The officer passed T-shirt man a piece of paper. He then passed it to Sean and explained. ‘These are what the transactions are for. It’s part of their rules you know.’ T-shirt man explained each line, indicating that Sean was paying all the fees needed to enter Armenia with a vehicle. The fees were for highway taxes, eco-charges, which made Sean smirk, customs brokerage and a few other odds and ends. There were about eight numbers written down, totalling about $900. Sean was told there was a large surcharge for using dollars, leaving him with no option. Sean played the game and rolled out the dollars on the table.
‘Do you have any cognac?’ the chief officer asked.
Sean smiled and, smart as a whip, placed his rucksack on the table.
‘Cognac? Vodka? Whisky?’
The chief clicked his fingers and, within minutes, meat, vegetables, soup, bread, olives and grapes appeared. Iced tea, Coke and Fanta also came. Sean and Nadège were treated to a long late lunch with the border officials as T-shirt man’s birthday was toasted, many, many times. Two hours later they departed to meet the big boss.
Sean followed the vehicle of T-shirt man to their final rendezvous. A location that had not been shared with Sean. He was now in the hands of nuclear smugglers and very aware of the implications of this all going wrong. His thoughts briefly relapsed to the time he had spent in the Kabul jail, which had nearly killed him. He didn’t want a repeat of being banged up abroad ever again. He needed to keep his nerve and trust that Jack had everything in place.
Sean had done his homework though. He had read various dossiers on the worrying episodes of nuclear smuggling in Armenia and the propensity for the country to be at the very heart of such gangs’ activities. Armenians had been particularly active in smuggling efforts across the region, with numerous arrests of their criminals, who had crossed into neighbouring Georgia to try and sell nuclear materials. This activity had increased in the past two years, with the latest event occurring just two weeks ago on the border with Nagorno-Karabakh and Azerbaijan. Eight Armenians had been arrested in the last twelve months for smuggling caesium-137 and enriched uranium-238 that could be used in an improvised nuclear device.
‘Tell me about the agents you’ve been running then Nadège,’ Sean asked, with an impression of insouciance.
‘Which ones?’
‘Oh, you know, the network of agents you’ve been running over the years. I’m interested to see how good you are – or were.’
‘Piss off. I’m still a master at this game and, unlike you, I’m still in the game.’
‘Oh, the life of a glamour model eh? Easy pickings then at the clubs and parties of Mayfair?’
‘A few, yes. Don’t forget I’ve been living and working in Britain for nearly fifteen years and it’s fertile ground given the stupidity of the Brits in power.’
‘Kill any of them?’
Nadège glared at Sean before running her hand through her hair. ‘That’s enough now. No more stupid questions please. Concentrate on the bloody road.’
Sean noticed they were approaching the outskirts of a major conurbation. Probably Yerevan. He was enjoying the experiences of Anatolia and Armenia. He caught a glimpse of a family picnicking peacefully on the bank of a narrow river and caught sight of a man driving his cab-less tractor on the verges of the road, dressed, somewhat bizarrely, in a blue suit. Sean was surprised by the differences between Armenia and Turkey. It was noticeable how clean and well-maintained Turkey was in comparison to Armenia, which had some of the ugliest post-Soviet-era apartment buildings imaginable. He also noticed that road signage did not exist to track his route.
T-shirt man slowed right down and put his arm out of his jeep to tell Sean to slow down - they were at the rendezvous. Sean turned right onto a small potholed track and spotted a set of double metal gates that gave entry to a huge compound with a large house inside its perimeter wall. The gates opened to reveal two men with assault rifles draped over their shoulders, each opening one of the gates with symmetrical efficiency to allow the vehicles to enter. Sean parked next to T-shirt man under a draped awning and jumped out of the vehicle.
They were immediately searched by another man dressed in shorts and a hoody. A muscular man. Pumping himself with needles to bulk out, Sean thought. The man searched each of their rucksacks thoroughly and then conducted a search of the jeep with T-shirt man.
‘This way guys,’ T-shirt man said, waving his arm over his shoulder. ‘Bring your kit. You’ll be staying the night.’
They were chaperoned into a large office. A great office, Sean thought. Worthy of a big boss. Sean spied the hefty wooden desk at the end of a large space suitably decorated with objects of war such as swords and guns. And then then were photos on the right-hand wall of soldiers’ faces. A shrine? Were the photos perhaps of old soldiers the big boss man had fought with?
‘I hope your journey was pleasant,’ the man behind the desk said, standing up to greet his guests. ‘Please take a seat.’
Sean and Nadège sat on two antique wooden chairs with a small table in front of them. ‘You are my guests and, as is my custom, I have prepared a feast for you this evening. Make yourselves comfortable please.’
Sean watched the man’s demeanour. He was a short, stocky man, perhaps with a military background judging by his style and manner. Now he was presumably a warlord and chief smuggler. Jack had not given him any background whatsoever, so Sean was still unsure how this would all pan out. The man had a crew cut, numerous grubby tattoos on his arms and a small scar across his forehead. The big boss certainly acted as such. No handshakes. Formal and welcoming, but taut. Sean watched him wave a hand to his assistant.
‘Before we do business I have a small gift for you both. We are very welcoming people in Armenia and we like to look after our guests.’ The assistant presented a silver cigarette lighter and a silver trinket case to them. Nadège saw it fit to hand the lighter to Sean and the big boss laughed. Nadège’s relaxed impetuousness during the gift swopping was an icebreaker for the new business friendship, providing Sean with some relief.
‘My name is Oleg and I served for many years in the Soviet Army. I can find and sell anything. What about you?’ he asked, pointing a long arm at Sean.
The office, located on a sliver of land along the River Hrazdan, was the base for one of the world’s most notorious nuclear smugglers, Oleg Achenco, a dual Russian-Ukrainian citizen nicknamed ‘Kapitán’. He was a fugitive wanted by the US and Moldovan authorities for attempting to sell weapons-grade uranium to Islamist terrorist groups in 2015 and 2016. One of his middlemen had been caught and shot in 2016 in a Moldovan sting operation, during which police had found the blueprints for a dirty bomb in his home. But the Kapitán escaped and set up shop in Armenia.
‘My name is Sean and I was a civil servant. I buy good-quality items now. I have brought a gift for you too.’
Sean leant into his rucksack and pulled out a full bottle of Isle of Jura whisky. ‘One of Scotland’s finest,’ he said, placing it on his desk.
‘Thank you. I like. Now to business, my friends. My team have confirmed me the deposit has been placed in my bank account. I need assurance you will place remaining fee once I show goods. You will not be able to depart until funds are in my account. Do you understand?’
Sean nodded, fully understanding his mispronunciations of the English language, delivered with a guttural Russian accent. ‘When can we see the product?’
‘Tomorrow morning,’ the Kapitán said, lighting a cigar and opening the whisky. His assistant brought glasses for everyone. ‘A mere mortal cannot just get his hands on this stuff you know. I needed multiple people in military to get this item. I’m glad it will be put to good use.’
Sean was glad of the walk-in GRU agent setting this up through his sources. Now that Sergei was a double agent for The Court, it opened the door to multiple operations for Jack to manage and exploit. Could this be his finest, Sean thought?
‘If you don’t mind me asking, where did you m
anage to get the product?’ Sean asked, knowing it was a bit brazen. But nothing ventured, nothing gained.
The Kapitán took a sip of his whisky and drew a long breath. ‘Aaah, a fine drink my friend. I shall tell you a story and you can decide if it is true.’
Kapitán Oleg explained how his Ukrainian background and the war in Ukraine had allowed him to purloin a number of ‘products for sale’, as he called them.
He had military contacts at the Pervo Maysk strategic missile base located in the middle of nowhere and a long way from Severesk in Siberia. The base was miles from any population in the quiet Siberian tundra, surrounded by sunflower fields and, like an iceberg, above the surface Pervo Maysk showed only a hint of what lay beneath. Oleg explained that there were a few light-weight fences, some electrified rusty barbed wire and a small collection of buildings disguising a real, cold war-era, underground Soviet Union nuclear base. It was from here that he acquired his special stores. True or not, Sean had a deal to make. He needed to take the operation to the next level and track and trace the bomber and any other bombs he had built. It was a sting operation but one that could feasibly take down Nadège’s entire logistics network and, hopefully, reveal her sleeper agents in Britain.
‘Now you will witness the world-famous Armenian barbecue,’ Oleg said, as he chaperoned Nadège and Sean to the large yard. ‘We will drink and eat and be merry. Pissed, as you say in England I think.’
The yard was huge. It had a mixture of large potted plants, a few raised herb beds, a large grassed area with two open-sided marquees and colourful lights twinkling up high. Sean spotted a strange-looking barbecue in the corner of the yard where numerous men had gathered to talk. An Armenian tonir barbecue. Each man wore thick chains, huge crosses and several solid-gold rings. The wives and girlfriends sat in one of the marquees, smiling and laughing whilst four or five small children played on the swings and makeshift climbing frame.
‘First you must meet my wife while we wait for big chef to arrive,’ Oleg said.
Sean sensed this could be some night – he knew how the people of the Caucasus liked to party. The women were all dressed smartly in Western clothes and summer dresses. Some even in glitzy T-shirts and tight-fitting jeans. Sean had read much of Armenian family values and how Armenian women were often regarded as the most beautiful and striking in the Caucasus region and beyond. They are famous for their dark hair, brown eyes and curvy figures. Think Kim Kardashian as an Armenian. Think Cher. The women Sean met were indeed striking and incredibly polite. As were the macho men to their partners. Respect was a golden thread of Armenian culture alongside their food and cordiality. Nadège joined the women with some ease and was offered a variety of locally made organic wines. Oleg cracked a bottle of Armenian wheat beer for Sean and they clinked bottles.
An entrance. The big chef. The men walked forward to greet a small portly man who was rolling his blue denim sleeves up. Tightly cropped black hair, a beaming smile with a gold tooth, unshaven but with a trimmed beard. A large gold necklace. The big chef was enjoying his starring role and shook hands wildly with the men, placing his left hand over each hand he shook. The main man had arrived. Sean wandered over to watch with intrigue how he plied his trade. One of the other men told him he was one of Armenia’s strongest wrestlers, drove a truck during the day and was hired at night to cook tonir barbecues for the wealthy.
One of the men pointed the chef to two large plastic tubs full of meat that had been marinating all day in beer. Lamb and chicken khorovats. Shashlik on skewers. The chef fired up the enormous barbecue and stepped to one side to clean the huge iron skewers with a metal brush. He scrubbed them hard, banging them, turning them and soaking them in beer as he went. A beer was passed to him. The men crowded around the barbecue to watch him work and to chat about wrestling with him. The beer was now flowing, and the distinct smell of ale and charcoal wafted through the air as the evening light began to drain from the day. Sean began to enjoy this very amenable social occasion and he made sure that Nadège’s wine glass was always topped up, so she never knew quite how much wine she had been drinking. This was an opportunity to chat socially and to allow the alcohol to penetrate her mask.
Sean chatted with the men around the barbecue and was offered a cigar by T-shirt man.
‘My father taught me how to make these,’ he said to Sean. ‘Try one. They’re legendary over here.’
Sean lit the hand-rolled cigar, puffed on it a few times and watched T-shirt man start to play the decrepit white piano positioned centre stage in the garden. The kids began to crowd round. Remarkably, the piano was perfectly in tune.
Nadège had joined them at the piano and Sean offered her the cigar. ‘It’s really smooth.’
‘Haven’t smoked one of these since I did a model shoot in the vaults of an old club in Moorgate. Promoting Coronets. Mmm, really nice.’
Sean put his hand on her back and chaperoned her to the middle of the garden for a quiet chat. They were both grinning with the alcohol, enjoying a brilliant party with authentic people in a marvellous part of the world.
‘I’m loving this,’ Sean said, clinking his bottle against Nadège’s glass. ‘You?’
‘I love it – they’re really great people. And boy, look at this home-made wine. Apparently Oleg has a number of vineyards and this is gorgeous stuff. I’m gonna party.’
They drank in silence for a while before Sean moved closer to her. ‘You know, I had some bad news a few days ago. About my mother.’
‘Why, what happened? You never told me about her.’
‘I know. I just found out how she died when I was fifteen. Her death has lived with me every day and is probably a major cause of my own troubles through life. She was killed by the CIA in Berlin. She was a spy too you know.’
‘Bloody hell Sean. How? What happened?’
‘I don’t really know the detail but I’ll find out when this is over. I’ll hunt the bastard down and kill him. I know he’s still alive.’
‘But how? Who told you all this? How do you know it’s true?’
‘Her handler in Berlin. Immediately after her death he went mad and was committed to a mental institution in Prague, where he had retired. He had a massive breakdown over her death, it was probably the final trauma of many he’d been carrying. You know what it’s like.’ Sean explained how the encrypted note had come into the hands of a good friend of his in a snuffbox. He left out the fact that his ‘good friend’ was the Director General of MI5.
‘By all accounts, some of her handler’s memory has now come back to him but I’m not sure how long he’s got to live. I want to find out more about the detailed circumstances of her death. She worked for MI6 and was their expert in getting defectors across the border.’
‘Wow. Respect to her.’
Sean chaperoned Nadège towards one of the garden sofas, where they sat for a while. ‘What about your parents?’ he asked, topping up Nadège’s glass.
‘I might tell you one day,’ she replied. ‘But for now, we should dance. I’m feeling it.’
‘Feeling what? Feeling free at last?’
‘Yes, very much so.’
‘Good. Don’t think for one moment I haven’t seen those cuts across your wrists and arms.’
Sean looked at the shock in her eyes. They were bloodshot, and she was merry. But she was trying to grapple with her emotional control. He was hitting buttons she preferred weren’t pushed. But she was also playing with her allure. He needed to get to her inner self and see how far he could push to find her motivations and weaknesses. She was tired of this double life. He could feel it. But he needed to coax her more.
‘The MOIS have something on me that keeps me going. It’s my last run out you know.’
Sean noticed the pain in her face. ‘Wow. This is really bad then. You know I can help you, right?’
‘You can’t. I’ll do what I need to do and then leave for South America. You can help by getting me what I need.’
Oleg called
everyone over to the centre of the garden, where the tables were now placed in a square.
‘Bari galust im hyurerin,’ Oleg said, raising what looked like a goldfish bowl of Armenian red wine. ‘Welcome to my guests. We shall eat, drink, dance and sing.’
A veritable feast. The tables were packed with kofta, harissa, organic tomatoes in dill, mante dumplings and unleavened lavash bread. Four hearty bowls of khash, a traditional dish of boiled sheep’s feet, head and tripe, took centre stage on the side table. Sean winced but knew he would have to give it a go. Armenians put great emphasis on hospitality and generosity.
‘Thank you for your excellent hospitality and friendship,’ Sean said, raising his own glass of red wine. ‘Armenian hospitality is the best. I salute you all.’
The men began to place the huge khorovats on a large rack on which the meat hung from a rail and the children and women began to help themselves.
Within the hour, Nadège and Sean were dancing. Dancing closely. T-shirt man played the piano, and the chef was now getting very drunk and dancing with all the women. No one refused. He was revered. Oleg was drinking whisky and playing a duduk, a wind instrument cut from an apricot tree. The Armenians called it the soul of the apricot.
‘There is one thing you need to know Sean,’ Nadège said, as she held him closely, leant back and looked into his eyes.
‘Go on.’
‘I had your child many years ago. Our child.’
Sean stopped dead. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He was astonished. Was she lying? Was this a ruse? Yes, he had had a crazy fling with her for a number of months. But a child? His own child?
‘I know you might not believe me, but I had to tell you. You’re definitely his father. He’s nine years of age now and looks like you.’
The Kompromat Kill Page 24
