The Kompromat Kill

by Michael Jenkins

  ‘Hey Jack, so nice to catch up again,’ the middle-aged woman said in her loud Californian accent. ‘Great place for a late lunch I’d say. I had a bit of downtime for some shopping too don’t you know.’

  ‘So glad you could make it Laura,’ Jack said, standing to greet her. ‘You’re looking really well as ever.’

  ‘Oh I am Jack, never better,’ she said, kissing him on the cheek. ‘I’m betting a few of the staff in here are on your payroll then?’ Her jovial manner reassured Jack, as did the glancing wink she threw him. She was right of course. Jack had used the restaurant for many years as part of The Court’s operations when wealthy targets had been recommended to eat at the restaurant. A healthy ploy. A ploy normally used for the visiting elite, when the waitresses would listen in to discreet conversations with mistresses, wives and friends. The Greek waitress serving them was from Thessaloniki and was superb at striking up breezy conversation with target diners, who would be shown to one of the six tables she managed.

  ‘Great news that you’re staying on as station chief Laura,’ Jack ventured, referring to his friend’s role as Chief of the CIA at the London station. Laura Creswell was known to be a superb leader as well as a hugely talented spy after many years working the Middle East circuits. It had been a highly acclaimed career with only one blip – when she was asked to leave Berlin as station chief in 2014 after her teams had placed surveillance bugs on the German Chancellor’s phone. London was due to be her respite before being lined up for the top role as Director of the CIA in Washington.

  She had an active personal interest in Jack’s Kompromat. They had been friends for many years and Jack trusted her like no other CIA officer. He rarely trusted anyone in the American intelligence community, knowing how much they leaked and that they leaked often.

  ‘I’m enjoying my work here Jack and I’m so glad we could help you with your current overseas job. It’s my pleasure as always you know.’

  Jack smiled, knowing exactly how the Kompromat would act as a major lever to de-escalate the US–Iranian aggression, but also allow Laura to firmly position herself for Director of the CIA in the not too distant future. An added bonus in Jack’s world of deception. The Americans, just like the Russians, would always stockpile compromising material on their political elite until such a time it could be made use of. The material Jack would hand to Laura would be a piece of Kompromat that would be dynamite in the American intelligence community.

  Kompromat is a tactic historically used by the Russians to blackmail anyone in powerful positions. They had used such dark methods for decades. But now that the US media had released a dossier compiled by a private intelligence company containing unverified allegations that the FSB had a video of the US President with prostitutes in the Moscow Ritz Carlton in 2013, America had entered the dark world of the Russian’s modus operandi – the use of explosive Kompromat on their politicians. Jack was about to add to this on a grand scale.

  ‘The material is exactly as we discussed Laura. Fully attributable to the individual and damning. But when I give this to you, you must agree to use it only in the way we discussed. Only you and I know about its content at this stage. It must be used directly against your National Security Advisor, John Redman.’

  Laura took a moment to take off her navy blue blazer, catching a glimpse of the Greek waitress perched discreetly next to the circular book stands, awaiting Jack’s instructions. The restaurant was empty except for a middle-aged couple sat at the cocktail bar.

  ‘You know Jack, these are bad, bad, days for us in the US. I know you British well of course, and as ever you want to coach us to do things in, well…’ A pause. ‘A more considered way…’

  ‘With stealth,’ Jack said, interrupting.

  ‘Don’t you know it Jack. I’m on your side and many others back home are too. There are many ways our intelligence communities can bring Iran to its knees, but not in the way the current administration is going about it. There are better ways to stop them arming Hezbollah, and better ways to induce an internal coup instead of escalating into a direct war with Iran.’

  ‘It’s as bad as I’ve ever seen you know,’ Jack said, pouring Laura some spring water.

  ‘You Brits do love an understatement. It’s war Jack. Just over the horizon. Do your Joint Intelligence Committee ever listen to me when I come to those wonderfully British meetings?’

  ‘They’re not used to having such a feisty female from the CIA you know.’

  ‘Ha. I have them in my bosom, that’s all they ever bloody look at.’

  Jack laughed, and the unlikely couple reminisced about some of their previous forays across the globe. They dined on cumin-dusted tuna, with a white bean and chorizo salsa, and treated themselves to a bottle of French Chateau Lestrille wine. Jack suggested that the hawks had got to the US President and that, whilst the Iran nuclear deal was bad, it did at least create a holding pattern whilst other covert methods could be used to create a coup from within.

  ‘I’ll get to Redman, Jack. Redman will be forced to get the President to back off but I’ll have to think carefully about how I lay the ground for this to happen.’

  ‘We need time now Laura. Time to stop what’s coming next. A massive head storm of Iranian terror and a hybrid war. Get us some time and use that magnificent influence of yours amongst your people.’

  Jack was quite clear about what he wanted to see happen. Using the Kompromat, Redman would be coerced into getting the US presidential administration to adapt the sanctions on Iran. This would buy enough time to stop the imminent terrorist strikes and allow for a resetting of the strategy. Russia were using Iran as their proxy to cause chaos and the President had fallen into the trap set by Moscow. Jack and Laura both agreed it would be cleaner if the US put all their efforts into creating the conditions for an internal coup in Iran to let the people rise against the mullahs. The compromising material Jack had in his briefcase was volatile enough to get their National Security Advisor to adjust his stance, and that of the President, via bribery and coercion. British politicians would be delighted if such a change of position occurred to buy the time needed to change course.

  The lunch was agreeable, and they chatted briefly about their last operation together in Afghanistan in early 2004. Jack fielded Laura’s questions about Asia de Cuba, and why he chose this as his go-to place. He showed her the four round pillars that held hundreds of books, intermittently adorned with old black and white pictures of Cuban people. ‘You’re very much our man in Havana, Jack,’ she said whimsically, thoroughly absorbed in the enchanting decor. ‘A quirky and secret place for lovers I assume?’

  ‘Very many,’ Jack replied. ‘We’ve managed to hook the odd diplomat or two in here on many an occasion. Some very helpful Kompromat to oil the wheels on many a job we’ve handled in London. It’s highly recommended you know.’

  Laura laughed and finished her wine. ‘A fine place Jack. Very much you. Recommended for being chic, sophisticated, witty and, above all, fun,’ she said flirtatiously.

  Jack chuckled at her flamboyant nature and let the moment go. He loved listening to her loud but melodic Californian accent and enjoyed her brash banter. He held the pause for a while longer and then made a request. ‘I do of course need something in return for this Laura. A contingency.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘We may need your NEST teams on standby to help across Europe. We can handle it here in the UK, but if we see things begin to go crooked on the continent, we’ll need some help.’ Jack had briefed Laura on the intelligence Sean had uncovered in Istanbul but not on the potential for an improvised nuclear device being built by the Iranians. He now needed some level of support from America’s Nuclear Emergency Support Teams.

  ‘Bloody hell Jack. NEST teams? You waited this long to tell me?’

  ‘Forgive me. It’s only just been confirmed by our man in Istanbul. Your CIA teams have been a huge help for our Court operations.’

  ‘What’s he found?’


  ‘Verified intelligence of a nuclear plot. It’s a bit tricky as our man is somewhat on the edge right now.’

  ‘Wobbly or fucked up in the head Jack?’

  ‘He’s bloody good but suffering a bit of both I’m afraid.’

  ‘You what? You mean you have a mentally unstable individual providing you with intelligence of a nuclear plot? Jack, come on man.’

  ‘That’s why it’s tricky Laura. His intelligence has been fully verified and I’m monitoring him right now. I just need your help if it goes haywire.’

  ‘My special activities teams are fully involved in your Court operation, right?’

  ‘They are, but up to now purely in a supporting role.’

  ‘OK. I can have a look at the NEST teams but, from hereon in, we operate as a team on this op, OK? I’ll play ball with the Kompromat, you play ball and give me full disclosure on the intelligence for this op. Deal?’

  Jack raised his glass to Laura. ‘Deal.’

  ‘Right, let’s go and get them, buster.’

  ‘Just one more thing Laura. We need to play the Kompromat with a bit of skill.’

  ‘Fine. What’s the angle I need to use?’

  ‘It will start with a letter to Fletcher Barrington, saying that the Russian GRU have kidnapped his best friend. Our FCO Diplomat, Edmund Duff.’

  ‘Who exactly has got him then?’

  ‘I have him Laura. Or at least, access to him. He’s nicely tucked up generating all the evidence I needed - which is now in the dossier. The Russians lifted him but I have access to the information he’s providing them.’

  ‘Unbelievable! You’re a real intrigant Jack. Your mind never stops plotting eh? What’s this all about though?’

  Jack waved at the Greek waitress. ‘All rather simple really. And hopefully effective. Redman’s best friend is Fletcher Barrington and they have a nasty secret they’ve vowed to keep silent. Edmund Duff knows all about the circumstances of that incident in the Kompromat – you see, he was there too. As was your National Security Advisor on one or two occasions. All three of them were in it together. They now need to believe it’s the Russians who have compiled the Kompromat, and that Duff will be killed, their nasty secret revealed to the world and their lives in ruin if they don’t comply with the instructions we give them. Far easier for you and me to bribe these bastards by acting as Russians you know.’

  ‘Genius, Jack. So, we play this one out as Russians then.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Nice basket Jack. Good job.’

  Jack watched the Greek waitress place the bill on the table in front of Laura. The bill was purposefully placed in a novel entitled Playing with the Grown-ups by Sophie Dahl. The restaurant always presented bills to its customers in one of the hundreds of books on their shelves.

  Laura looked across to Jack in amusement. ‘Very apt,’ she said, hardly hiding her admiration for him. ‘A coming of age.’

  Jack nodded. ‘One chapter at a time, so to speak. We have a few to deal with now but have a look at the fifteenth chapter.’

  Laura turned the pages to Chapter Fifteen. Then she read. It was a chapter with encrypted instructions from Jack on how to take the Kompromat operation forward in precise detail. He loved books and he knew Laura did too. A riddle wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma. A present.

  ‘I’ll send the cipher key separately for Chapter Fifteen. The photos of Duff being held by a couple of Russian thugs are in the dossier, and you’ll need a good Russian émigré to hand the note over to Fletcher Barrington. He’s in London for five days until Saturday.’

  ‘This is wonderful Jack. Thanks so much.’

  Jack held Laura’s blazer by the arms. She kissed him, turned and slipped her arms in. She adjusted her collar before picking up Jack’s briefcase.

  ‘Just one question Jack. How are you going to stop this terrorist plot?’

  Jack put his hand on Laura’s back and steered her to the exit. ‘Well, there’s an old Armenian saying that I often use. “The honey is sweet, but it hurts those who eat a lot of it.” I’ll keep you posted if I get stuck.’

  ‘Love it when a plan comes together,’ she said chirpily.

  Jack nodded at the waitress and they left.

  Chapter 31

  Armenia

  Sean watched Nadège peer out of the round porthole in the fuselage of the aging MI8 helicopter. Below them, the Turkish landscape changed from the metropolis of Istanbul to the flat lowland plain of the coast of the Black Sea as they sped eastwards at 150 mph. Executive travel it was not. Once east and north of Istanbul and into Anatolia proper, they were steaming along over orchards, holiday villas and lush landscapes as the aircraft hugged the coastline. It all passed in a blur as they headed east towards the Turkish city of Kars, the gateway to the abandoned Armenian city of Ani.

  To their north-east lay the fertile lands of Abkhazia and the glistening peaks of the Greater Caucasus mountain range in Georgia, but the most prominent feature they saw out of the porthole was the Crimean Peninsula and the environs of its capital, Sevastopol. Sean had been assured that a vehicle would be waiting for him when they landed near the Armenian border and that he would be required to drive the remaining two hundred kilometres to their rendezvous with the nuclear smugglers.

  The inside of the MI8 was sparse. It had two very long bench seats either side of the fuselage and rusty grey seatbelts which neither of them used. It was designed to transport up to thirty-five soldiers but only Nadège and Sean were on-board. Sean wondered who Jack had recruited for this part of the mission. He would have needed to prime and pay several facilitators on the ground to make this deception work. This was a massive operation – the acquisition of an MI8 helicopter, a ground team in Armenia and the right people embedded in the smuggling gang’s wider operation. Lord knows how Jack had conjured that up. But Sean was pleased that his lure had worked, and that Samantha had persuaded Jack to give him a crack at making the complex ploy work.

  Sean now had the prospect of plenty of time with Nadège over the next forty-eight hours, allowing him to take the operation to the next level, although he had to be cautious. The lure had worked but inside the mind of his prey was a committed and dangerous woman. She could have him killed at any moment, but he needed to get inside that mind of hers. What exactly was she committed to? What was the vulnerability that might cause her to turn?

  His mind whirred like the rotors above him as the two-hour journey gave nothing but time to think. He had spent the previous night researching the puzzling parts of the mission. He had searched for a list of all Bosnian-born models in an effort to find out who Nadège’s blonde lover was, and to identify their historic connection, as well as how they may have met. He knew Nadège’s cover as an elite model would probably have been the way they had met, but who exactly was this stunning blonde? He had looked at the pictures he had placed on the noticeboard in the ship’s cabin, which now resembled that in a police murder room, with the photos of the various protagonists displayed prominently across the board and walls, each linked with a dotted line if they were connected in some way.

  On the board, he had placed Nadège smack bang in the middle, with lines drawn to her blonde model lover and also to the missing diplomat using a dotted line with a question mark. What was the link to the missing diplomat, he wondered? The puzzle wasn’t complete, and Sean had asked Melissa to find the names of the officers who had served with the ex-CIA officer in Bosnia. The link was Bosnia, but what criminal activity had they been up to?

  Eventually, after trawling model websites for more than two hours, he found her. He found her on an obscure Montenegrin website for models who were for hire in the glamour industry. She wasn’t a mainstream elite model – rather a part-time photo model called Petra. It was definitely her. Sean looked closely at the picture of her in the Istanbul hotel they had captured on his covert camera before she had met Nadège on the first night she arrived back in the city. Yes, her hair was short in the pictures, but it was
her OK. Dazzling blue eyes, a perfectly symmetrical face and now a beautiful white complexion with long blonde hair. Sean was intrigued that Nadège had a female lover, but why this recurring Balkan connection he wondered? He sent the picture and name back to The Court to get them to verify her real name and background. By morning it had come back. Her real name was Petra Novak.

  Petra was thirty-four years of age and had been born in Tuzla, Bosnia-Herzegovina in 1985. She was born to a Croatian father who had been killed in 1992 at the outbreak of the war. The town of Tuzla was not spared the atrocities of the Bosnian War and her father was killed in an attack by the Yugoslav People's Army on 15 May 1992.

  The report Sean received didn’t provide any further details, but he knew there was a big link here. The HQ of the United States Army during the Bosnian War had been in Tuzla. Moreover, the kidnapped diplomat and the ex-CIA officer who had killed Sean’s mother were also stationed there during the war in 1995.

  He sent a mail via the dark web back to The Court’s HQ at RAF Bentwaters. He asked for more details of the life and background of Petra Novak, his curiosity piqued.

  Sean stepped away from the helicopter, put his sunglasses on and spied the surrounding wastelands. The morning sun was searing, the landscape giving him a sense of myopia as he looked across the dusty, arid plains. There was nothing. No hut, no airfield terminal. Just undulating dust-and-gravel plains.

  Sean turned to offer his hand to Nadège as she started disembarking the aircraft on a set of rusting ladders. She tutted and threw him a look. The pilot shut down all the engines to give his aging beast of a machine a well-earned rest.

  Sean grabbed a GPS receiver and sat on his rucksack fiddling with its buttons. They had arrived in the Eastern Anatolia region, an arid and remote wilderness deep in the wilds of eastern Turkey close to the borders with Iran and Armenia. The nearest town was Pasliner, some five kilometres away, and Yerevan, their destination for the rendezvous with the smugglers, was another 170 kilometres away.