Cold Black

by Alex Shaw

  Holmcroft made no attempt to hide his annoyance. “What about the authenticity of the actual intelligence? This could be a red herring, a ‘ruse’ perpetrated at our expense.”

  “As to the actual authenticity of the intelligence, Foreign Secretary, Director Sukhoi of the Belarusian KGB – the person responsible for supplying us with the tapes was assassinated as he tried to leave Ukraine with a British diplomatic escort. If you remember we granted him political asylum?”

  Holmcroft looked abashed. “It had been his decision.”

  “Robert, I stand by it. The man risked his life and lost it in order to expose this danger.” The PM nervously clenched his hands. “Ms Knight, how long will it take for the laboratory to authenticate the voices on the tape?”

  “We should have the result within the next few hours, Prime Minister, as to whether one of the voices is indeed Sverov. The other voice however is problematic in that we do not know who it is.”

  “Didn’t you say that the other man was the Special Adviser to the Russian Prime Minister?”

  “Yes, Home Secretary I did, but that is the problem. The position is so ‘special’ that we do not know his identity.”

  Wibly scratched his nose. “Without that, how can we indeed ‘know’ if Russia is in fact involved?”

  “We can’t Malcolm.” Holmcroft snapped.

  Burstow, who had watched the territory marking, now spoke. “We need to identify the second voice without question. I can talk to our UK assets within the Russian administration and see what they tell me.”

  “What they want to tell you, Ewan.”

  “Yes, Foreign Secretary, what they want to tell me.”

  The PM rubbed his eyes. “This is getting us nowhere. What we need to do is to decide on how we interpret this intelligence and then on what actions we need to take to safeguard the United Kingdom, her allies, and of course Saudi Arabia herself.”

  “Prime Minister, it may not be prudent to inform the Saudis until we have full confirmation and some details to give them,”

  “Ms Knight. We must inform our strategic allies immediately. That should have been our very first action.” Holmcroft stared at the SIS Director General.

  “Foreign Secretary, you know the Saudis far better than I.” She paused both to stroke his ego and to hint that she knew how close he actually was to the Saudi ambassador. “In my opinion the Saudis would be enraged and launch a purge. This would cause panic and instability in the oil markets and the net result would be the same.”

  “But, Ms Knight, if we do not inform the Saudi authorities they will be unprepared. Attacks could take place and lives would be lost. We would have blood on our hands.”

  “I concede that could possibly happen.”

  “What timescale do the tapes set out for this plan?” Burstow again was being logical.

  “The recordings were made two weeks ago and mention imminent action.”

  “Is there any indication that anything has happened yet?”

  “No, Foreign Secretary, but GCHQ has picked up increased chatter to and from Islamic fundamentalist websites mentioning Saudi Arabia.”

  “But no actual threats?”

  “No.”

  “Ms Knight, what assets does the SIS have in Saudi Arabia?”

  “We have an intelligence officer at the embassy, a field officer at the trade office and some locally recruited informers, Prime Minster.”

  “Ms Knight, I’ll await your news from the laboratory. If the voice is that of the Director of the Belarusian KGB I shall call Washington. In the meantime you have my authorisation to send in more SIS officers. We cannot be spread so thinly.”

  “Prime Minister, this is not a wise step.” Holmcroft again voiced his doubts.

  “Robert, this is the decision I have made. We must use every means open to our disposal to learn more about any potential terrorist attacks in the Kingdom. That means men on the ground. As soon as we have any intelligence we shall immediately inform the Saudis.”

  SIS Headquarters, Vauxhall Cross, London

  The real impact of the intelligence was felt when the laboratory confirmed the voice on the tape to be that of Ivan Sverov. The digital voice print of the BBC recording was a 96% match to the smuggled KGB tape. Patchem had been informed by Knight of this and a request by the PM to get more assets into Saudi Arabia.

  As he had protested to Knight, when she had given him the caretaker role, the Middle East was not his ‘bag’. He did not care for Arabs and had paid them the minimal amount of attention over the years. Of course he had condemned them for backing the ill-fated war against Israel, but had also understood the great allies they had been in stopping Saddam from holding onto Kuwait and in halting the spread of ‘Radical Islam’. The resignation of Dominic Maladine, the former head of the ‘Arab Desk’ (officially known as the Middle East section) had come as a surprise. Vauxhall Cross was a work place like any other and as such not immune to the ‘rumour mill’. Rumour had it that Maladine, who was a confirmed bachelor, had been fond of ‘cross dressing’ and ‘rent boys’. Others had said that his blunders had been covered up, including a same sex ‘honey trap’ style operation conducted by a certain Middle East security service.

  Patchem did not know what to believe, so ignored it all. What was of salient importance for him was to get up to speed. Maladine’s swift departure had opened up a ‘can of worms’. The staff below Maladine had, as it turned out, run the section whilst Maladine drifted in and out of the office at will. Maladine appeared to have lost any interest with the service and had been waiting for his retirement. Now that Knight was head of the SIS, dead wood had started to be cast aside and a new sense of urgency was present.

  After taking the relevant files from the Arab Desk, Patchem returned to his ‘own office’, where he had called a teleconference for all intelligence officers based in and around the Kingdom. He could send perhaps two ‘Arab specialists’ into the field immediately without arising suspicion from the Saudis. These men had already been booked on the next available BA flight to Riyadh with diplomatic passports. What Patchem now needed was a covert operative.

  Patchem looked across the desk at Snow. “I’ve got an assignment for you. I need you to go and see Paddy Fox.”

  “O.K.” That meant a trip to Saudi Arabia, Snow knew that much.

  “We now have reason to believe that something major is being planned. We can’t take it to the Saudis, as we don’t have a target list and from what I’ve gathered, the Saudi security forces would panic and lock down the entire country at the slightest whiff of trouble, leaving us with next to no chance of gathering intelligence. Aidan, I want to know the feel of the place. I’ve set up a meeting with an informer in Jeddah. A man I know, who can be trusted. He’ll contact you in country. In addition to this I imagine that Fox has seen more than our embassy based officer. I understand that his employer has facilities in various locations across the Kingdom. This has given him a chance to travel without question.”

  “So, what’s my cover?”

  “I’m afraid it’s a ‘fastball’. There is a Trade Mission leaving on Friday, you are to join it. You’ve got one day to prepare your legend.” Patchem pointed to a folder on the desk. “Everything you need is in there. There’s a man in Richmond expecting you.”

  Snow reached for the folder. “Thanks.”

  “One more thing Aidan, try not to get your pool car clamped again, there’s a good chap.” The smile on Patchem’s face was mischievous, causing Snow to grin.

  Presidential Administration, Kyiv, Ukraine

  Dmitro Nykyshyn waited in the room he had been in many times before. The Belarusian Ambassador to Ukraine was happy that at last he was going to get an audience with the President of Ukraine. He was still owed an explanation as to the lies the Ukrainian SBU had told him regarding the body of the late Director Sukhoi. He was going to accept the apology in a dignified and professional manner, whilst leaving no doubt in the President’s mind that, as the Belaru
sian Ambassador to Ukraine, he must never be misled again! Once again it was the President of Ukraine’s chief of staff, Olexandr Chashkovsky who appeared first and shook his hand.

  “I am sorry, your Excellency, that the President could not meet you personally.”

  Nykyshyn’s eyes narrowed, was this some kind of a joke? “When can I see the President?”

  Chashkovsky sat and gestured that the Ambassador do the same. “That depends on you.”

  “What?” Nykyshyn was puzzled.

  The door opened and Zlotnik entered carrying a meeting folder. “Ambassador.”

  “Director Zlotnik. Have you come to personally apologise to me?”

  Chashkovsky and Zlotnik exchanged glances before the SBU Director spoke. “Ambassador, last time we met you introduced us both to Investigator Kostyan of the KGB.”

  The ambassador nodded. “Correct and your agency hindered his investigation, in a most unprofessional manner.”

  Zlotnik ignored the accusation. “Where is Investigator Kostyan now?”

  “I believe he is in Belarus submitting his report, which will include evidence of your ‘irregular methods’. Why does his whereabouts concern you?”

  Zlotnik was going to enjoy putting the pompous diplomat in his place. “The President summoned you here in order for me to inform you that Investigator Kostyan is the official suspect in the murder of Director Sukhoi of the KGB.”

  Nykyshyn’s mouth fell open; his eyes darted to Chashkovsky and then back to Zlotnik. “What you are alleging is preposterous. Investigator Kostyan was sent here to investigate the murder of Director Sukhoi! “

  “Ambassador, Director Sukhoi was very much alive when Kostyan arrived in Ukraine. We have evidence to suggest that it was Kostyan who murdered him in addition to two members of the militia and an employee of the British Embassy.”

  Nykyshyn’s mouth moved several times before he managed to say again. “Preposterous!”

  Zlotnik opened his folder and handed him a copy of the photo fit image. “This man was identified at the scene by a British Diplomat. As you can see this is Investigator Kostyan.”

  Nykyshyn’s eyes were glued to the print as he realised, with horror, that it was an almost perfect composite image of the man he knew as Kostyan. He swallowed and attempted to regain his composure. “This is all you have?”

  Chashkovsky now spoke for the first time since Zlotnik had entered. “The President would be very grateful if you would help us with our enquires by answering a few questions about Kostyan.”

  Nykyshyn could feel his heart beating in his chest and was finding it difficult to breathe. “I am not at liberty to divulge any information whatsoever, about a member of the KGB.”

  “This man, Ambassador, is an assassin who has killed both Ukrainian and Belarusian citizens within the territory of Ukraine. You have a moral and legal obligation to assist us in his capture.”

  Nykyshyn didn’t know what to say, didn’t know what to feel. Was he outraged that the accusations had been made or was he outraged that if true, he had aided an amoral assassin? He had been informed directly by the Director of the KGB to expect the investigator and to offer him full support, which he had.

  Nykyshyn finally found his voice. “Any request for support, any allegation, any evidence must be submitted to me and I will then in turn submit it to the Prosecutor General in Minsk.”

  “Your Excellency,” In Zlotnik’s opinion the formal title was now derisible, “will you, here, today, answer questions about Kostyan? Yes or No?”

  “Director Zlotnik. I have given you my answer. Now if there is nothing else you wish to discuss I shall to return to my Embassy.”

  “In that case Ambassador, I am afraid that you have left us with little alternative.”

  Chashkovsky handed him an envelope bearing with the Presidential wax seal.

  “You are forthwith expelled from the territory of Ukraine. Please leave immediately.”

  Nykyshyn stood, face reddening and chest heaving. “This is an outrage! How dare you issue such an ultimatum! I demand to see the President of Ukraine! I demand to see him now!”

  Zlotnik took a step forward, Nykyshyn flinched. “Would you like me to help you find the exit?

  Nykyshyn shook with rage, again unable to speak. His mind blurred and his heart beat erratically as two members of the Presidential security detail entered the room. They stood by the open door.

  “Please leave.” Chashkovsky asked in a reasonable tone.

  Nykyshyn held up the letter and the photo-fit. “You have disgraced yourselves and your country! This is an insult to the President of Belarus!”

  “Escort the Ambassador out of the building.”

  Without a word the two security personnel advanced towards Nykyshyn. The first reached for his arm to usher him away. The Ambassador jinked clear, held up his hands and walked towards the door.

  Zankovetskaya Street, Kyiv

  Dudka opened the door. Zlotnik stood with a bottle of Vodka in his hand.

  “You’ve come to gloat?”

  “No Gennady Stepanovich, to apologise.”

  “You’d better come in then.”

  Dudka shut the door and gestured to a pair of slippers with his foot. It was a Ukrainian tradition that all guests remove their shoes and wear slippers when entering a home. Not for religious purposes but for the practicality of cleaning.

  Zlotnik slipped them on. “Thank you.”

  “This way.”

  Dudka walked along the hall and into the lounge. The room had once been impressive. Full height, dark wood, cabinets lined one wall, a soviet era settee was on another and an elderly television sat at the far end next to a large redundant fish tank. In front of the window a dining table and four chairs were set out. Dudka deposited himself on a chair and pulled out another for his guest. Zlotnik handed Dudka the vodka but saw that an almost empty bottle sat on the table. Dudka removed an extra shot glass from a built in drawer, filled it and handed it to Zlotnik. He then filled his own glass.

  “What are we drinking to Yuri Ruslanovich?”

  “To you, Gennady Stepanovich.”

  Dudka nodded and they both downed the last of the semi-tepid Nemirof. Dudka opened the new bottle and refilled the glasses. He looked at Zlotnik expectantly.

  “Whilst your actions were somewhat reckless...”

  “Some apology!” Dudka cut him off.

  “Gennady Stepanovich, let me finish. Whilst you actions were somewhat reckless you were right to take them.”

  “How so?” Dudka was going to enjoy this.

  “The Belarusian investigator, Kostyan was the assassin.”

  Dudka blinked. “What!”

  “He fooled us all.”

  Dudka drank his Vodka without saying a word then refilled it. His hand shook with rage and some spilt on the tablecloth. “You are telling me that I walked passed the very same man who murdered my friend?”

  “Yes.” Zlotnik necked his own drink which Dudka did not refill.

  Dudka closed his eyes and tried to control his grief and anger. It was probable that this ‘Kostyan’ had also murdered his beloved god daughter, Masha, and her husband. Opening his eyes he stood and removed a Soviet era photo album from a cabinet.

  “See this? It is all that is left of them. Father, daughter both dead. No descendants, a line wiped out.”

  Even though he was twenty years younger than Dudka, the anger the older man displayed scared him. “I’m sorry. What can I say?”

  Dudka sat and refilled Zlotnik’s glass. “The first thing you can say is a toast to absent friends.”

  “Absent friends.”

  Dudka opened the album ignoring his guest. No words were needed, for the moment. Zlotnik took in the room. It hadn’t been decorated since Soviet times. There was nothing to hint at the money he knew that Dudka had made from his relationship with his old KGB comrade General Varchenko. Varchenko was now busy building his own luxury resort near Odessa. Why did Dudka live like this? Why
not join his daughter and grand-daughter in Cyprus.

  “I am putting you on compulsory paid leave for two weeks. You need the rest.”

  Dudka looked up from his memories and nodded his assent. His anger spent. “Perhaps I shall take a holiday, leave the country.”

  “Cyprus?”

  “Belarus.”

  Zlotnik shook his head. “Gennady Stepanovich, the murder will be investigated and we will find the man responsible. You have my word on that.”

  “Oh I have no doubt that he will be found, in fact all we have to do is ask the Belarusian KGB where he is. But then what? Demand them to hand over to us one of their ‘black operatives’?”

  Zlotnik conceded the point. He knew his words were meaningless. “Gennady Stepanovich, let me talk frankly to you. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to be able to march into the KGB headquarters on Skaryny Avenue, with an international arrest warrant, but you and I are both wise enough to know that it’ll never happen. So please Gennady Stepanovich, for all our sakes, take your leave, but leave Minsk alone.”

  Dudka grunted an acceptance. The man would not be arrested. He poured two more shots. “I want any potential disciplinary action against Blazhevich dropped. He was following my orders.”

  “Understood.”

  Dudka raised his glass. “The future.”

  “The future.” Zlotnik echoed. “Gennady you and I are witness to information that is beyond classified. The Russian plans must not be spoken about by anyone. Do I make myself clear?”

  Dudka met the eyes of his boss. “Crystal.”

  A clock in another room chimed, Zlotnik’s ears pricked up. “Gustav Becher?”

  “No. Jungens like yours.”

  Zlotnik smiled. Restoring antique clocks was his passion, perhaps he had more in common with Dudka than he had previously imagined? “Time to go.”

  The two SBU officers walked to the front door. Zlotnik removed the slippers then replaced his shoes. He held out his hand to Dudka. “I’ll see you in two weeks.”

  “Undoubtedly.”