Chapter 34
Armenia
Morning. A cold breeze blew through the open windows. Nadège looked over at Sean, who was still sleeping, with just a white sheet covering his lower body.
Nadège was conflicted. She really wished Sean hadn’t opened up to her about his mum. She began to feel a pang of empathy and she hated it when she felt like that. She now wished she hadn’t told him about their child. It was too much now. Too confusing and too complicated. She just wanted peace with her inner soul and for the pain to stop. She was on a journey to self-destruction. Had been all her life. Emotional intensity disorder was killing her slowly and she winced at being unable to control her emotions after the wine.
Her mind always heard two voices. The empathetic one telling her to be kind and good. And the evil voice telling her to hate Sean and to kill those who had pained her or her closest friends. She was in a trap. A death trap.
In relationships Nadège would swing from idolising someone like Sean and desperately wanting to be with them to despising them and wanting to hurt them badly. In her relationship with herself, Nadège exuded swings from arrogant narcissism to self-hatred and disgust, which always led to her self-harming, most normally by cutting but sometimes by burning herself.
Cognitively, this meant constant split-personality responses. Nadège continuously mismatched the experiences of herself and others, which created confusion about who she was and what she wanted, resulting in feelings of frustration, anxiety, depression, emptiness and hopelessness. Her behaviour was at times deliberately self-destructive and dangerously impulsive. This was why she could kill with impunity, be reckless and self-harm, all within hours of each other. She was at war with herself. And at war with anyone else who tried to get in the way of her primary target. Herself.
Nadège jumped in the shower and began to think. Today she would get her hands on the nuclear stores she needed in order to succeed and then her journey to freedom would begin. But first she had to put a number of things in place. A plan. A means to get to the finish line. The steaming shower brought her soul back to life and she stepped out, memorising the text she would send on her phone. Sean had gotten too close for comfort and she now had to deal with the fallout from that and get her mission back on track. She felt uneasy but committed. Just as she had felt with the assassinations she had committed for her Iranian handler and for Petra, her lover. She missed Petra and longed for the time when they would be free together in South America.
Two hours later, Nadège and Sean stood over the nuclear casket. A nuclear shell. Nadège’s prized possession.
A Russian shell at that. Nadège glanced over to see Sean put his rucksack on the floor, unzip it and pull out a black machine – a Geiger counter she assumed.
She knelt down next to the shell to inspect it. She touched it. Almost a full stroke. Then she twisted her head to try and read the black Cyrillic writing stamped across its belly. She had no idea how it operated, never mind how it was projected. All she knew was it held the uranium that she needed. She stood and admired it, feeling a sensation of ultimate power. What she was looking at was an artillery shell known as the Kleshchevina. A nuclear shell fired from a Russian self-propelled Pion 2S7 – the largest and most powerful track-mounted howitzer in existence. This cold war-era howitzer looks like a tank but is twice the size and carries a range of 203-mm artillery shells, including the tactical nuclear shell.
‘Where’s the uranium?’ she asked, turning to watch Sean screw a long stainless-steel probe onto the end of the Geiger counter.
‘There may not be any,’ Sean replied, a strained look on his face. ‘I need to make sure this is a genuine Kleshchevina and that it is indeed a tactical nuclear shell. If it is, then we’re protected from the radiation by the lead casing. It’s a bit big to transport back to Europe though. What’s your plan?’
‘Keep your voice down Sean. No one needs to hear us talk about this.’ She threw a nod towards the wooden door, on the other side of which stood the Kapitán with his cronies. ‘Let’s just get this checked and we’ll be on our way. You get paid, and I can get on my way.’
Nadège felt good. She was on a high. She revelled in the power she was holding and the drama she would create across Europe with this artillery shell. Her final days would make her a global icon. She would go down in history: not for being a beautiful playboy model but for the deaths she would unleash as the most notorious terrorist ever.
She watched Sean approach the shell with his equipment. He was a handsome man, and a strong one. Her inner desire for this man conflicted with the emotions in her dark mind telling her she had to deal with him. Soon. The dark side of her dysregulated mind was not providing any sense of logic, but instead a desire to blacken him. There was evil in him and he needed to be neutered to stop him interfering with her life and mission. Her mind couldn’t process the thought that the man she wanted gone was also the father of her child. There was no empathy, no emotion for a good man. A man who, if she had a sane mind, she could turn to for help. She shook off any thoughts of caring for a man, avoided them as she always did. Because I don’t know what they mean or what they are, she said to herself.
‘It’s pukka,’ Nadège heard Sean say. ‘Full-on nuclear.’
She knelt to look at the digital reading he was showing her on the small LED screen of the radiation equipment.
‘What’s it mean?’
‘It means the reading I’m getting is roughly the same as it would have been when it was manufactured in the early ‘90s and it confirms it’s a Kleshchevina shell. The uranium-235 is enriched and has a half-life of thousands of years. It’s good to go.’
‘Excellent. Anything else?’
‘Only one thing. How on earth is your bomber man going to use this? That’s the zillion-dollar question.’
‘Like I said before, you’ve done your job now. This is where I take over. Let’s get the thing on the jeep.’
Nadège and Sean had been led by the Kapitán to a remote vineyard earlier that morning. They had driven for an hour to eastern Armenia’s Ararat Valley, which has been notably likened by wine experts to California’s Napa. They drove by newly built wineries, some modern warehouses and ancient wineries hundreds of years old. The Kapitán had told them with passion of Armenians’ pride in their winemaking skills and of how he had bought two such vineyards many years ago.
The Kapitán had taken them to an old, dilapidated wine warehouse. Nadège’s breath was taken away by the stunning vistas surrounding the vineyard - the landscape with its precipitous cliffs, caves and ancient monasteries was the perfect setting to seal the deal with the Kapitán. The arid mountains were peppered with bright spots of cultivation, including the Kapitán’s main vineyard, which was situated a mile to the south of the old winery. A collection of now-extinct warehouses where a once-thriving vineyard had stood. The smell of fermented grapes still hung in the air as they walked into the large wooden shack. The old grape presses were still there, slowly rusting. The Kapitán led them to a room where the wine once fermented naturally under the large concrete floor. A huge wine vat where the grapes were once mashed was below them. A concrete vat. Not temperature-controlled, as in modern vineyards, but an old-style vat that had once held over four million quarts of wine.
Nadège’s anticipation peaked as she watched the Kapitán open a double-hinged trapdoor to reveal his secret hideout for the nuclear shell he would sell her.
She watched as two men jumped inside and attached a set of chains to a large crate with iron lugs on it. Nadège watched Sean and the Kapitán heave on the chains through a pulley that was attached to a wooden beam straddling the ramshackle ceiling. Slowly the crate began to rise until it emerged fully. She watched as all four men began to lift the crate onto the floor and start to dismantle it. Inside was an artillery shell neatly cocooned in a grey cradle for protection. The original cradle that Russian soldiers would have lifted into the Pion howitzer. Sean began to unscrew the cradle to enable th
e men to lift the four-foot shell out of its housing.
At that moment, Nadège sent a secure text in Farsi to her minders. Minders who had been tracking her every movement from a makeshift control room located just over the Turkish border in Kars.
Nadège had initiated a preset plan involving the MOIS.
Chapter 35
Armenia
Nadège stood by the jeep, watching Sean and the Kapitán’s men steer a small cart with some difficulty through the open warehouse and down a gentle incline towards the jeep. The sun was now beating down fiercely, some of the men wiping sweat from their brows, and there was a tricky moment when the weight of the shell buckled one of the cart struts, causing a bit of a commotion.
Nadège stood scanning the environs of the abandoned vineyard some 1600 metres above sea level, where the Areni vines were growing wild amongst the boulders and walnut trees. She turned on her heels, as if searching for something in the sky. Then she witnessed the final moments of the crate being lifted into the back of the jeep, watching its suspension springs lurch with the weight.
The men were dusting themselves down, passing water bottles amongst themselves and laughing at T-shirt man, who had ripped a large hole in his trousers from the exertion of heaving the crate onto the jeep. There were a few high fives and Sean was revelling in the hard graft with the Armenian gangsters.
Eventually, the men walked back inside the warehouse with the cart, Sean leading and carrying the fabric straps they had used to help manage the heavy load. Nadège followed behind them and watched the Kapitán light a cigarette, offer one to Sean and pat him on the back.
Sean then helped T-shirt man close the hatch. He turned his head to look at Nadège. Just as he did so, she pulled out a pistol from the back of her jeans. She saw the terror in T-shirt man’s eyes as she lifted the barrel until it was parallel with the ground, placed her left hand around the casing to provide a firm grasp and then fired one round right into his chest. T-shirt man’s eyes remained glazed in shock as he crumpled to the ground. With her feet apart to provide a solid stance for her next shot, she turned her shoulders towards the man helping Sean. He was in a kneeling position, looking over his shoulder and about to get to his feet and run. Just as he rose, she shot him, the bullet piercing his neck. Nadège glanced at Sean. Just for a millisecond. To check his reaction. He was solid. No extreme movement. She lowered the pistol and then raised it again to flex her muscles and get a perfect stance for her shot at the Kapitán, who was now stood with his arms aloft. She fired. One shot straight through the heart.
‘Don’t even fucking think of doing anything,’ she shouted to Sean. ‘I’ll kill you without a thought.’
Sean raised his hands and dropped into a squatting position. ‘Why the fuck are you doing this?’ he shouted. ‘These guys didn’t deserve that, you bastard.’
‘Shut up. Just do exactly as I tell you and you might just live.’
Nadège checked each man was dead whilst keeping her pistol raised and focused on Sean. Their eyes locked. It was a moment where both knew what each other would or wouldn’t do. She relaxed. She pulled out her phone whilst kneeling over the Kapitán, noticing that Sean was shaking his head, sat on the ground with his hands between his knees.
She punched out a text to her minders and pressed ‘send’. Then she placed the phone in her back pocket and rose slowly to her feet. She walked towards Sean, holding the weapon firmly in her right hand alongside her thigh. She then raised the weapon, pointing it at his head from about five feet away to check his reactions. Nothing.
‘Push all these bastards into that vat,’ she said, nodding with her head at the trap door. ‘I can shoot you now or you can play ball like the nice man you are and do as you’re fucking well told.’
‘Seems like I have no choice,’ he said, rising to his feet.
‘If you want to live to maybe see your son one day, you’ll do everything I say, understand?’
‘You mean you have a plan for me to see our child? Or is this just your mind playing with you again? I still don’t believe for a minute that you had my child.’
‘Shut the fuck up.’
‘Look, you know I could have dealt with this and got you out of this mess, but you just want to make everything happen the hard way. The tortuous way. You can still pull out you know.’
‘Not a chance.’
Nadège checked her phone. A text. Help was arriving within minutes. She watched Sean push the last of the three men into the huge concrete vat, each landing with a loud and echoing thud. Sean closed the trapdoor, one door at a time, placed the padlock on the rusting bolts and threw the key across the divide to Nadège.
Chapter 36
Armenia
Sean was gobsmacked. He knew there were risks to this part of the job, but he hadn’t expected Nadège to pull the trigger on it all at this point in the operation. Yes, it was risky stuff trying to work her and turn her, no, he didn’t think he had failed up until this point and, yes, he did think she might pull a trick or two a bit later on as they worked on leaving the country with the warhead.
How had he let his guard down yet again? What on earth was she thinking now about his son? Their son. Some sort of reunion or was this all just a ploy to keep him firmly in place? The nagging doubt in his mind still told him it wasn’t true. Just a trick. But what if it was true?
Sean gazed across the trapdoor to where she was stood. The weapon was back by her thigh. She was not shaking, she looked calm, but her eyes still showed that trauma. Behind the eyes was a mind that somehow he had to work on now to keep his life intact. He scratched his forearm. Extreme stress caused him to scratch – and scratch a lot. His mind was racing but, for the hell of him, he couldn’t work out what would come next. Until that is he watched a silhouetted figure enter the warehouse with the gait of a serviceman.
The man walked with a swagger. Feet turned out, striding confidently and with purpose. As the muscular figure came closer, Sean could just make out the chiselled features of a white man with a pale face and ginger hair. He was wearing jeans, desert boots and a black T-shirt. Sean immediately knew he was a British soldier. Or, more precisely, a former British soldier. The bomber. The man named Wilson Hewitt.
‘I’m surprised,’ Hewitt said. ‘I’d have thought you were a scammer and it would be a dud shell. Just trying to make a quick buck. But from what I’ve just seen register on my equipment it's the real McCoy. Nice.’
Sean turned to look at Nadège, who was stood smiling only a few feet away from him. He looked back at the bomber. The triumvirate was fixed - but he was the odd man out. How the fuck could he now deal with this? He scratched his arm again. ‘You’re the bomber I assume?’ he said, glancing back at Nadège.
‘A little more than that,’ she replied, walking across to Hewitt. She placed the palm of her hand on his chest as if to make the point to Sean that he was now nothing more than a package, and that Hewitt was her man.
‘For fuck’s sake. This just gets worse,’ Sean said. ‘Do you pair think you can just fuck off into the sunset, plant a nuclear bomb, detonate the fucking thing and you'll both be happy ever after? Do me a favour. Jeez.’
‘Mate,’ Hewitt said. ‘We’re both pros. We can do whatever the fuck we want and do it pretty fucking well. You know that, right?’
Sean shook his head and raised a smile. ’Ammunition technician then? 11 EOD? Or a sapper?’
The bomber laughed. ‘Do me a favour mate. Sappers would never be on my level.’
‘I know - they’re not that fucking stupid.’
The bomb-maker smiled, revelling in a bit of banter. ‘What mob were you then?’ he asked Sean.
‘Intelligence. Now a weapons dealer.’
‘Is that right? Well thanks for your business with us. Seems like you came through after all.’
‘You still might need me to get stuff across Europe you know. I have my contacts.’
‘Who said anything about Europe?’ the bomber said, shrugging
his shoulders and turning to Nadège. ‘We don’t need anyone’s help, thanks. Nice try though. Won’t work.’
Sean didn’t like Hewitt’s arrogance. It was a stand-off. Two old soldiers with fierce rivalries that didn’t bode well but Sean thought he’d push it a bit further. He had nothing to lose.
‘I still don’t think you’ve got the skills to convert that shell into a nuclear device you know. It’s not a simple thing and, even with your training, you’d probably need others to help you get it right.’
Sean watched Hewitt tense and begin to clench his fists. He knew he’d hit a nerve. He watched Hewitt pull a pistol from the back of his jeans before pointing it squarely at Sean’s chest and replying. ‘Mate, don’t try and bait me. You won’t ever win on any terms. It’s like this: you can play ball or I can make you go away now.’
Sean shrugged his shoulders and made a face. ‘Fair enough. What’s the plan now?’ he said, watching Nadège turn and walk towards the exit.
‘She wants you alive,’ Hewitt said, pointing his weapon towards Nadège. ‘Fuck knows why but you might, just might, come in useful at some point. Follow her.’
Sean started to walk slowly, deciding to goad Hewitt one more time. ‘You know, you’ll probably kill yourself with the radiation inside that casing as soon as you open it.’
‘Keep walking, we’ve got a long journey ahead.’
Sean was glad he’d prodded the bomb-maker’s ego as he walked slowly towards the jeep, trying to tease more and more information out of him. He certainly wasn’t shy about explaining how he would go about his deadly mission. Hewitt started showing off.
‘Cut the casing open, remove the uranium in safety gear with the right levels of lead shielding, place it in a transportable casket to move across the world. Easy-peasy.’
He was brash and confident about his abilities and Sean didn’t need any more evidence that this man was a real-and-present danger. But what the hell had Jack been up to? How could Sean now let Jack know of the danger and that Nadège and the Iranians were now entering the last stages of a nuclear terrorist operation?
The Kompromat Kill Page 25
