The Kompromat Kill

by Michael Jenkins

  Edmund Duff had been lying handcuffed to the bunk bed in the dark and was just stirring, shading his eyes from the bright lights, still curled up in the foetal position and draped in an army blanket.

  ‘Wake up you dirty bastard,’ Petra shouted, smashing the metal poles of the bunk bed with a tin mug. The racket startled Duff, who shook violently before pushing his feet to the ground as he struggled to get to a sitting position. The trauma of his incarceration was evident: his eyes were full of fear and his mouth mumbled odd sounds.

  Petra pulled up a chair and sat facing him, wearing a face of scorn. She had no problem about killing this man but wanted him to suffer. Duff had been kidnapped by the Russian GRU outside Quaglino’s on the orders of Nadège, who had a deal with the GRU via Colonel Sergei Yuronov, her Russian handler. Nadège had extracted Foreign Office secrets from him and passed them on to the GRU while she used Duff to confirm the name of the man who had acted as the elusive ringleader involved in the grooming of girls in Bosnia in the ‘90s. Duff had been brutally interrogated by the GRU agents and, after only a day, had revealed the name of Fletcher Barrington, the man that Burrić, the assassinated Mayor of Sarajevo, had never met. Colonel Sergei had leaked the name of Barrington to Jack and the Kompromat plot had begun. Duff was no longer of any use to Nadège and was a dead man awaiting assassination.

  ‘You won’t remember me,’ Petra began, poking Duff in the face. ‘I was one of the girls you raped in Tuzla, you evil swine. Not just once, but dozens of times.’

  Duff groaned, saying nothing.

  ‘Today you will die very slowly and very painfully, you bastard.’

  Petra stood up and turned to hide the tungsten knuckleduster she was placing on her right hand. With a fierce blow, she punched him once in the face. It was all she needed. Duff fell backwards, banging his head on the bunk bed, his face smashed and bright red blood oozing from both nostrils.

  The chemical device she had placed on the table would kill him slowly in the confined space of the underground bunker. The device comprised two separate vials of sodium cyanide and hydrochloric acid. The seal between the two would be broken by a small blast cap, causing the liquids to mix to produce deadly hydrogen cyanide gas, which would disperse in the room.

  ‘You choked me, you slapped me, you strangled me, you violated me, you took my childhood. Now you will suffer.’

  The air vents of the bunker’s chimney were covered with downward-sloping louvres above ground, with sliding metal shutters below ground to control the airflow during contamination by radioactive fallout. Petra gripped the shutter’s handle, thrust it to the left and locked the shutters firmly. She placed the rucksack on her shoulder, glanced back at Duff and smashed the plunger into the paint can.

  Duff’s face was stricken with fear as he tugged viciously at the chains holding him to the bunk bed, which was bolted to the wall. The effects of the gas entering his body would be similar to the effects of suffocation and his death was destined to be a slow one, before the final dramatic and rapid onset of heart failure would cause sudden collapse and then death.

  Only Fletcher Barrington remained.

  Chapter 43

  Prague

  Ever since he was a child, Sean had always found peace and tranquillity through art. Oil or watercolour, he didn’t really mind, as both allowed his mind to wander, to create, to feel. Art took him to a world away from the stresses and strains of the day, led him to release his hidden emotions into a painting and to dream.

  It was 5.30am on a cold summer’s morning in Prague, the Bohemian city that appealed to his bon vivant nature, a city whose cocktail bars had held his attention for many an hour. He strolled through the brightly coloured streets and covered colonnades of the Old Town, following his nose to the river, where he would paint. Sean had been ordered to get on the plane to Prague to meet Jack later that morning, probably to be told off and informed he’d been sacked from the job again. So be it, he thought, sauntering aimlessly through the magical labyrinth of ancient churches, gates, courtyards and bridges. It certainly felt Bohemian, he felt Bohemian and the gothic towers that soared above him like a scene out of a Harry Potter fantasy made it Bohemian.

  Sean had had a fitful night’s sleep, an irritating and regular occurrence as the drawers in his mind, stuffed with his traumas, somehow sprung open and came alive to taunt him as he slumbered. He hated it. The ruminations never went away. Especially at night. The loss of his wife, Katy, a decade ago haunted him the most, as did the death of his best agent in Central Asia, which still played heavily on his mind. Now the loss and murder of his mother were about to be re-enacted by Jack taking him to visit her cold war handler later that morning and, to top things off, Nadège had told him he had a child. He still couldn’t bring himself to believe that, knowing that she was simply nothing more than a dangerous psychopath on the run across Europe with a nuclear bomb in tow, for God’s sake.

  He had failed. Failed to recruit her, failed to protect his wife and his agents, failed his mother by believing she had just abandoned him and failed to obtain freedom for himself. He was trapped by The Court, had a price on his head from the SVR and carried shame for getting the sack from Crown service all those years ago.

  The rising sunlight made little starbursts on the shiny silver boat gently cruising under the Charles Bridge as he set up his easel. Five paintbrushes. Ultramarine Blue oil. Linseed oil. A battered wood palette. The sun peered over his shoulder as he skilfully shaped the white crests of the wake of the boat below Prague’s oldest bridge. He shaped the first curves of the bridge, sketched out the baroque statues and drew the magical sword of a Knight of Blaník being mysteriously pulled from the bridge by a hand emerging from the sky. According to legend, the sword is hidden inside the Charles Bridge and only when the country is in its darkest hours will the bridge crack open and the spirit of Saint Wenceslas will lead the Knights of Blaník to defend the realm.

  Sean’s imagination ran riot in those quiet hours. How on earth could he recapture the essence of victory, a vitality, a strength to stop Nadège? He started to make a plan in his mind. How he’d convince Jack that he was the one who needed to stop this carnage and that it was he who held the keys to unlocking the puzzle.

  He sat with these thoughts, painting. He was pissed off that he’d lost his freedom, pissed off that he had to live in the south of France, a hunted man, and ashamed at losing his career as an intelligence officer so that now he was just a deniable mercenary who Jack could easily throw to the dogs, without anyone caring a jot. He was just a tool in Jack’s box to be used. The years had once been kind to him, but now they were just layering crap after crap on him.

  He took a few moments to clip two pieces of paper onto the right-hand side of the easel. Two heavily folded and thumbed pieces of paper. The first was his linkage map showing the characters and the puzzle he had to solve regarding Nadège, and those she had assassinated. The second was the shipping forecast map. Sean had entered a surreal world in which all his control, all his plans, the whole way in which his life configured itself through his own stupid behaviour was falling to pieces.

  He committed himself in those moments to struggle against it all with all his might, hoping there might be a chance. A chance of redeeming his soul once again. A failsafe that would avert his own catastrophic failure.

  ‘Good to have you back in one piece,’ he heard from behind him. A pat on the shoulder came next.

  It was Jack. The grey man from the Home Counties. The chief spook of MI5’s Court. In a city full of spies, Jack was dressed for the occasion. British trilby, long mackintosh and a black gloved hand now offering friendship.

  ‘Jesus Jack, you look like something from the cold war for fuck’s sake. Do you never dress down?’

  ‘Old habits I’m afraid. You know me.’

  ‘Do I? Every time I take on one of your jobs, it ends up with me in the shit and you coming out of it smelling of roses and getting promoted.’

  Jack laughe
d, suggesting that everything would be fine. ‘May I?’ he asked, pointing at a wooden stool that was home to Sean’s flask whilst he stood painting.

  ‘Fill your boots and watch the paint on your civil servant coat.’

  ‘You know I had to get you off the job Sean,’ Jack said apologetically. ‘I had no choice. I could sense you’d go off the rails. I can’t take big risks on this job now, it’s gotten pretty serious.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ Sean said, placing his brush in the palette. ‘You lost your nerve and you proved that you had fuck-all trust in me. I was in control all along.’

  ‘So it would seem. It was a good regain with Nadège.’

  ‘So how will everything be fine then Jack? We’ve lost Nadège, lost the bomb and it’ll be on its way to Europe on a ship by now.’

  ‘Maybe. It’s tricky I know. And yes it’s a bit of a cock-up but I’m certain we will find her and the device. I’ve got an American NEST team on it. They’ll deal with it all from here.’

  ‘Nuclear-search ninjas – wow. How the hell did you get them to play?’

  ‘Let’s just say an old friend is helping me out on this one. Bit of a favour being pulled in. Good partnership actually. It’s a massive search and a big ask but I’m hoping they’ll be up to it, else we’re all pretty much in deep trouble.’

  ‘A friend, you say? You and your friends in high places. I’m guessing you’ve hatched a plot to cull a few politicians while you’re at it.’

  Sean studied Jack’s face, which now had a large smirk all over it. It was an impish look, telling Sean that there was a much bigger plan than Jack had ever revealed on their first meeting in Viola.

  ‘Talking of friends Sean, I need to tell you about D’s friend, who we need to get a hurry on to meet.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘His name is Karel Zatopek. He was first contacted by D in 1974 and became a mole of ours in the Czechoslovakian Státní Bezpečnos a year or so later. At that time, the Czechs were the most effective espionage organisation in Europe, better than us, better than the Americans, better than anyone else. He worked for M16 when he was stationed in East Berlin and was the man who provided all the information to us on those who wanted to defect from the Warsaw Pact.’

  ‘A double agent whose cover has never been broken then?’

  ‘That’s right. Karel was the man who established a network of British-run spies in Czechoslovakia, right up until it closed down in 1990. He gave us access to every single piece of information inside the Czech StB and that included anything that the Russians or the East Germans shared with them. He was our highest-grade mole during the cold war and word must never get out that it was him.’

  ‘What’s the catch Jack?’

  ‘Nothing. Except that he alone knows the story of your mother. He never provided any details to D, simply because his mind shut down after she was murdered. By all accounts he suffers from dissociative amnesia. He had memory loss for over thirty years.’

  ‘Well, it will certainly be interesting to meet him. I bloody well hope he knows where her body is.’

  ‘I’m not sure about that but I’ll obviously help you with anything I can. This was D’s final ask of me. They were great friends apparently.’

  Sean nodded his appreciation and started to screw the lids on his paints. ‘Now, what about me and this mission? It’s a bloody long way from over right now.’

  Jack stood up and answered matter-of-factly. ‘Well, obviously you’re off the case now Sean. Speaks for itself. We have the teams that we think can track and trace the bombs and Nadège, and I now think she’s a lost cause.’

  ‘What on earth made you think I could recruit her?’

  ‘A hunch.’

  ‘A fucking hunch. Bloody hell Jack, you’re as mad as she is.’

  A long silence as Sean packed the easel into a large leather holster. ‘You can’t take me off it Jack,’ Sean said vigorously. ‘I know exactly where the target of the nuke is – and I know exactly where Nadège will be.’

  Sean folded up the shipping forecast map, slipped it into his inside pocket and started walking.

  ‘You better keep up Jack. Only I know the entire plan, and I’ll be the one to kill this off.’

  Chapter 44

  Prague

  With a shaking hand, Karel Zatopek lifted the lid on a small antique silver snuffbox for the first time in thirty-three years. He was visibly upset as his daughter watched him try to take out the encrypted note, but he failed each time he tried. His daughter offered her help but he rejected it with a dismissive wave. Instead, he sat hunched in his wheelchair, taking solace by simply looking at the rolled-up note that had flooded his mind with memories he wished had never returned. A tear gradually fell from his left eye.

  Karel felt very little these days; the severity of his Parkinson’s disease had all but robbed him of his life. But he was happy that his memory had returned to allow him to make one last loving gesture to the British people he so loved.

  The home and sanctuary of the reclusive Karel Zatopek was a small eighteenth-century castle that had been formerly owned by the Archduke of Austria, Franz Ferdinand d’Este. Zatopek was the last surviving male member of a long line of prominent aristocrats with German and Czech roots.

  Sean and Jack drove past rows of tended orchards and vines and through rolling pastures where cows grazed before driving along a narrow ridge providing superb views of the River Vltava below. The small castle was a curiosity. Complete with two cylindrical towers, a fortified watchtower and a drawbridge, the French-inspired edifice was one of Bohemia’s most secluded private castles.

  The car crunched to a halt on the gravel outside a newly built annex, where a stout middle-aged woman stood awaiting them. Sean knew very little about the man he was about to meet other than that he was dying and was the son of a wealthy aristocrat who had spent his entire service working for MI6. An amiable man by all accounts. A man who had shared his secrets with D before the latter had died on the steps of the Cabinet Office.

  The woman introduced herself as Zatopek’s daughter and escorted them through the long corridors of the castle. Baroque paintings lined the walls and long Persian carpets lead the way past a number of Bohemian statues sitting proudly on circular oak tables. A door was opened by a butler, who invited them into an enormous reception room that gave access to the immaculate rose gardens and long manicured lawns of the castle grounds. Sean spotted the old man sitting behind an ornate wooden desk, gazing out of the French windows at the expansive views.

  Sean exchanged a glance with Jack and they entered, curious about the man and his past. Zatopek sat in a wheelchair, a tartan blanket on his lap, dressed in an immaculate white shirt with blue tie and with an oxygen mask at the ready hanging from his neck. Sean noticed that the man’s hands were shaking. The old man was gaunt, underweight and his skin badly blemished - but he had the face of a tough man. Bizarrely, he seemed to delight in smoking a cigar and he threw Sean a beaming smile as he came into his sightline.

  ‘Thank you for coming to see me, gentlemen. Please be seated.’

  Sean watched the man stub his cigar out, his motor skills far better when he was calm. Zatopek’s daughter asked the butler to bring tea.

  ‘Have you heard of the legend of Wenceslas?’ Zatopek asked Sean, making a sweeping gesture and not expecting an answer. ‘His crown, I was told by my father, once resided here. It contains a thorn supposedly from Christ’s crown of thorns in its top cross and is said to have a curse on it. While the crown now belongs to the state, it retains the immortal spirit of Saint Wenceslas. He protects the Bohemian people by keeping unqualified kings off the throne.’

  Sean was surprised by Zatopek’s immaculate English. His articulation was perfect, and his mind seemed very able. Sean watched the man’s hand shake as he leant forward to bring a silver snuffbox closer to him. Was this the box that D had written about in his letter?

  ‘That curse, it seems, hit me for more than thirty years, as I literally
went out of my mind. Bohemia is no longer a kingdom, I am no longer the man I once was and that blasted curse continues. But before I depart this world I want to tell you about your mother, young man.’

  Sean glanced again at Jack, who nodded, suggesting that Sean should speak. He just didn’t know what to say. A moment or two later all he could think of was to maybe say that he was glad the man had recovered. Sean felt unusually shy in this man’s company. A man who, most probably, had known his mother far better than his father had. As her MI6 handler, he’d have known her soul.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Zatopek. I’m very glad you recovered.’

  ‘My memory recovered, my boy. Nothing else ever did I’m afraid. But my friend who led MI5 was most surprised when I told him of the contents of this snuffbox. It came as quite a shock to him.’

  ‘I never really knew what happened to my mother. My father didn’t really know what had happened either, so it seemed she had just left us. Thank you for sharing with me today. I really appreciate it.’

  ‘Ah. Well she suffered a curse too. Perhaps my curse. I’m very sorry for your loss Mr Richardson.’

  ‘Sean, please.’

  ‘As you please. She was a wonderful woman. Her death broke my heart. Literally.’ Zatopek opened the small snuffbox and his hand began to shake uncontrollably as he tried to take something from it. ‘Damnation. Margaret, please help me.’

  His daughter lifted the tiny rolled note out of the snuffbox as Zatopek’s eyes narrowed and he continued his story. ‘The tale of your mother is not a good one, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I know. But I need the truth. No one ever told me the truth about her. I didn’t really know her that well. I loved her dearly but, as a fifteen-year-old, I had no sense of her life and of what we were doing in Berlin at the time. You don’t think like that as a fifteen-year old.’

  ‘She was a brave woman, Sean. A fine officer. A fine investigator too.’