by Daniel Kemp
He was right, but I kept the Jacqueline Price message to myself and altered course with the rest of the conversation. I went back to my line of questioning about Nikel. Whatever it was that caused the sabotage of his son's plane, I knew Kudashov would have gone looking.
“The plane was examined and that cut fuel pipe was found, leading the crash examiner to conclude that's what brought about the sudden loss of altitude seen on the radar, and then the crash. If that was true, someone had a big reason to want to do it, but I was not going that far north and freezing my nuts off on guesswork alone. The police said they had no jurisdiction in Russian territory where the fuel line may have been cut, so it was left.
“Then something happened three years after the disaster that changed things. In late November 2000, I was invited to watch the rocket carrying the first crew to man the Space Station as it flew above a small village called Granitnyy, north of Murmansk, in what I was told was the clearest and cleanest air on the planet. It was spectacular with the Aurora Borealis over my left shoulder and the dramatic rocket's propulsion trail through a billion stars straight in front. Beautiful! I was among a hundred or so guests of a Russian we have mentioned before—Bohdan Dimitriyevich Valescov. I mingled, I opened my eyes and ears, and I found a man who was injudicious with his conversation when a glass was in his hand. It was he who told me the name on the laboratory at Nikel. It's one that may touch a nerve: Zaragoza, Patrick. If I'm correct, that's where the founding lodge of the Rosicrucian order can be found.”
Some people have an annoying habit of displaying their grasp of a situation of which they think you have only partial knowledge, with a facial expression that resembles a gorilla about to pass wind. Kudashov's face reminded me of a picture I'd seen in a magazine purporting to represent such an event.
“Yes, I do know of Zaragoza, Nikita, but I'm wondering why you do and how you do?”
“Let's just say I know and leave it there for the moment, Patrick. I will explain later if you require me to.” He still had the haughty look and his arrogance had not subsided.
“Okay, I'll go along with that. Did you meet Claudette Avogova at this party in Granitnyy?
“Yes, I did. A really lovely lady sadly blessed with a huge heart and it was that sensitivity that took her to volunteer to go to Sierra Leone. No one could allow her to leave and connect what was happening with the Ebola virus in Sierra Leone to what she'd seen in the operation at Zaragoza. What would happen if she reported all of that to her colleagues in the World Health Authority at the United Nations, or to those she could be in contact with at her old post in Porton Down? And that's why she never showed at Torp Sandefjord airport after February 2001. Instead, Paulette Simona arrived with Claudette's paperwork. Someone inside the CIA saved the legend of Claudette to avoid anyone getting suspicious.”
He took one of the cigarettes I offered, and as I was about to light one for myself, he took hold of my arm to pause briefly in the peaceful stroll we were undertaking.
“I started to worry when Claudette told me she was part of that UN team, but there was nothing I could say that would change her mind. She was set on going and that was it. Our conversations about what happened inside the Zaragoza lab were never conducted in a clandestine manner; it was simply a woman telling a man about the fears she had in her work, mainly about the development of certain strains of biochemicals that evolve best in the environment created by the inert gases inside disused nickel mines. There were two underground shafts below the Zaragoza buildings where those experiments went on. In the main building where she worked, the work was concentrated on antidotes, vaccines and antibiotics. They were her priorities.”
We continued our walk in the sun.
“One day in December 2000, she told me she thought that a new strain of a deadly virus called Filoviridae was being created inside one of those shafts. She'd overheard two microscopists speaking of a single-stranded negative-sense ribonucleic acid based virus. Apparently, that strain needed World Health Organisation permission to be developed, but by the sound of these two, none had been sought. Her alarm bells were ringing louder when she heard of the Ebola outbreak in Central Africa.
“When it became clear that vials containing the virus had been stolen from a shipment originating from Murmansk, she knew Zaragoza was to blame, but she was the type of person who blamed herself for not warning anyone. She was naive in thinking she could escape from those who arranged the theft from the ship in Freetown and then distributed the twelve vials. There was no escape. I became aware of her death sometime that year and a part of me wanted revenge for such a pure-hearted individual as Claudette. I think you can empathise with my feelings, Patrick.”
I could, but I didn't say as much.
“From then on Torp Sandefjord became my second home. To go to Nikel was out of the question. As I've said, I had some idea who was running the show and therefore had no desire to be seen by anyone there, so for months I just watched the arrivals at Torp Sandefjord from the Zaragoza lab. There was one regular traveller. I had the flight details checked and the passenger was listed as Claudette Avogova. I approached her and told the imposter that I knew she wasn't who her passport said she was and threatened to tell the Norwegian authorities she was a Russian spy. I told her that in all probability they would take her somewhere isolated and very cold to shoot her, but not to shoot her dead. In the stomach, I said, then leave you in agony to bleed to death.
“It didn't take any more threats of mine for her to come round to my way of thinking and we picked up where Claudette had finished. Paulette became my high priestess with the eugenic engineering and wrote it all down for me. As I said, she never knew for sure who gave her the identity, but she did know who signed her transfer papers to the regional office in Oslo. Her name came from a CIA sub-divisional office in the Transportation Department in Virginia. I haven't got any reach inside America, Patrick, but if you and Fraser Ughert want that name, then that's where you need to look.”
We were at the rear entrance to the main SIS building of the Beaulieu House Estate and I for one had a thirst. I suggested we took our work inside, but Kudashov wanted extra time to tempt me with one more thing, away from anyone else.
“It's not that I distrust anyone in particular, nor would I like to malign the staff here that look after me, but sometimes one must think of one's own self-interest above all else. Cilicia is my main concern and the one I'm most worried about. It's been a week since I reached out to Fraser Ughert and although I do appreciate how complex and difficult it's going to be to get her out of Moscow, I would have hoped that we'd be further down the road to her freedom by now. There is more I have to offer that would satisfy your own national interest and Fraser's cliquish interests, but that's not available until Cilicia is here and settled. I may also be able to shed light on the conundrum about that wedding gift of a box of keys.”
I made him a promise to do all that I could with his granddaughter and the eugenics programme. I could do no more.
Chapter Twenty-Five: Mayor Swan
In 1969, the American President Richard Nixon banned the use of biological weapons, but that declaration only applied to stockpiles of such weapons on American soil. Of the more commonly known, such as weaponised Saxitoxin, Ricin, T-2 Toxin, along with a variety of virus infections, including six species of the Ebola viruses, huge amounts were not only stored by ruthless individuals, but manufactured by them as well. The nickel mineshafts at the Zaragoza Laboratory site were an ideal place for their storage and, as it turned out, they were also an ideal place for their destruction, but before I could have them obliterated, I needed proof of what Kudashov told me was true.
Cilicia Kudashov along with the acronym of NOMITE were both important issues to be resolved, but neither was as important as the destruction beneath the frozen waste at Nikel. I judged it to be prudent to organise the raid at the same time as arranging for a sample of the laboratory's work to be independently analysed. I had Christopher Irons in Mosc
ow, who was more than capable of planting an explosive device inside a tunnel or the main laboratory or both, come to that, but I couldn't order him to do that. To sanction an attack on Russian property on Russian soil was tantamount to issuing a declaration of war and something any UK Prime Minister would never do however, it was something Fraser and I would do if it was proven to be necessary to save human life.
* * *
Fraser had read all Michael's findings on Sir Russell Macintosh, along with his son Sir Brian, and had come up with a surprising synopsis.
“I believe Dickie used the Macintosh name for Kudashov's Switzerland meeting because he wanted someone to look into Sir Russell Macintosh's diplomatic career, Patrick. I've found another anomaly. In 1977, Sir Russell met with the same newspaper reporter several times following Indira Gandhi's defeat in the general elections of that year; nothing unusual in that I guess, until you discover who that reporter was and what he subsequently became. The man's name was Vyacheslav Trubnikov. He was the Russian representative in India of Pravda, the official Communist newspaper.
“On the 25th July 2004, Vladimir Putin sent him back to India, only this time he was to be no journalist. He was appointed to the post of the Russian Ambassador to India. But let's go back to 1977, when Trubnikov was working for the First Chief Directorate of the KGB. I can't find any file we have about him, other than an updated one that states he was in the same department as Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin. To get more information seems to be beyond my retirement status, but I'm hoping you can get what's there for me, Patrick.
“I can't remember exactly what was said, but Dickie did mention Macintosh's name. Said something about there being an odour about the man's name. Most people knew he had contracted VD, so I assumed that was what Dickie was talking about, but now I'm not so sure. I have an inkling it was in some way to do with Francis Henry Grant, but I need your help. As we've said in the past, there was nothing Dickie did or said without having a reason.”
I couldn't argue with Fraser on that point, so after outlining the semblance of the plan I had, I loaded Michael Simmons with the task of finding all he could on this Trubnikov. Whilst Fraser ruminated on my idea to blow up the Zaragoza laboratory, I took the first of two calls that evening from Christopher Irons. He'd spoken to someone who knew something of the laboratories at Nikel. This person, who Irons said he would trust with his own life, knew the site to have too much sophisticated security for a one-man demolition operation. Irons wanted a specialist team assembled and assigned to the job. Despite the risk, Irons wanted to do a solo run at the laboratories from the Russian side to get that sample I needed before any operation took place.
His second call came an hour or so later. It was to confirm reservations he had made for me and a serving British army officer for dinner later that night. It was with someone he said I knew and he could thoroughly recommend.
* * *
“I've had a cursory look at the satellite picture, Mr West, and I don't see any reason in the slightest why this operation would not be successful. Do you know how many people will be on the surface at the target?”
I replied that I had no idea.
“Then I take it you have no intel on security in place at the tunnel end of the target area either, sir?”
I shook my head in denial of knowledge, adding that I might have a better idea in the near future.
“I see. However that plays, do you accept there will be an issue with casualties?” His eyes carried a hard, emotionless stare that was anything but questioning to that emotive inquiry.
I added a simple, “Yes. That's acceptable,” knowing my reply carried enormous human consequence.
“And what sort of window do I have to organise this operation, sir?”
“There is a proviso. A sample of what's in those labs should be in the UK by Sunday latest, possibly late Saturday. Authenticity of the sample will take less than hour. There is no doubt in my mind of the lethal consequence if what's manufactured there is allowed to progress. However, we do need proof of its capabilities. Allowing for that formality, I want everything in place within the next forty-eight hours and the expedition to go live this coming Sunday, major.” I did indeed know Major Swan and knew him to be a highly reliable professional soldier.
* * *
That was all to come. For now I was with Kudashov at Beaulieu, with more to hear of his sad story.
“When Paulette told me the full extent of the demonic master plan behind the work that went on at the Zaragoza lab, I asked her why the laboratory technicians continued operating the eugenic breeding programme devised by Bohdan Dimitriyevich Valescov and his cohorts. I don't think I can ever forget her words, Patrick …”
'I heard so many reasons. Money was the most popular mentioned. For some though, it was a moral duty to control breeding in order to increase those with desirable characteristics. The reason I found the most depressing were from those that fully embraced the science, saying how we needed to kill off a few billion people that in their opinion were useless. Obviously, the few billion that needed to be removed did not include themselves. The whole programme was accepted as though it was just another day at the office.'
* * *
Liam Catlin had a new office in Moscow, only his was in the back of a nondescript van. He and his men, with the local family's help, had drawn a map of the Kitay-Gorod area with special regard to the exits from the apartment block leading into the Zaryadye Park and, from it, past the pedestrianised areas, onto routes where an 'abducted' Cilicia could be picked up without attracting too much notice. For five consecutive nights Liam had run a simulated exercise of extraction from Cilicia's accommodation. The favoured route was to use Star Square, then away from the city using Ulitsa Varvarka and the train to Vnukovo International airport. There was one safe house to fall back on if things went wrong, the home of the family helping them. Christopher Irons made the introductions between Cilicia and Liam, and the three of them established the trade rules of the operation.
The family that Liam had working with him walked the route with Cilicia, interchanging every now and again so as not make anything look suspicious. With imperceptible nods of the head or small hand gestures, the 'lamp-burners' were pointed out to the 'escapee' and the final agreement on the operation was fixed. Christopher reported that Cilicia was a calm woman not likely to be fazed by the simulated act of abduction. All was arranged for the Monday following the operation at the mine. We changed from the initial plan of Sunday as there would have too many people off work strolling through the park. Monday was judged to be overall the quietest. I never told Kudashov when either operation would be live.
Before either of those events took centre stage, Michael Simmons had the Vyacheslav Trubnikov case file—it was still open, under Sir John's signature. Before speaking to him, I read through it. Fraser had been right in his assumption about Dickie Blythe-Smith wanting Trubnikov's name out in the open. But it wasn't for any straightforward reason that Fraser could imagine. As far as Sir John Scarlett was concerned, I wanted all he had on Trubnikov and I wasn't very patient in asking for it.
* * *
Hannah was fading from my mind, but had not yet joined hands with the other sad loves that had passed into the crevice marked 'confusion' floating around my head before settling in a corner and knocking loudly to be let out. Although our apartment did not pose a risk to my sanity any longer, it still threatened me with memories that appeared more in the dark than in the light of day. I had sat with the Jura and glass, reading Trubnikov's file for more than five hours, fighting against turning off the lights and retiring to bed. I wanted to think of her, but not as I thought of myself—as her killer. In my mind's eye, it was my face lying against the stock of the gun and my finger on the trigger as it fired. I'd watched her head disintegrate as the soft-point bullet hit it, slamming it against the opposite window to rebound and settle somewhere on the seat. It was a vision that was in my eyes whenever I closed them. It never went away.
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* * *
There was a distinct irritation to Sir John Scarlett's voice when I called at six-thirty that morning. After calling me a few names, he told me how Vyacheslav Trubnikov had been a long-term target of the Russian desk, but his posting to India could not have come at a more fortuitous time for them, along with various other government ministries. Commercial trade with the once dominion of Great Britain had dwindled in a fast decline and the Foreign Office had given him the task of acquiring whatever inside knowledge they could obtain as to the cause. Vyacheslav Trubnikov could be a valuable commodity to have in finding ways to corrupt purchasing officials. Scarlett had been given a special fund to achieve success. Russia had become one of India's main trading partners, more for imports of goods than exports and it would be beneficial, he told me, to have the Russian ambassador on board to swing things more in our direction. I was aware of substantial government funding for that kind of dealing, but I didn't think I would be any good at bribery for trade favours. I wished him luck with all that.
As I was replacing the telephone receiver and considering my inadequacies in politics, I wondered if Sir John's department would use the same trade-craft for the betraying of commercial secrets as they would in the incitement of betraying a country. I concluded I was stupid to think there would be any other way. Equally stupid was the deduction that Dickie Blythe-Smith could have any notion that Vyacheslav Trubnikov would become pivotal in a trade war between Russia and us in 2007, with India as the prize. But where was the reason for the disclosure of Trubnikov? There was nothing in what I'd read of him, nor what Scarlett had told me, to shine light on why a man working in the First Chief Directorate of the KGB was so important in 1982 that hiding his name beyond the SIS was Dickie's first thought.
