The Kompromat Kill

by Michael Jenkins

  ‘What’s this then?’ Sean asked, picking up the second piece of paper. ‘Another demon from the past?’

  ‘An incident from two days ago. The results of a professional Iranian assassin.’

  ‘Nadège?’

  ‘Could be. Not sure yet.’

  Sean read the details of the murder of two Jews in Sloane Gardens. Jews who were critical of the Iranian mullahs and were now the victims of a vicious double murder. ‘May I?’ Sean asked, indicating the third piece of paper. Jack nodded.

  Sean opened the third piece of paper. It provided the simple details of Edmund Duff being kidnapped outside Quaglino’s in St James’s and the details of his close protection officer, an ex-Royal Marine, being shot in the neck at a nearby car park.

  Sean placed the paper on the table before taking a sip of wine. ‘Intriguing, but this bloke is a British FCO diplomat. Why him? Extortion? Bribery? Or what?’

  ‘A noble question and one I can’t answer. Other than we need to investigate his disappearance in detail to see if there are any links. This case could be a high-level trigger for other major plays. I’ve no idea. What I do know from some cursory research is that he was heavily connected to some key American players – neocons. The type that want to take Iran down, not just by subterfuge, but direct military action. They don’t care and they’re an impatient lot.’

  ‘What about this ex-CIA chief he was dining with? Anything on him?’

  ‘Not sure at the moment. Fletcher Barrington is a former CIA station chief now working in the Pentagon. A neocon that’s for sure, but we need to look at all of Duff’s acquaintances in detail. See where it leads.’

  ‘What’s the focus Jack?’

  ‘Slow time, and long burn. Get Melissa onto Duff and his associates, including Barrington. She can do that remotely and I don’t have enough investigators right now. But for you, the focus is Nadège.’

  Sean picked up the piece of paper relating to Nadège which provided a snapshot of the intelligence on her background, her role and her most recent whereabouts – Istanbul.

  Chapter 6

  Sea of Crete

  The ship’s decks were overflowing with holidaymakers catching a last glimpse of the setting sun as the vessel steamed past the white cliffs of Santorini in the Aegean Sea. Few on board would forget the experience of seeing the sun drop into the clear sea, leaving only the silhouettes of the tiny islets and the blue-domed cupolas of the island churches twinkling in the ship’s wake.

  On board, walking along the lower-deck footway, was an Iranian intelligence officer who had flown into Crete and paid cash for a one-way ferry trip to the majestic island of Santorini. Her suntanned figure and graceful manner gave away the shape and elegance of an international model – the glances at her were many. She was bejewelled with diamond-encrusted sunglasses and wore a white sleeveless floral dress, canvas wedge shoes and a fashionable Eugenia Kim floppy hat.

  Nadège Soulier felt the warm wind tussle with her long black hair as she stopped to take in the dying views of an island beginning to drift into its twilight mode of flickering evening illumination.

  The ferry passed the cliff villages of Oia and Fira, majestic white structures precariously perched on the cliff faces like a haphazard collection of giant white and blue Lego buildings placed by a giant’s hand. The captain piloted the vessel around the ancient black volcano and into the inner ring of the Athinios ferry port with its sheer cliffs dominating the quaint bric-a-brac stalls at its base.

  The ferry reversed into her moorings and the ship’s stewards gave the signal for the passengers to disembark into the chaos of jostling crowds beyond. Nadège made her way to a waiting black Mercedes whilst a lone policeman blew his whistle, trying to keep order as the lorries and cars disembarked through the throngs of people on the quayside. Nadège sat comforted by the calm of the leather interior as the car zigzagged its way up the imposing cliff side to her five-star hotel resort.

  Her enjoyment came from manipulating men and women into trusting her. What she looked for in a man was enough gullibility to allow her to control him. She looked for the same in a woman.

  Now one of the most senior Iranian agents in the Ministry of Intelligence and Security, she was at her happiest with model shoots for glamour magazines: another branch of deception in her character and life. A double life. She had the cover of a glamour model but led a hidden life of being a deadly spy. Her cover gave her access to wealthy targets amongst the European elite but, for now, she was on a mission. A mission she chose to execute for the love of her life. A woman by the name of Petra and the only individual in the world who truly understood her disordered personality.

  The men who browsed her photos would not have known that her rise to fame had not come through modelling but by rising through the ranks of the Iranian intelligence system as one of their fiercest and most capable spies. They would not have known about her upbringing in a wealthy Lebanese family in France, her rise to distinction through the ‘90s as a child model and then a switch when she graduated as the top Iranian MOIS student on their notorious agent-handling course in Tehran. Neither would they know about the tantalising portfolio of men she had met and bedded during a lifetime of chasing intelligence secrets. Including Bosnian political leader Franko Burrić.

  It was the summer of 2018 when she targeted him. Burrić was the former Mayor of Sarajevo following a long career in the Bosnian Army. Burrić had made a name for himself during the civil war in the mid-1990s, was linked to Bosnian organised crime gangs, and had fallen for Nadège when she’d arranged to bump into him at a cocktail party in Sarajevo. It would lead to his death.

  Nadège had asked Burrić to take her to his beachside mansion near Split for the weekend and to take in some of the city’s finest restaurants and clubs.

  When they arrived late on the Friday night, Burrić switched the lights on and made his way to his exotic bar in the lounge that led to the swimming pool.

  ‘Can you bring the drinks to the patio?’ Nadège said to Burrić, throwing him a seductive glance. Before long, Burrić stepped through the open doors onto the patio. A shot from a pistol. The margaritas smashed to the ground, followed by Burrić. He had been shot in the chest. Shadowed by the incandescent light of the poolside was a woman. Her name was Petra Novak and she was the person Nadège had heard the story from. A story that reeked of gut-wrenching horror for her - and one that started a quest for deep revenge.

  Nadège took the pistol from Petra and pumped a further shot into Burrić. This kill was not her first and certainly not her last. She’d enticed him to a weekend of sex where Petra would be waiting to commit her first murder. Nadège had used two weapons that night – an M70 Zastava and her most potent one: her beauty.

  As the women left the mansion, they had no idea that Franko Burrić wasn’t dead. For now. He’d survived long enough to make a short phone call. On his deathbed, he told his best friend about what had happened: before passing away painfully.

  Nadège stepped out of the Mercedes and into the blistering heat of Santorini. The driver escorted her to the largest suite in the volcano-view hotel situated on the west of the island. Perched on the outstanding Santorini caldera cliffs the hotel exuded the finest of Cycladic architecture, with traditional cave houses designed as luxury suites within the cliffs. The majestic canvas of colours and brightness paved the way to her suite lower down the cliffs and she was greeted on the large patio by a man in his fifties. They smiled at each other and hugged before moving into the VIP suite arm in arm.

  Nadège was skilled and patient. She felt no compunction to deviate from her plan. She spent two days of sunbathing and fine dining with her companion, interspersed with long periods of somatosensory stimulation, sex and bondage. Whilst she held a deep-seated hatred for the man, she controlled her emotions and acted out the scenes like a professional actress as a means to an end. She was a fine artiste and thrived on the control she exerted and the total dominance she had over her submissive par
tner. On the last afternoon she set her plan in motion. She had by now gained his entire trust.

  Nadège bathed in the infinity pool, peering over the edge towards the volcano steeped in the afternoon haze with the large land mass of Thirasia behind. Her mind drifted back to London. She had been given the mission of assassinating the two Jews in Sloane Gardens: Jonathon and Elise Van De Lule. It was a double kill that had been ordered by her Iranian handler and an act that was conducted to ramp up tensions in the West as part of a series of escalations the Iranians had planned. Her role across Europe and her cover as a model had again helped her. She had befriended Jonathon Van De Lule at a charity event and the rest was easy. The images of her stabbing him to death gave her a heart-pounding feeling of exhilaration, a psychotic feeling, because she loved the planning and the meticulous perfection of her kills. It always had to be perfection. But this next kill, like Burrić’s, was not an officially sanctioned kill by the MOIS, like that of the Van De Lules in London – but another one of her own choosing, as an act of revenge. For her lover. Petra.

  Jonathon Thurlow was a former American Army colonel. He was single, in his late fifties and had served with distinction across the globe, including in Panama, Guatemala, Bosnia and Iraq. He had a penchant for wealthy ladies, and often chose very expensive escorts to play out his fantasies. He had no idea that his death would be not as the result of an honourable military event, nor from old age – but at the hands of a vicious female assassin, driven by vengeance.

  As she stood in the pool, arms outstretched on the glass pane, Nadège felt the arm of her man reach around her waist and they kissed. She was dressed in a strapless yellow bikini as she turned to put her arms around his shoulders, feeling the strain on her stomach as his large paunch pushed her slightly backwards. ‘I think it’s time we had a little bit of something different,’ she said. ‘I feel ready for something new now I’ve got to know you so well.’

  ‘I think I like that idea already,’ he replied. ‘I’m not sure I can wait too long to see you again. Let’s make the most of the time we have left. What’s your idea?’

  ‘A very special one,’ she said, beginning to uncouple and make her way to the edge of the pool. ‘Give me twenty minutes and come along.’ Thurlow leant back onto the pool’s edge. He smiled as he caught her enticing eyes luring him towards a new experience.

  Nadège felt herself falling into a trance. She recalled her latest kill in London. Sex was her way of trying to deal with her awkward mind and loneliness. But killing gave her the real sensation. She remembered how she had entered the Van de Lule household, taking delight in the entire experience of killing and leaving her mark for those who found the bodies.

  Nadège felt calm and controlled but moved quickly to set up her apparatus in the lounge area of the suite. She began to fix some chains to the wooden beams above the large dining table and rigged up some black kernmantle ropes and a straitjacket in preparation for his arrival. She had previously readied him for the main feature of their trip through gentle bondage sessions that he had never before experienced. It was his fantasy to play out such roles with a stunning goddess and Nadège had skilfully teased him into trying it. She wanted him to feel vulnerable and helpless. She had concentrated on linking with his inner spirituality and getting him to enjoy the masochistic pleasure of tight restraint and pain. She would now ramp that up a notch.

  He arrived back at the room exactly twenty minutes later. Nadège was topless, wearing a pair of black leather high-heeled boots and a small red thong and carrying a black paddle in her right hand. ‘Soft to start with?’ she asked, feigning a level of empathy he had become accustomed to from his teacher.

  ‘Yes please. And very slowly too,’ he said, dropping his white towel on the sofa as he walked towards her smiling with childlike excitement. ‘Do with me as you desire, my goddess.’

  With that, she struck her open hand with the paddle and demanded he bend over the table. She fitted the straitjacket and began tying the black ropes onto his wrists, smacking him vigorously on the backside – she had practised the art of getting him into a hog-tie position in less than three minutes. She didn’t want this going wrong and she worked speedily, strapping his legs back towards his head as he lay on the table. Using a silver karabiner, she clamped his tied wrists behind his back and onto his ankles. Then she gagged him with a ball chain and lowered the rope into position, raising him above the table using the leverage of a pulley and chain strung over the rafter above.

  She smiled as she walked around the table, lingering in front of him provocatively. ‘Still fine?’ she inquired. He nodded and then she began to heave the black rope through the zigzag pulleys, enabling her to pull his heavy torso up above the table with ease. Within twenty seconds he was suspended two feet above the table and entirely helpless.

  She placed a black rucksack on the table and began to pull out several items for her torture routine, positioning them carefully on the table so that he couldn’t see what was coming. She began to attach the items gently, massaging and stimulating him as she did so. A set of ball chains was placed precariously on a smaller side table and rigged with a piece of rope so that they would drop fiercely if the string was pulled. At that stage she paused to check her rigging.

  She walked back to the front of the table to face him, standing tall in front of him. She was only four inches from his face. She smiled. From behind her back she showed him a Persian dagger. A black dagger with emeralds embedded in its handle and a glistening sharp blade. She watched him inspect the dagger with curious and slightly fearful bedazzlement.

  ‘I’d like you to remember a safe word we’ll use for this technique,’ she said. His eyes were glazed and he hummed in agreement, nodding his head. She inched closer. ‘Its High Chaparral,’ she murmured into his now-ashen face. The name had sent him into a complete panic, his eyes rolling with fright, as he sensed his demise. ‘High Chaparral’ was a secret gang known only by a few men. His face was etched with fear now, realising his utterly hopeless position. Every part of his body began to twitch with sheer terror.

  Nadège was enjoying seeing him grimace and sway in the suspended hog-tie with sheer dread on his face. She tightened the ball chain and watched him convulse wildly as she leant beneath his torso to pull a rope attached to the small table. She yanked the rope with all her strength and the two balls dropped with horrendous speed, causing the man to shudder with excruciating pain.

  She took pleasure and surprise in watching his eyes roll and his body excrete before he simultaneously fell into unconsciousness. She then used the dagger to make a small incision directly in his anterior jugular vein. He was gone from the world very quickly.

  Watching him die provided the surge of adrenalin she needed after the long period of manipulation. The tease. The trap. Then the kill. She sat and admired her work, taking a moment to rejoice in her sense of supremacy.

  Chapter 7

  Italy

  The idyllic setting of the chalet gave Sean the peace he needed to think. And to plan. Jack had explained that Nadège was not due back in Istanbul for a while, making him wonder who exactly was the source that Jack had recruited to provide the human intelligence on Nadège. Or did he have more sources? That single-sided piece of paper told the story – he didn’t have a lot to go on. Hardly anything at all. And this made Sean wonder if the three pieces of paper were connected? What was the linkage between Nadège and the kidnapped FCO diplomat, and the murders in Sloane Gardens? Or were they all unconnected?

  Jack had explained that the Iranians knew that Britain had been helping the CIA to destabilise Iran and try to mount a coup from within. This was being conducted under the radar of a political position in which Britain had declared its support for other EU nations by not siding with the American President to kill off the nuclear deal. Practically, it provided leverage for Britain to retain cohesive European diplomacy within the EU set against the backdrop of a deeply wounded Brexit negotiation that was taking primacy
for the British government.

  Britain was playing two hands. Quietly supporting the US in their fight against the Iranian mullahs, which included secret intelligence, but keeping a tight hand on the diplomatic tiller to help the EU find a better way to keep Iran from backing away from its nuclear-deal pledges. The trouble was that Iran was so wildly incensed at the nuclear deal being culled that relations had plummeted, and the ruling mullahs now felt backed into a corner and had to either strike out or lose their dictatorship.

  In 2015, Iran had agreed a long-term deal on its nuclear programme with the P5+1 group of world powers - the US, UK, France, China, Russia and Germany. It came after years of tension over Iran's efforts to develop a nuclear weapon and, under the accord, Iran had agreed to limit its sensitive nuclear activities and allow in international inspectors in return for the lifting of crippling economic sanctions. It seemed to Sean that all that had now gone bust and that the Iranians were now striking out against Britain and Germany, who had recently banned the Iranian airline Mahan Air from landing in their country. Sean had read that Mahan Air were known to be transporting Al Quds equipment and manpower to conduct state-sponsored terror on targets in Europe.

  Sean grabbed his canvas and set up his painting easel on the deck. He had long wanted to capture the magnificent views of the Mongia valley on a new canvas and painting allowed him the peace and time to plot and think. The political situation with the Iranians was fascinating to him. There they were in May 2018 with the nuclear deal culled by the US administration. A deal they saw as useful to disguise their nefarious activity of building their own nuclear weapons. Even better, EU countries were still supporting Iran and refusing to sanction the country at all.