The Kompromat Kill

by Michael Jenkins

  Sean turned in his chair, leaning back to test its weight. ‘All makes sense,’ he suggested, leaning forward for the coffee Jack had poured him. ‘After the fiasco of the CIA scandals and the FBI corruption I can see why this has come to pass. Their agencies can’t operate without someone whistle-blowing, leaking data or being indicted for fraud.’

  ‘It’s deeper than that Sean. They have no idea who’s who in their agencies now and double agents are running amok. That’s why D suggested to them a joint fusion centre with actionable intelligence that really is secure.’

  ‘To avoid insider threats too?’

  ‘The threats to our nation are grave Sean. D is a visionary. He foresaw all this. He foresaw the need for an arm of intelligence that we call The Third Direction. Ministers are no longer capable of making the right decisions to protect our nationhood. Take the influence operations of Russia for example. They have done exactly what they set out to do twenty years ago, knowing it takes that long to embed into a nation. They have been successful in every way possible – and D wants us to now become masters of hybrid warfare. To go on the offensive.’

  ‘What offense have we got?’

  ‘Full offensive cyber-capability with the Americans supporting us and a full range of psychological warfare apparatus. Big-data analytics and a compartment like no other – it’s not five eyes – just two eyes. It’s tight – very tight.’

  Sean wondered what would come next. The days of traditional nationhood, warfare and securing national assets really had changed. Forever by the look of it.

  ‘Russia and Iran are our immediate threats,’ Jack stated. ‘Now, shall we start?’

  Jack tapped a couple of buttons on the audio-visual console before a screen lowered itself at the end of the room, the lights dimmed automatically and a picture of a middle-aged man lit up the room. In his forties, Sean thought. Baby-faced appearance. He looked scared. The picture certainly gave that appearance. Sean could see it was a photograph taken by a surveillance team and it seemed to have been taken in London.

  ‘This is Sergei. A Russian GRU colonel who was a walk-in ten months ago.’

  ‘Bloody hell. A live walk-in. To where?’

  ‘A rural police station in Sussex. He covered his tracks well enough. He’s the GRU lead officer for their illegals programme. A massive catch.’

  Sean sat forward and leant on the table in astonishment. The last time he had met a Russian sleeper agent, a woman called Natalie, she’d nearly killed him in a shootout in France. ‘An incredibly lucky catch I’d say. Is he kosher?’

  ‘He is. I’ve made sure he is by running him myself. I’ve used him on a few operations to make sure he’s not swinging both ways and, so far, he’s come out clean. He’s ready to trust now and we’ll provide him with full defection status once we get what we need from him. A deal we agreed on.’

  Sean smiled, rubbed his chin and sipped his coffee, using two hands around his cup. ‘You’ve been plotting again Jack. This bloke better be one hundred percent legitimate, else I’m out.’

  ‘Well, you can judge him for yourself. You’re about to meet him. He’s sitting outside.’

  Jack pressed a button on the console and the door opened. Sergei walked in accompanied by a chaperone, a tall brunette who looked more like a professor than an intelligence officer.

  ‘Sergei, this is Sean, a good friend of mine,’ Jack said, pouring water for both of them. Neither man stood to shake hands. Sean didn’t feel it was necessary, and a respectful nod sealed the introductions. Nothing more was said but an unspoken connection was made between the two men.

  Sean wondered why on earth a senior GRU officer had handed himself in to MI5 after running sleeper agents for Mother Russia probably for a decade or more. The risk to his life if he was caught was immense.

  ‘Sergei, can you let Sean know about the mission you’ve been working on please?’

  A pause. Then a wry smile from Sergei before he started to talk in immaculate English, with no sign of an accent. ‘I was instructed by Moscow to find a bomb-maker in Britain.’ He stopped abruptly, turning to Jack to check he had permission to carry on. Jack gave an indiscernible nod. ‘Not just any old bomb-maker,’ Sergei continued. ‘An ex-military one. An expert who could make the most complex of explosive devices.’

  Sean wondered where this was leading and decided to just listen for a while without asking any questions. He’d judge the veracity of what was being said by observing Sergei’s demeanour.

  ‘I’ve also been acting as the GRU handler for an Iranian agent who became a source of information for us about two years ago and was perfect to use as a feeder for information we wanted to go back to the Iranians. We use her sparingly and recruited her as part of a mutual agreement. She’d provide British intelligence to us and we’d share information with her. She’s a very dangerous and hugely complex woman. I don’t know - but something is not right with her. Her temperament is chaotic. We gave her the codename Nochnaya Sova – NIGHTOWL.’

  Sean’s face remained still and focused. He knew that Sergei was talking about Nadège but that he wasn’t going to share his own background with her. ‘What about the bomber?’

  ‘I found one. I was instructed to get him to meet NIGHTOWL’s UK facilitator, a Syrian, who spent a while vetting him before whisking him away. I’ve no idea where he is and the operation has always been a dark one for us. We were always told not to get too close. ‘Provide all assistance’ was what I was told by the centre. Moscow does not want to be evidentially connected in any way to the Iranian operations and I’ve never been privy to the detail. The Iranian operation is sanctioned at the highest levels in Moscow and they keep those elements very secret. I was tasked to facilitate everything she needed whenever she asked.’

  Sean’s mind hummed with intrigue as Jack threw a picture of the former British Army bomb-disposal officer on the screen. ‘Sergei is still operating for the GRU and has not been compromised. We’ve been careful about that. He’s still running NIGHTOWL and we’ll be sending her the odd signal or two in the coming days to tee you up with her.’

  ‘As what?’

  ‘Exactly what you were when we rescued you from that Afghan jail. A weapons smuggler.’

  Sean rolled his eyes. ‘Here we go again. Another bloody ruse likely to end up with me in the can again. What’s to smuggle then?’

  ‘All in good time. You’ll connect with NIGHTOWL as the man that the Russians have put in place for the weapons she has asked for in exactly the same way that the Russians introduced the bomber to NIGHTOWL. It will work.’

  ‘Not a fucking chance Jack. She’ll never fall for that in a million years.’

  ‘She will.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because she had feelings for you Sean.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake Jack. How do you know that?’

  ‘I know everything. Trust me.’

  Sean laughed. ‘Where’s this bomb-disposal guy then? The bomber?’

  ‘We’re not sure. Nor do we know what NIGHTOWL wants him to do other than to build high-tech devices. Sergei and I think the Russians are now using the Iranians as their own proxies to hit Europe. To cause carnage. But, in so doing, taking every precaution to make sure it is not attributable to them. Hence all the weaponry and IEDs being sourced elsewhere. The Russians, as you know, are smart at this game.’

  Sean knew from his previous forays with the Russians that they preferred to use proxy armies to do their dirty work of subversion, active measures and disruption of their foes. Ultimately, he knew their objectives were to weaken Europe and the EU so much so that they would just implode. The fact that the Americans had just killed off the nuclear deal with Iran meant that the Russians could easily arm and weaponise the Iranians to enable them to conduct terrorist attacks as part of Iranian revenge. This was big. The Russian modus operandi was never to leave any evidence that could link their direct provision of arms and equipment to their proxies. Crimea was a classic example, as were Abkha
zia and Georgia. It was always planned in detail, and always surreptitious so that it became plausible deniability. No trail. No evidence. Just provide the offensive capability and orders.

  Sergei drank some water and asked Jack if he should continue. Jack nodded. A picture of a city flashed up on the screen – a city that Sean immediately recognised.

  ‘This is Yerevan in Armenia. A small country flanking Iran and Azerbaijan, with Georgia to its north.’

  Sean lurched forward, placed his elbows on the table and cradled his face in his hands. ‘I know it well Sergei. A main staging post for smuggling routes between Russia and the Middle East or Europe via Istanbul.’

  Sergei nodded. ‘You understand very well. It’s also where I learnt that we can acquire fissile material from the local mafia. I was tasked to find out where we could get it from and from whom - using our Armenian contacts in London.’

  ‘A bomb-maker and fissile material? Jesus.’

  ‘We don’t know Sean,’ Jack chipped in. ‘We need you to find out what’s going on here. Your role in recruiting NIGHTOWL is vital to us. Or at least find out what she’s planning.’

  Sean noticed how Jack was careful not to release any details on Sean’s previous relationship with Nadège in front of Sergei. ‘You think they’re planning a terrorist strike using fissile material, right?’

  ‘Yes,’ Jack replied. ‘We also think that the Iranian sleepers are mobilising, and we need that information from NIGHTOWL. You’re the only man likely to get that for us.’

  ‘No fucking pressure then. Thanks mate.’

  ‘Sergei will be available tonight for you to explore what else he knows but, for now, we’ll leave it there.’ Jack indicated that this part of the meeting was now firmly over. Sergei nodded and walked out with his minder.

  ‘Impressive Jack. A high-grade sleeper agent who’s happy to talk and operate on our behalf. What does he want?’

  ‘He’s had enough. It’s that simple. He’s lived in the West for so long that he’s pretty much become one of us. His old nation holds no loyalty or desire for him any more. What’s more, he knows he’s coming towards the end of his usefulness back in Moscow, so he doesn’t want to go back to living a life of hell. He got comfortable and we got lucky. We’ll get him a new life under protection when we’ve got what we want out of him.’

  ‘Too right you got lucky. You always have been. What other surprises have you got up your sleeve?’

  ‘You fly out to Istanbul tomorrow morning. The CIA will fly you there and you’re already in the terminal building. The runway is right outside.’

  Sean sat back and chuckled.

  ‘Oh, and your contact in Istanbul is Samantha. She’s arranged everything.’

  That startled Sean. He threw his head back in shock. ‘Fucking hell Jack. Thanks a bunch for that.’

  Chapter 10

  Kuwait

  The British Airways Boeing 747 jumbo jet struggled with the fierce Persian Gulf crosswinds as it lurched and swayed before landing with a heavy thump at Kuwait International Airport. A recent sandstorm had left an orange fog swirling in the air and it was hard for the passengers to make out the old and decrepit terminal building as the pilot taxied the aging aircraft at speed to its docking station.

  Walking down the steps from the upper deck business-class cabin was a man who had last set foot in Kuwait in 1991 in his role as a British Army bomb disposal operator during the repatriation of the country from its Iraqi Army invaders.

  Wilson Hewitt had aged. Life on the run at the very edge of living had burnt him and he wore a face that most strangers would shy away from looking at. His pockmarked face, shaven hair and steely gaze projected a man who had seen and tasted depravity at its fullest. He smiled assuredly at the petite air stewardess whose eyes dodged his attention as he walked off the plane and onto the jet bridge. Had she looked closer, she’d have seen that his right ear was completely missing.

  Hewitt grimaced as he descended the escalator that provided access to a grim and dingy-looking arrivals hall, knowing he would have to endure the pain of mucking about getting a short-term visa before he could venture into the country. He stepped left and opened the sliding door into a tiny yellow booth which had just enough space to hold three people. He stepped in and lit a cigarette. It was an odd place to have a smoke but a legitimate cubicle nonetheless. He was never enamoured by visiting the Middle East, knowing he didn’t like the place, but this was business and his sufferance was generally high when the big dollars were paid. As he smoked, his mind wandered back to the man he had met in Trader Vic’s at the Park Lane Hilton in London. A young Syrian man who suggested he needed to meet some people in Kuwait.

  He had met the intermediary, who had provided the right credentials to get an audience with Hewitt. After a few checks and balances Hewitt had agreed to meet him to discuss what his people were after. The young man sat opposite Hewitt and so began a short and to the point conversation with him. ‘These people are very wealthy and well connected across governments in the region and they need someone to operate for them who can do some real damage,’ he had said. ‘They pay very well and want you to travel to Kuwait.’

  ‘How do they know about me?’

  ‘Libya,’ the young Syrian said. Hewitt carefully observed the young man’s words and demeanour, looking for any oddity in his manner and eye movements. Hewitt sensed the lad was somewhat fearful of him. He observed that the Syrian was smartly dressed, had clearly been educated in London courtesy of wealthy parents, spoke excellent English and wore an expensive Rolex watch.

  ‘I need three things first.’ Hewitt looked around the cocktail bar, checking for any sign of a stitch-up. He was guarded in who he met, and how they connected with him. ‘I need the provenance of who they spoke to about me – to verify they are legit and not fishing.’

  ‘OK, I can tell you that now.’

  ‘No. Write it down here with the location where they met,’ Hewitt said, passing across a blank business card. ‘I also need a new passport and pseudonym to travel with, and I need a large deposit in the bank before I agree to anything.’ Hewitt sipped his water, took the card back and wrote the deposit sum on another card. ‘When all that’s in place I’ll know they are competent and serious – then I’ll consider it.’

  Hewitt finished his cigarette in the airport terminal and glanced over to the visa desk where three women sat side by side, each clad in a light grey hijab, full-length garments and some sort of immigration badge on their shoulder. He finished his cigarette and walked over to them, slinging his small red rucksack over his shoulder.

  A small queue of Western businessmen stood in the queue in front of him and, eventually, the middle woman of the three beckoned him forward. He handed his passport to her, watching her flick through the pile of pre-notified visa documents without any hint of emotion. Her neatly manicured nails and facial make-up belied her modesty, and Hewitt admired her pretty face. She looked up, checked his photo, stamped the visa, remaining po-faced, and waved Hewitt towards the exit.

  Hewitt was pleased it had all been pain-free, having previously endured hours of waiting at some airports to get through immigration. He noticed how lax the security was at Kuwait airport as he walked through the exit gate into the baggage hall. He allowed himself a rare smile as he noticed a petite woman looking directly at him. She smiled at him and held up a small sign with the words Mr Hewitt on it.

  ‘I’m Nadège. Very pleased to meet you,’ she said. ‘I shall be looking after you during your time in Kuwait, Mr Hewitt. How was your journey?’

  ‘Good, thank you.’ He looked discreetly at Nadège, who he sensed was either Lebanese or Egyptian. More likely Lebanese, he surmised, based on her immaculate make-up, expensive attire, lack of a hijab and the smell of expensive perfume. ‘I wasn’t expecting this,’ he said.

  ‘You mean a female, Mr Hewitt?’ She turned on her feet and began to walk, looking back at Hewitt, smilingly with a deliberate allure. ‘We do like to operat
e somewhat differently to your usual clients I suspect.’

  ‘It makes a bloody change, I have to say. Where do we go from here then?’

  Nadège stopped but didn’t answer. ‘Mr Hewitt, just so we know you are who you say you are, how are the conditions in Rockall?’

  Hewitt took a moment to recall his meeting with the Syrian facilitator who had employed his services for this task. He had been told that, every step of the way, his employers would need to verify he was not a plant and that he was the real Hewitt. ‘I’d say they’re pretty much the same as those in Shannon to be fair.’

  Nadège smiled and marched briskly towards the exit, weaving between the crushes of people in the busy terminal building. Hewitt took in the scene of a wide mix of people as he walked. Some women he passed were clad in black burqas, many businessmen wore the classic white dishdāshah and the manual workers were attired in grey full-length cotton thawbs. The mix of different women with differing attires was prominent and it seemed very different to that in Saudi Arabia, where he had worked many times. Here, the women wore elegant abayas, some with hijabs, some without, and the more cosmopolitan females wore Western clothes with stashes of expensive jewellery and classy handbags. This was a wealthy Muslim country, and all manner of different people gravitated to it because of its outwardly liberal Muslim culture.

  Hewitt felt the searing heat hit his face as he exited the terminal before being quickly chaperoned into a large black Chevrolet with the door held open by a large minder. He sat at the rear of the vehicle, sandwiched between two men who smelt of sweat. Nadège took her seat upfront in the passenger seat.