But where was the vehicle? Jack had promised Samantha that everything was set up and that there’d be no delays or problems. Samantha had told him that they would be travelling under the guise of tourists on a jeep safari, making their way across Turkey and crossing into Armenia before heading for Azerbaijan and then northwards into the Georgian mountains.
Sean grabbed a flask of cold water and raised his cap to watch Nadège amble around the area. She lifted her head to get the early-morning sun. She was dressed in denim shorts, a yellow crop top and a wide brimmed sunhat with her black hair tied in a bun underneath. Sean had succumbed to her allure once again the night before. An impossibility to resist. A fatal attraction. He knew he had to put his head in the mouth of the tiger to win it over.
Out of the dusty haze, Sean saw two distant vehicles hurtling across the rolling hills towards them, blowing a trail of dust in their wake. As they got closer he could just make out two red safari jeeps – open-topped with black roll bars and huge off-road tyres.
The first vehicle skidded to a halt on the small rocks and a large bearded man with a beaming smile swung from the roll bar to exit. ‘Good day to you both. Sorry we’re a bit late but this is your vehicle. Plenty of provisions on-board too.’
Sean was shocked to hear what appeared to be a South African accent which perfectly matched the man’s gold and green rugby jersey with a springbok on its right breast.
Sean shook his hand tightly before the man handed him a small white envelope. ‘All the details are in here. You’ll be met on the other side of the border in Armenia by our contacts but it’s your job to get across the border at the precise location given inside the envelope. You have a GPS receiver, right?’
‘Yes. I’ve got a couple just in case,’ Sean replied, knowing it would be illegal to cross into Armenia. The strained relations between Armenia and Turkey following the Armenian massacre in 1915 had never been truly repaired. As a result, the border between the two countries had been closed for many years.
‘Good. You’ll meet the big boss man just outside of Yerevan tonight. You’ve got dollars and whisky to show goodwill?’
Sean nodded and paid the man $500 for his time.
‘The spare tyres, water and toolkit are all in the back. Call me if you get stuck. Bon voyage.’
The vehicle sped off into the landscape as the rotors of the MI8 roared into action.
‘Time for a bit of adventure then I suppose,’ Nadège said, waving a colourful bamboo fan across her face. ‘Just like the old days with my dad. ‘Illegal border crossings, dodgy mafia deals, money mules and awesome scenery.’
‘You love this adventure, don’t you?’ Sean said. ‘You must tell me about your father one day.’
‘He looked a bit like you actually. Acted like you too.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He was as much of an arse as you are at times.’
‘Cheers. Jump in and don’t you dare complain about my driving, which will be mad and bad.’
Sean threw his rucksack in the back, checked the tyres and fuel gauge and then fired up the jeep. He raced the engine a bit, checked the brakes and then sped off along the bumpy track down towards a plateau, before heading eastwards along what seemed like a never-ending ridge. He had punched in a series of GPS waypoints that would navigate him all the way to the ancient city of Ani.
Sean revelled in travelling in some of the most remote parts of Asia Minor. Remote highways, narrow and bumpy back roads, dusty unknown towns. They travelled in silence for the first twenty minutes or so, taking in the stunning scenery whilst Sean skilfully navigated the bumpy tracks and huge potholes. To witness the borderlands approaching Armenia and Iran was a mesmerising experience for both of them, Eastern Anatolia being a rarely visited region. The sparse, biblical landscapes that sprung from the Tigris and Euphrates were enthralling. On their travels they witnessed the first civilisations. The ancient settlements of Göbekli Tepe and Mount Nemrut, the exquisitely decorated Great Mosque of Divriği and the ruined city of Ani.
Sean made sure it was a wild ride and a chance for him to get into the mind of Nadège.
‘What’s next for you after this thrill?’ he asked, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel.
Nadège grappled with her rucksack in the bouncy cab, trying to rescue a bottle of water. She passed Sean a few dates and twisted the bottle top. He glanced at her, noticing she had put on a headscarf to protect herself against the driving winds in the open-topped vehicle.
‘Probably the Americas,’ she said. ‘You’d never find me or anyone else for that matter. I can disappear from this world and give up modelling and spying. It’s my destiny.’
‘Well, why don’t you do it sooner instead of going through with this mayhem? You could get properly nailed on this one you know.’
‘I’m locked in. I can’t retreat from it. I don’t want to talk about it. We get this job done and that’s it. Stop probing.’
‘You mean they have something on you?’
Sean looked at Nadège with a face of concern and a tone of empathy. ‘Are they bribing you to do this? I had no idea you wanted out. I could help you know.’
Nadège held her hand up to shield the wind from her face and pushed some strands of hair back under the headscarf. ‘I told you I don’t want to talk about it. You know what our lives are like. They crush us. Then they spit us out. I’m done with all the killing after this.’
‘I used to feel the same. I’m free now, don’t forget. Making a good living, especially if this comes off nicely. Then I’ll be gone too. With a fair wind and your dollars, I’ll be setting up a little artists’ shop in Tuscany.’
The silence crept back. Sean bided his time. There was definitely something amiss with Nadège. She was pained. But why? An evil killing machine inside, maybe she’d seen the light and her inner traumas were too much to handle any more. He got that. He had lived it. And beaten it.
‘Are you a double agent?’ Sean shouted out, turning again to look directly at Nadège as he rode the next set of potholes. ‘Working for the CIA or something? I don’t want to be banged up again if this is a fucking stitch-up. I just realised this could all be a set-up you know. And you’ve bloody well changed.’
‘Don’t be so bloody stupid,’ Nadège retorted. ‘I hate those American pigs.’ Nadège lurched forward to hold the dashboard with two hands as the road got bumpier, before leaning back in her seat again as they hit a small stretch of tarmac. ‘Don’t try and turn the tables with me Sean, it’s me taking the risks by hiring you for fuck’s sake.’
‘Did anyone else try to tap you up to try and turn you into a double agent then? Only happened to me once. With you.’
‘Russians. The Russians are always after me, but it’s hardly worth my while. I had a British female agent hit on me once, if that’s what you mean? I mangled her with my mind though. Great sex, and she was easy prey – I don’t think she ever found the courage to take it through to recruit me though. The sex was enough for her at the time.’
Sean laughed. ‘Evil and naughty, no better mix in my mind. I pity the poor bastards that you’ve suckered in and spat out.’
The dusty and barren flatland began to change as they approached the Armenian border. Sean knew that the hardest part of the journey would be just getting near and over the border. He hoped the vehicle was up to it.
Eventually, just as the sun was at its highest in the forty-two-degree heat, he spotted the city of Ani, where he had planned a short stop. The views of the approaching ruined walls were staggering. The size of the ruins was immense. This was a UNESCO World Heritage Site and the home of an ancient civilisation. Yet there was not a tourist in sight.
Sean parked next to a ruined archway that was once the entrance to the city. He grabbed his rucksack, placed his black baseball cap on his head and ambled through the gateway. It was once the capital of the Armenian Empire and had been one of the world’s great cities around the year 1000. In this part of the wo
rld, only Istanbul and Baghdad could hold a candle to the opulence, magnificence and architectural artistry of Ani. Rome? Sacked. London? Not even close. Ani was the greatest city no one had ever heard of. Citadel, former capital and heart of the great Armenian empire. These days, Ani is in Turkey and is an ex-city. Abandoned. Desolate, remote and largely forgotten for over seven hundred years. But not entirely forgotten. Especially not by the Armenians.
Sean was now located in what was once Armenia Minor, but the Kingdom of Greater Armenia had been squashed like a wet sponge into the tiny area it now occupied by centuries of warfare.
‘It’s an Armenian city, you know,’ Sean mentioned to Nadège, as they sat in the shade of what looked like a ruined monastery.
They looked at each other knowingly. Sean rolled some fresh herbs and ham into a piece of flatbread and offered one to Nadège.
‘Like my country, Armenia is a land of staunch chivalry and machismo,’ Nadège said, passing the water to Sean. ‘I’ve never been here but my father told me plenty about this place and about the Armenians. He said that, whenever Armenians visit it, they cry.’
Sean revelled in the magnificence of its history and grabbed a small drawing pad from his rucksack. He started to delicately sketch the remains using a variety of lead pencils to capture his version of the city beyond its remains. One day he would turn it into a painting.
The roads leading up to and away from the border were mostly gravel, and so severely potholed that travel in the jeep would be at less than 10 mph. To get to his designated border-crossing point, Sean needed to slowly navigate narrow tracks perched atop precipices with cliff edges dropping hundreds of feet into the ravines below. Only the smugglers knew of these winding border tracks and the driving was now becoming treacherous.
2pm. An hour before the rendezvous time at the border. Sean used his binoculars to try to find the river crossing below that he needed to traverse. He spotted it and it looked a bit hairy. He scanned the other side of the border. He could see a small hilltop barracks, not too dissimilar to the one he had passed twenty minutes ago on the Turkish side. He knew they had to be cautious now to avoid any border patrols. To be caught now would be a travesty.
Sean drove down the steep-sided valley that doubled back to the border crossing some distance below. They passed the remains of long-since-abandoned Armenian hamlets, visible only by way of red-stained grass and soil and crumbling rocks.
It wasn’t long before Sean found the river crossing. He looked for an easier route across the raging river. Nothing. He spotted a route across the river with an island in the middle and decided it was a case of bursting through the waves and hoping for the best. There was no other option. Just as he jumped back in the jeep, he spotted a waving arm on the other side of the river. Just a single man, who now waved with both arms and then picked up a large wooden pole. He held it in his right hand and pointed to the route Sean needed to take. Sean pressed the accelerator, grabbing the steering wheel fiercely.
‘Hold onto your bits, this will be fun,’ he said, as he crashed into the first wave and rode the rocks below.
The water broke across the top of the windscreen, soaking both of them. Sean struggled with the steering wheel as the rocks forced the wheels to judder and the chassis to lurch. He kept the momentum going, glancing across to see Nadège standing up holding the front roll bar. It was exhilarating, great fun and a breathtaking experience as they traversed the island, laughing and shouting, egging the vehicle on.
The vehicle lumbered across the final thirty metres into Armenian territory, where the man was waving his arms towards an exit route up a mud bank. The man ran ahead, guiding the route for Sean to take.
As Sean eased the jeep to the top of the bank on the crest of the brow he let out a sigh of relief, pushing the steering wheel and groaning to get the jeep firmly onto the plateau above the river.
He lifted his eyes to be greeted by three blue and white Land Rovers, each of them regimentally parked alongside the next one. Two policemen were pointing AK47s straight at them.
‘Fuck,’ was all he could muster.
Chapter 32
Buckinghamshire
‘When will you release him?’ Fletcher Barrington asked the Chief of the CIA London Station. Laura Creswell simply narrowed her eyes and ignored the question.
Jack heard the words perfectly through the ceiling-mounted loudspeakers in the CIA safe house located just outside Stokenchurch, an hour to the north-west of London.
Jack looked at the CCTV monitor to watch the reaction of Barrington, who was sat at a table in the small kitchen.
Laura, a fierce CIA interrogator, looked at Barrington with utter disdain before leaning across the table to confront him.
‘When this is all over, chances are you’ll walk free, never to hear from me again. But only if you do exactly as I tell you on a daily basis. If you play this right with your friend Redman, you’ll continue to live and be free of the shame I could drop on you at a moment’s notice. You will make sure the National Security Advisor does exactly as I want him to. Do you understand?’
‘What about Duff? You need to let him go free first.’
Laura sat back and applied some lipstick before screwing up her face. ‘You know exactly how this works,’ she began. ‘I have got you by the balls, you asswipe. Don’t worry about him. Worry about yourself. You do as I say from this moment onwards - you’ll never see or hear from your bum chum Edmund Duff again. Remember the last time you met him in London at Quaglino’s the night he was kidnapped. Remember his face. Savour the memory, but you’ll never ever see him again you fucking despicable man.’
Jack watched Barrington pick up the photographs again. His face was as white as a sheet and he was now quivering. He pulled out a small sleeve of tablets and took one, washing it down with the single glass of water placed on the table.
‘Your man Duff has been a silly boy,’ Laura continued. ‘He’s been giving British secrets to the Russians, who found out about your own little secret that you vowed to take to the grave together. So, the Russians have you nailed to your filthy mast with your ass hanging out. Which is why you’ll do everything I tell you.’
The Kompromat had been delivered. The reactions were just as Jack had expected. This was a moment to savour as he revelled in seeing the leader of an evil cabal suffer. There was no escape for Barrington – he was in the clutches of MI5 and the CIA for as long as he was useful. Useful for coercing US foreign policy in the belief that the Russians held the Kompromat.
The only matter that Jack would need to handle was that three people now wanted Barrington dead: Nadège, Petra and Sean Richardson.
Jack knew that his plan to manage this messy affair needed more work and that there was more to play out in the coming days - but for now, Barrington and Duff were fully ensnared in Jack’s net. A net that he would bait and use to trap the right-hand man of the President of the USA – his National Security Advisor, John Redman.
Chapter 33
Armenia
Sean stepped out of the jeep with his hands held high – an act of surrender to the men pointing AK47s right at his chest. He told Nadège to do the same. A tall gangly man approached both of them with a pistol in his hand. He wasn’t wearing a uniform. He wore a faded grey T-shirt with the words ‘American grown, Armenian roots’ on it.
Sean hoped that this was not a fuck-up. Jack would have been careful to ensure the operation was watertight, but what if someone had leaked information to the authorities? Was this all part of the planned deception? Or would they be kidnapped and sold as spies? The T-shirt resonated with him. Many Americans were proud of their Armenian descent but was he actually American?
The man stood in front of Sean with his legs positioned in a strident manner. ‘You want to trade with Armenia?’ he said nonchalantly. Sean reckoned he was probably nearer seven feet than six and felt a sense of relief when the codewords were used.
‘Just for one day,’ Sean replied. ‘I’m loo
king for discount though.’
The man walked forward, put his pistol in the back of his jeans and shook Sean’s hand wildly before giving him a painful bear hug.
‘My name is Charlie and I’m here to take you to the big boss. He’s expecting you, but first we must socialise with the border guards. They are expecting some reward.’
‘That’s fine,’ Sean replied. ‘Which part of the States are you from?’
‘New York born and bred, but my home and heart is here in Armenia,’ he said, placing his open palm on his heart and banging it twice with his right hand. ‘Have some dollars ready and be prepared to drink lots. Follow me.’
Sean looked at Nadège, who was now sat in the jeep with her arms folded. Sean could see she was not overly impressed by the expected charade. ‘This better not be a stitch-up,’ she muttered. ‘I can see what’s coming a mile off you know.’
‘I’m more worried about you stitching me up for fuck’s sake. I thought that was it for a moment. Isn’t it about time we worked together for a change? We could be a great bloody partnership making big bucks you know.’
Nadège tutted, fiddled with her headscarf and adjusted it so that it covered her hair, shoulders and breasts. She foresaw the macho world of Armenian hospitality.
Armenia is one of the oldest countries in the world on the famous Silk Road. Traders and merchants were the most mobile and active people in Armenian society and the country had been at the crossroads for a number of different trading routes into Iran or northwards into Russia. From time immemorial, Armenia was the smuggling capital of Asia Minor and, today, Sean was being treated as one of those smugglers, knowing full well that the border guards had to be paid off first.
Inside the small barracks, Sean and Nadège were taken to what appeared to be an old guardroom with a kitchen and dining facility. Five border guards sat around the rectangular table and T-shirt man offered Sean and Nadège seats at opposite ends of it. Sean spotted a well-worn ‘anti-corruption’ poster on the wall. The guards were young, casual and attempting to speak English, with the exception of the older gentleman in the well-worn uniform, whose job it was to receive the money for the illegal Armenian crossing. A type of visa transaction.
The Kompromat Kill Page 23
