The Kompromat Kill

by Michael Jenkins

  ‘Hey, have you got time for a walk somewhere?’ Sean said jovially. ‘I can sell you some underwear instead if you don’t like my big stuff.’

  Nadège halted and turned on her heels. She caught his cheeky grin and burst out laughing, putting her hand over her mouth. She couldn’t control herself. Sean had hit her funny bone. And she had now lost control of that normally controllable mask on her face. Beneath that mask was emotional torture, but the things that made her soul better, the ones that gave her some sense of worth, were laughing, alcohol and sex. Elements that helped to soothe her inner pain. A pain that she had lived with since childhood, and that could only ever be tamed by addictive behaviour. It was always spur of the moment – spending a fortune during addictive shopping sprees and having sex after drinking alcohol. Addictive drugs to help soothe her pain. Laughing and having fun to take her mind away from the incessant burning sensation of a soul that had two opposing voices, one of which told her she needed to self-harm. Suicidal thoughts were never far from her psyche.

  ‘OK,’ she said, ‘we can walk to the Blue Mosque Gardens. But just for a short time you understand. I need to get back to work. I can’t use you for what I need.’

  Nadège slowed her pace and strolled towards the Blue Mosque, noticing that Sean was now being quite polite and attentive, walking slightly behind her and giving her some space. She felt those sensations again. Some control too.

  The gritty English accent came from behind her. ‘Anyway, I could never have pulled that off if I was still a serving intelligence officer you know.’ She felt him approach her shoulder as Sean continued. ‘You’re too savvy. You’d have known immediately that this was some kind of scam.’

  ‘Maybe it is?’ she replied, turning her head gently towards his face but avoiding any eye contact. It was her turn to tease a little. ‘Anyway, why did you get the sack?’

  ‘Had a fling with an Iranian spy.’

  Nadège laughed. ‘I imagine your masters put you in suspended animation, as you Brits like to call it. But to get the sack would have needed something far, far worse.’

  ‘I got posted out of front-line intelligence operations to the backwaters of the Foreign Office. Did a bit of close protection in Afghanistan, a secondment to the UN and then got arrested and jailed in Kabul.’

  Nadège stopped walking. She turned to look up at him. She looked him in the eye to check his truthfulness. She felt the gaze return, piercing right into her eyes and through her veins to her heart. Somehow, she still had feelings. But those feelings had always been tempered. Neutered. Burnt.

  ‘You ended up in jail? How long and what for?’

  ‘I was running weapons illegally across Central Asia for an organised crime gang. The Don was a British copper. He framed me, and I got fifteen years. Spent a year inside and then started again.’

  ‘Started again on what?’

  ‘Selling weapons – and my body.’

  ‘You’re still selling weapons? I’ll ignore the body bit. I don’t really want to picture you as a high-class hooker.’

  ‘It pays really well though. Both of them do actually.’

  Nadège laughed again. ‘Listen, I can easily check if you’re lying. Your life is easily checked by my facilitators. So I’d advise you to stop lying now as this little entente cordiale won’t be going much further.’

  ‘It’s the truth. I’m a weapons dealer who your facilitators asked to help you. I can get whatever stuff you need. How the fuck do you think they vetted me first?’

  Nadège held this thought. She had two handlers: her Iranian boss, General Alimani, and her Russian GRU handler, Sergei. Sergei had never let her down yet, but how the hell did he get Sean Richardson to provide her with the illicit stores she needed?

  Nadège felt curiosity get the better of her. ‘Come on, I’ll show you the Blue Mosque.’

  Nadège always visited the mosque when she was in Istanbul. She wasn’t particularly religious, but she liked to sit on the large carpets and try and find herself. She showed Sean the major parts of the mosque, explaining its varied history, and then took him to the huge internal space with enormous carpets where people could sit in reflection. She had covered herself with a white cardigan before entering the mosque and buttoned it up fully before inviting Sean to take a seat on the carpet.

  Nadège sat opposite him with her legs crossed. She noticed Sean was looking around at the magnificent expanse of Islamic architecture, taking in the ambience and the staggering views of the old paintings that hung high on the walls. The murals grabbed her eye, and she spotted one of the Red Sea. That was fitting, given that it was where she had first been given the task of trying to recruit him all those years ago. To recruit him for the Russian GRU, such was her versatility and relationship with the Russian intelligence agencies. Nadège had been acting as a conduit for the Russian GRU, who were supporting her role in this, her final mission. One that would bring carnage to Europe, Britain and the US.

  She asked Sean to sit in silence for a while. She wanted to spend some time practising her mindfulness.

  Nadège’s thoughts drifted back to her days with her mother and the love she had had for France. Those memories conflicted with her loyalty to the Iranian government. A loyalty instilled in her by her father. A deep loyalty to the state. And a deep loyalty to her missions. Nadège had never really rationalised these contradictions, in part due to her difficulty in processing her emotions. Her life had been ingrained with the sole view that she had of protecting her country against evil foreigners. She recognised the propaganda she had been fed, and how deeply indoctrinated she had become during her training, whilst she was what the Russians termed ‘a young sparrow’. But her times with the Russians had made it clear to her too that Iran was being used to further Russian aims at the expense of her own country.

  She wondered if her Russian handler was playing her? Colonel Sergei Yuronov of the GRU had provided her with detailed intelligence on a British Foreign Office diplomat, Edmund Duff, who they had kidnapped in London only a few weeks ago. An act that would allow her to seek revenge on another man who deserved nothing less than a painful death: Fletcher Barrington.

  Sergei had repaid Nadège’s intelligence by tracking down Duff and watching his movements. All in return for Nadège providing intelligence on the intentions of the MOIS regarding the Americans sanctions. That was when the GRU had ordered Sergei to conjure up a plot to use the MOIS as proxy agents for Russian gains. The gains of creating chaos across Europe and the Western world by using the Iranians as their non-attributable proxies.

  Nadège had used Colonel Sergei to track Edmund down, investigate his background, check up on his friends and monitor his communications and movements for over ten months – including hacking into his many cloud accounts.

  Nadège then ensured that she was introduced to Edmund at a glamorous art event in Holborn, bedded him and then spent many long hours in his company across the London political circuit, extracting as many Foreign Office secrets as she could between the bedsheets and during the plentiful cocaine-fuelled party sessions with Edmund.

  On one occasion she had briefly introduced Edmund to her model friend and confidante, Petra. It only needed to be a brief meeting, which she had set up at the box office of the Royal Albert Hall. Just a momentary chance meeting at which eyes could meet. It was all part of the trap. A trap that Petra could one day finish to find her peace.

  To keep him close and eager, Nadège also booked an expensive female escort, making sure they had a wild and crazy threesome. She only needed one piece of information from him and she used every method at her disposal to get it.

  Eventually, Nadège became known as Edmund Duff’s girlfriend, enjoying lavish nights out in Mayfair with many of his closest friends, including her main target – the egotistical Fletcher Barrington. Barrington was to be her kill. It was a plot she had worked on closely with Petra and one that Colonel Sergei didn’t know about. It was a plot for enacting revenge on a group of men
who deserved nothing less than painful death.

  She reported all of the secrets Edmund had revealed back to General Sergei via the Russian Embassy. High-grade foreign office intelligence that was of great use to the Russians and allowed Nadège to keep getting the funding and support she needed from Colonel Sergei. It was a perfect deal.

  She recalled the dead-letter drops she had made across London with the secrets that Edmund had revealed to her. Drops she was ordered to make the old-fashioned way with handwritten notes in code. The Russians preferred it this way because of hacking, which had now become a danger to everyone in the spy world. Reversionary spy tradecraft was needed.

  She placed her secret notes in small nooks and crannies across London for a GRU agent to collect them. The latest one she remembered was just outside Waterloo station, where she had waited to see her handler approach from the fire station on Waterloo Road. She waited until he’d provided eye contact, then placed the note behind a railway noticeboard whilst having a cigarette. She walked off, allowing the GRU officer to approach the sign, slip a hand behind it and, within seconds, lift the encrypted note, which provided secret details of future Foreign Office operations in the Middle East.

  Two days later, the GRU conducted the kidnapping of Edmund Duff outside Quaglino’s - Nadège had made sure Edmund had put in a leave pass for two weeks, using this time to bribe him with demands for information she would use to conduct her revenge.

  Nadège’s plan involved a kill. A kill that the GRU did not know about. A plan that was now seamlessly woven into her plot of conducting the Iranian bombing campaign, assassinating two more men and then escaping to South America. The last act of her plan was to kill the ex-CIA chief Fletcher Barrington, making sure he would suffer first. This would be the murder that would avenge many people, and the last death in a group of men who had pained her and Petra.

  With all her plans in place, the last thing she needed now was the distraction of an old lover fucking it all up.

  ‘I was approached in London by your Russian contact,’ Sean whispered, causing Nadège to break out of her trance. ‘They tell me you need some very special equipment that I can supply you with.’

  ‘What was the codeword he gave you?’

  ‘German Bight.’

  ‘And your response?’

  ‘Dogger.'

  Nadège stayed silent. Dropped her gaze. Then re-entered her state of mindfulness. It was her way of indicating that not too much discussion was needed here. Sean had provided the correct answers. Verification. How on earth did he know the codes used between her and the Russians?

  She remembered how she had been required to memorise all the shipping forecast areas, and that the only way to verify an agent was to use an adjacent area. Dogger was right next to German Bight.

  ‘OK. One final check. Biscay.’

  She looked at Sean’s eyes. Not a flicker as he answered immediately. ‘Fitzroy.’

  Nadège started to twist her hair with her right hand, a habit she had when she was both nervous and attracted.

  ‘Look, whoever your contacts are, they wanted the best,’ Sean continued. ‘I’m the best at this across the Balkans and Europe now. I can get you whatever you need, and they’ve already paid me half my fee before the costs for the goods. There is no scam here. I don’t give a fuck who pays me any more.’

  Nadège sensed this wasn’t true at all and began to have suspicious thoughts about Sean again. What if he had been placed by British intelligence to try to disrupt her operation? How on earth could he know the GRU codes? Codes that were only used on her operations as a double agent with the Russians. Her mind focused again. She had a mission to achieve and this was too much of a distraction. She’d check Sean’s background with General Sergei but sensed something still wasn’t right.

  Nadège raised her gaze again. Stood up. She quietly made her point. ‘I think this is a very bad idea. It was nice to see you, but for me that is enough. I’ll speak to my people and tell them you’re off the case. I’ll get someone else.’

  Nadège glided gracefully out of the mosque and headed through the gardens to the river.

  She didn’t notice Samantha sat watching her every move, nor did Sean see the man sat on the park bench taking photographs of him as he left.

  Chapter 21

  London

  Jack decided to walk along the embankment of the River Thames that morning. He felt a little sombre and was in a reflective mood given that it was the third anniversary of his daughter being diagnosed with MS. In some small way he had a sense of déjà vu. He felt the rumblings of a war coming. Every sense, smell and rumour he grappled with around Whitehall told him so. And the secret intelligence he was reading on the American position on Syria and Iran told him they were again gunning for a war. Why the gung-ho approach, he wondered? Jack was a master of the game in the duplicitous halls of central government, and certainly knew the deceptive tricks the Americans could muster when needed. But for Jack, and many others in HM Crown service, they were often their own worst enemy, using the wrong tactics at the wrong time in global affairs driven by a blindness where realpolitik was concerned. He knew that game well, and knew it often overrode the more surreptitious ways of achieving a goal – and Jack was a master at those too.

  He walked down Whitehall, enjoying the magnificence of the government buildings. He spied the entrance to a building where he had been summoned by the Cabinet Secretary, Sir Justin Darbyshire. A man that he knew, for British civil service equivalence purposes, was comparable to a military general or a High Court judge. Powerful and influential were the words that fluttered across his mind. The death of D was occasion enough for Jack to be beckoned by the most senior civil servant in HM government.

  Jack was very aware that the true influence of the Cabinet Secretary extended far beyond administrative matters and reached deep into the very heart of the political decision-making process. Unusually for a democracy, his unelected role also provided some authority over elected ministers, although his constitutional authority was somewhat ambiguous.

  Jack glanced at the highly polished brass plates situated either side of the entrance of the imposing grey-brick building and walked up the few steps to the door. The plates indicated 70 Whitehall, The Cabinet Office.

  Sir Justin was a huge man. A man of real stature and one with impeccable military manners. He had been an international rugby player in the ‘70s and a rare civil servant who had previously served with distinction in the Royal Navy. Jack walked into his outer office to see Sir Justin stood pretty much to attention, wearing a beige suit topped off in masterly fashion with a dazzling Prussian blue tie set against a pristine white shirt. Jack noticed him holding his jacket collar with both hands, moving up and down on his toes.

  ‘Ah, Jack, I’ve been waiting. Good to see you young man. Come on in.’

  Jack walked over to Sir Justin and shook his hand, watching this eclectic man signal to one of his two secretaries to bring the tea and cakes.

  ‘A great time for grub,’ he said. ‘And some damn good company. Now take a seat over there Jack, and make yourself very much at ease.’

  Jack sensed the military flow to the way Sir Justin lived his life. But he also knew that behind the mask of this charming and jolly fellow lay the fierce skills of manipulation and charm. Sir Justin was the only senior civil servant outside of Thames House who knew of The Court’s existence, and the man who ensured it got all the support and funding it needed beyond the normal MI5 finance system. Sir Justin had been in post for nearly three years and was destined to remain in post for many more to come.

  ‘I shall miss him you know Jack,’ Sir Justin began, referring to D. ‘A damned fine friend and a bloody good man for us all over the years. I assume you’ll be at the funeral?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Jack replied, holding his cup and saucer above his lap.

  ‘Sit down and have some buns Jack. Plenty of sugar and British tea is needed for this discussion my boy. It’s not one I re
ally wanted to have.’ Sir Justin took his jacket off and relaxed into a ‘50s-style lounge chair. A favourite of his, Jack surmised.

  ‘You see Jack, we are in desperate trouble right now I’m afraid. And it’s all down to that warmonger Redman. He is a thorn in everyone’s side and has completely blindsided the President. He’s a US national security advisor who is fanatical about war.’ He paused, as if wanting Jack to engage. Jack took the cue.

  ‘I had long chats with D about exactly this before he passed away,’ Jack began, knowing pretty much where this would lead. ‘We agreed there is now a huge danger of us being dragged into a war with Iran and no sight of victory, especially if he encourages the President into taking such action. He was a huge advocate of the seven wars in five years the neocons wanted. A very dangerous man.’

  ‘Indeed. And now we have Redman in the Whitehouse, the neocons have their man steering a rekindled course for regime change through military means. You know, Charles Talleyrand once said, erm, do you know of him Jack? The legendary French diplomat? He famously remarked about the House of Bourbon that they had learnt nothing and forgotten nothing. The same applies to the neocons as they press for the West to intervene yet again in the Middle East. This time in Iran as well as Syria. Things could spin catastrophically out of control, so we need to act against this for the sake of us all.’

  Sir Justin stood and ambled over to his desk, placing his cup and saucer on its dark red veneer. He pointed to some of his pictures of his service in the Navy. ‘Don’t get me wrong at all Jack. I don’t mind a well-founded war at all. But the rules have changed and sadly our politicians are not good enough to see through all this smoke and mirrors and I’m fearful that, if the current Prime Minister is ousted, as she doubtless will be, we could politically be on a course of joining the President and giving the Americans the clout they need to unleash mayhem.’