoes. I’d barely heard of this place, but the fact that we’d landed in Cuba reminded me of Valdis’s experiences here during the missile crisis, and where he’d met his first love. But such thoughts were short-lived. We were walking across to where a helicopter crouched on the far side of the runway that we’d landed on.

  ‘What now?’ I asked still wondering why the Admiral had insisted on such secrecy.

  ‘I’ll see you over to the chopper. It’s only a short ride.’

  ‘To where?’

  He laughed. ‘Buddy, even if I knew I couldn’t tell you. There are people on this base who would know, including the chopper pilot I hope, but I’m not one of them. It’s the way it goes. But wherever it is, I guess you’ll be there for the big Millennium bash, so enjoy yourself.’ And as we reached the helicopter he handed me back my bag.

  ‘You too,’ I said and climbed on board.

  It turned out to be a two hundred-mile flight which took us just over an hour and a half. ‘If you’re strapped in back there let’s see if we can get this heap of shit airborne,’ announced my pilot, who went on to inform me that, as we flew south-west out over the sparkling Caribbean, I was on board a Bell UH-1N Twin Huey and that this very aircraft had a history of flying special forces missions in Vietna
m. That made it a very old aircraft. I wasn’t reassured.

  ‘Where are we headed?’

  ‘Fucked if I know, man. I was just told to take you for a spin.’

  When I didn’t reply he laughed. ‘Hey, lighten up buddy – chillax! We’re headed for Jamaica. Yeah, man! You’re one lucky sonofabitch. I love that island, man, and instead I’m stuck in Gitmo. It’s a shithole I’m tellin’ you. No booze, no chicks … well, almost.’

  The monologue continued in the same vein until we crossed the Jamaican coast, when he decided to concentrate on where he was going. To my left I saw the forested slopes of the island’s Blue Mountains, white beaches and clear turquoise waters. I was tired from the long flight and I was puzzled as to why the Admiral had chosen this place, but I couldn’t help but feel faintly euphoric too.

  We kept to the north coast heading west before putting down on a narrow strip of waste ground adjacent to the beach, with sand, dust and loose vegetation flying in all directions.

  ‘This is where we say goodbye, man. You must be one important dude to justify all this secret squirrel stuff. You’re a spook, right?’

  I didn’t answer. Was I a spook? Hardly. I’d only been dragged into the unholy mess by my resolve to help Valdis. It hadn’t been a career choice.

  Shielding my eyes from the dust storm and the blinding sun, I disembarked and, instinctively stooping, headed to where I saw a man waiting at the edge of the field. He was wearing dark glasses, dark blue chinos, a white short-sleeved shirt and a Panama hat which he was holding onto his head. He introduced himself as Sebastian but invited me to call him Seb. I let him take my bag and we walked over to his car, a black Ford.

  ‘Where’s the Admiral?’ I asked, before getting in beside him.

  ‘Oh, you’ll be meeting him shortly. They’re further round the coast. You’ll like that part of the island – quiet, but there’s plenty of nightlife not too far away.’

  ‘Are you with the FCO here?’

  ‘British High Commission, yep. Been out here a couple of years now. Love it. And tonight there’ll be one hell of a party. I’ll be in Kingston for that, but I’ve no doubt your Admiral will have something special planned too.’

  We drove through small, unkempt settlements and minor traffic jams punctuated by frenzied overtaking and the incessant sounding of horns.

  ‘How about yourself? I heard you were involved in some pretty hairy business in the Balkans recently.’

  I turned to look at him. ‘What do you know about that?’

  ‘Sorry. Just an exchange I had with the Admiral and a friend of his I met the other day. I didn’t mean to pry …’

  ‘Are you a spook?’

  ‘Heavens, no! It’s a long time since Bond passed this way. Actually, you can visit Goldeneye if you have time. It’s the other end of the island, but if you’re going to be here for a few days I’d be happy to take you for a look-see.’

  ‘I’ll let you know. I’m not even sure what I’m doing here, but when the Admiral summons … I’m guessing it’s not just about a Millennium party.’

  The road turned south, taking us through the sprawling beach resort of Negril. To our right tourists and the odd Rastafarian hawker wandered along the beach while paragliders drifted overhead strapped into their harnesses beneath colourful sails lazily dragged along by motorboats below.

  We passed a suburb called West End. ‘See the lighthouse?’ said Seb, pointing. ‘That’s where we’re headed, just beyond it actually.’

  Perched on a nearby clifftop I caught a glimpse of a bungalow amid a cluster of trees. We turned off into a drive and, after a couple of hundred yards, entered through a pair of new-looking iron gates.

  The Admiral was standing by the front door, beaming. ‘Good to see you,’ I said, getting out of the car, ‘but it’s a long way to come for a party isn’t it?’

  ‘I know, I know, but how are you my boy? Long flight, eh? Had to have you over though. I’ve got some people I’d like you to meet.’

  ‘Need me for anything else, sir?’ asked Seb, addressing the Admiral. There wasn’t, so we wished each other well for the Millennium and he turned the car and drove off to join his celebrations in the capital.

  ‘So what’s it all about?’

  ‘Come with me and all will be made clear.’

  The bungalow was from the colonial era and built before air conditioners became an everyday appliance. On this coast the breeze was almost constant, blowing gently through the whole house giving it an airy atmosphere. We walked through the hall and off to the right, where doors opened onto a veranda overlooking the bay, with the lighthouse visible a mile off to the north-west. Three people were seated on wicker chairs, talking. As we entered they all stood up. Two of the group were women: one small and dark skinned, the other was Iveta. But it wasn’t the women I was staring at. For a second I thought only that the elderly man approaching me was vaguely familiar. But as he came closer, open-armed and smiling, despite his radically altered appearance, I knew it was Valdis.

  We embraced. He was laughing but there were tears in his eyes, and in mine.

  ‘What the hell …?’ I was trying to process what and who I was looking at.

  The Admiral spoke. ‘Once we knew he was going to pull through we saw the opportunity to disappear him – keep him hidden from his enemies for good. Europe was not a safe place for him.’

  ‘What have they done to you? You look twenty years younger! And why here?’

  ‘Later. Now come,’ said the Admiral. ‘Tonight we will celebrate.’

  I turned to Iveta. ‘How long have you been here? Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘Sorry, but I was not allowed.’ She cast a meaningful look at the Admiral.

  ‘Angus, Iveta you know, but not Delfina.’ So this was the old flame from his days in Cuba. We shook hands. I could see why Valdis had been attracted to her. She was in her late fifties and still a beautiful woman. Her long hair was greying yet her dark skin was lined only around the eyes, and then only when she smiled or laughed.

  ‘He says you are the best friend he ever had,’ she said.

  ‘We have something in common then.’

  ‘Yes, perhaps it is in the most difficult of times that the strongest bonds are formed.’

  I looked again at Valdis. He didn’t look twenty years younger at all. They had transformed him, but it had given his facial features an unnatural, slightly synthetic look. I’d noticed too his awkward walk when he’d approached me.

  ‘Where did they do this?’

  ‘A very private clinic in Switzerland. I was taken there from Serbia by air ambulance with the Admiral and Dr Kirstin. I was there for three months before I came here. Iveta was with me the whole time, after you found her.’

  ‘Why Jamaica?’

  ‘I would have gone myself to Cuba and looked for Delfina, but Admiral wanted somewhere he could keep eyes on me. Sebastian and good colleagues at High Commission have resources. I have one or two minders near me all the time. But I have things to tell you, when we’re alone. We must make time.’

  We ate and drank and talked, just the five of us. Initially I followed Valdis’s advice and stuck to the Red Stripe. At midnight we watched a firework display up the coast. ‘Rick’s Café,’ said Valdis. ‘I’ll take you to my bar near there. You will like it.’

  Then the Admiral, not wanting to invoke too much merriment, said, ‘Yes, Rick’s Café. To be honest though, Angus, it wasn’t just for the celebrations that I asked you over here.’

  ‘I guessed that.’

  ‘Well, you didn’t have to accept my invitation.’

  ‘I’m not sorry I did. But I knew when I got on that RAF plane, it wasn’t just about a party.’

  ‘Good. Tomorrow we’ll get down to business then.’

  The next morning, after only a few hours’ sleep, the Admiral called us into the living room. The TV was tuned to CNN and he was eager we should watch as the rolling news stories were screened. He was clearly on edge.<
br />
  ‘What’s going on?’ I asked, feeling the effects of sleep deprivation on top of too much champagne, which had somehow followed the Red Stripe from midnight onwards.

  ‘Wait!’ he said, turning up the volume. The headlines were all about the Millennium celebrations across the world and the ongoing debate over whether they’d got it all wrong and it was being held a year too early. There was little mention of the Millennium Bug which had failed to materialise it seemed. Instead it switched to a report from Moscow: ‘News direct from the Kremlin this morning is that President Boris Yeltsin has resigned,’ said the reporter. ‘According to the constitution of Russia, Vladimir Putin has now become Acting President.’

  The report continued with various self-proclaimed experts sharing their analysis of this purportedly unexpected event. In fact, it wasn’t unexpected. Yeltsin’s poor health and increasingly erratic behaviour, both due in some measure at least to his proclivity for alcohol, were no secret. Like a lot of Russians, Yeltsin considered beer a soft drink and instead favoured vodka, bourbon or red wine, or preferably all three at the same sitting. The writing had been on the wall for months. And Putin had already been appointed Acting Prime Minister by Yeltsin, who had publicly announced that he wanted him as his successor. Putin had earned a reputation as a tough law and order guy based on the way, as Prime Minister, he was dealing with the Chechen conflict. His previous career as a KGB officer was also common knowledge.

  When the broadcast had finished, the Admiral switched the TV off and Valdis poured more coffee from a pot of local Blue Mountain. It was the best coffee I’d ever tasted. Delfina and Iveta were on the veranda, nursing their hangovers like the rest of us.

  ‘You know,’ said Valdis, who since I’d last talked to him, and now in secure retirement, had developed a tendency for lengthy discourses on any subject that came to hand, ‘I remember in Byblos so many years ago my old friend Archie Anderson warn me that one day USSR would collapse. And it did collapse and it led to chaos. Things looked good for a while with Gorbachev, but Yeltsin has been a disaster, and now? What Archie said was that Russia would become like a Hydra. Monster unleashed from fall of Soviet state would grow many heads and totalitarianism would be replaced with what he called anarchic capitalism. There would be power-grab, corruption, cronyism: you cut off one head, two grow in its place. He was right. Where once there was KGB and GRU, now you have ex-officers from those services setting up on their own, or working for Mafia groups with oligarch bosses who grab state companies: oil and gas, mining, banking, yes, even rogue elements of military and intelligence agencies, all caused, and all grown by collapse of Communism.