Mary Dear - Redux

by de Gallegos, Alfredo

  ‘Mrs Day!’ he called out ‘I’m back and I really could do with one of your nice cups of tea,’ he said, raising his voice so that she could hear him from the kitchen. He got no reply and shouted:

  ‘Mrs Day—tea, please...I’ll be in my study.’

  Waynard entered his study and stopped to pick up a copy of the Times from the small coffee table where Mrs Day left it for him every day. He proceeded to the desk and stopped dead halfway when he heard the front doorbell ring.

  ‘Mrs Day,’ he shouted, ‘front door bell, will you please answer it and see who it is?’

  No reply. ‘Where is that blasted woman,’ he said, and turned quickly on his heels and set off to open the door.

  Behind the curtain Grigori’s fingers relaxed their hold on the rope that he had expertly twisted around both wrists. He waited patiently hoping that whoever the caller was he would be seen off in a hurry.

  ‘Good evening,’ Waynard said to the two men on his doorstep and the next thing he knew they had each grabbed him under the armpits, lifted him off the ground and bundled him into a waiting car, three other men who had been sitting in the car rushed past him and into the house. His abductors dumped him unceremoniously in the back seat sitting themselves either side of him as the car’s driver put it into gear and set off at great speed.

  ‘Sorry about the rough treatment, there was no time to explain things properly; Edward Garrett wants you back home. I’m afraid our Russian friends are onto you.’

  Once inside, the three men spread out to search the house.

  ‘The place is empty,’ said one.

  ‘Not quite,’ Replied a colleague who was standing by the door gazing into the broom cupboard.

  At Bland’s next meeting with Blanco he decided to tell him his most audacious scheme to date.

  ‘Esteban, I’ve come up with an idea that would throw open the doors to the American drugs market for you and your cartel and take the DEA heat off you and your friends.’

  ‘No shit, Richard,’ he said, ‘this, I want to hear. What’s this brilliant new idea of yours and how the hell would it make life easier for me with the DEA?’ Lately he’d been getting a bit pissed off with his employee and couldn’t help a touch of sarcasm that did not escape Bland’s attention.

  ‘We know your people are funding William Wild’s Presidential campaign.’

  He waited to see if that revelation got his attention and when it didn’t, went on.

  ‘What would you say if I told you I have an idea that would make it possible for him to win?’

  ‘I’d say you’re mad! Wild’s an outsider now. Sure we’re backing him and he will be a good friend in the future but certainly not this time round, this time it’ll be another Republican or a Democrat same as always.’

  ‘Sure, that would be right under normal circumstances, but there are many that see in Wild a bit of the JFK magic. He’s charismatic as hell, appeals to the young and also to middle America, who are angry when they see so many of our boys coming back in body-bags because they’ve been sent to fight wars in far-off places. Places like Iraq and Afghanistan where they think we have no business. “Look after America first” is their thinking. They’re fed-up with the U.S. being the world’s policeman!’

  ‘And your idea is?’

  ‘If we had another 9/11 or Oswald type incident, Wild could be swept into office on a wave of patriotic fervour. We could get a message through the media that we’re reaping what we’ve sown and that what the country needs is a President who is more interested in keeping America safe rather than saving the rest of the world.’

  Esteban thought Bland had finally flipped. Whether an assassination or another twin towers these were not operations one could pull off at the drop of a hat even if one wanted to. Maybe Bland was unhinged but he thought he’d press him some more to see just how far he was prepared to go.

  ‘That’s one hell of an ambitious project you’re proposing my friend.’

  Bland could imagine what Blanco was thinking but counted on his greed to come to his aid.

  ‘I know what’s at stake Esteban, but just imagine, owning your very own President of the United States of America.’

  The sheer audacity of it all made Blanco laugh out loud. What the hell was he thinking about? One moment he’s just happy to get some extra cash for a rainy day and the next...a President of the United States.

  ‘I’m not saying that I’d get involved in your scheme, but, just for the hell of it, how do you propose to pull this off? You know there’s no one in my organization that would be suitable for this kind of job.’

  ‘Sure I know that, but for the Russians it would be a different matter.’

  ‘Why would they be interested?’

  ‘Well, there’s what many are calling the New Cold War for starters. Putin recently threatened to target nuclear missiles on the Ukraine if it joined the “Missile Defence System” that the U.S. is trying to build in central and Eastern Europe. Having a U.S. President that isn’t interested in pursuing an interventionist foreign policy would leave Putin a pretty clear hand in the Middle East; after all he has been much more assertive in promoting Russian interests in that region than Yeltsin did in his time. There would be other benefits too, particularly if the U.S. started to pull their military bases out. Many of these have recently sprung up in countries that are too close to Russia for comfort and Putin is said to be quite sensitive to what he considers a provocative stance by the U.S..’

  Blanco thought it a harebrained idea but what the hell.

  ‘Okay. You put some flesh on the bones of your idea then; let’s talk again.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Initially the business revolved around trading information on SDI for cash, but Bland had managed to convince him that his latest idea was worth pursuing. After a few weeks, Esteban Blanco decided the time was right to pay his friends in Russia a little visit.

  They met in a mansion outside Moscow in a part of town he’d never been to. The entrance gate was manned by security staff. They were allowed through and drove for around two hundred meters to the front of the stately home. The property that sat on its own grounds, surrounded by mature trees and gardens, was designed in 1903 by Ivan Fomin in the Art Nouveau style and was magnificent. Fomin had decorated his work with plaster flowers and majolica inserts and the same floral motifs had been used in the iron gates they had come through.

  Fomin had used his own designs to furnish the property but there were also furniture pieces by Rennie Mackintosh and Joseph Maria Olbrich and paintings by Koloman Moser and others.

  Blanco was led into an elegant study where the other men who had attended the meeting were waiting.

  When Blanco told them about his idea he expected them to laugh, but instead there was a deathly silence, and when they did start laughing it was not at him but with him. He saw a sort of respect in their eyes that had not been there before. Mikhail Yashenko, a thin man with angular features and shrewd eyesspoke:

  ‘Vladimir, this would seem to be a good opportunity to talk to your friend Yuri CheyNokov. After all, he is perfectly well aware that Esteban—’ he nodded in Blanco’s direction ‘—is the real source of his SDI information. If he is prepared to provide us with the necessary asset to deal with our little problem, I’m sure we can continue to, how shall I put it, keep him up to date with the Americans’ progress and it need not cost him any actual cash.’

  Vladimir sipped his vodka and smiled. He was a heavy-set man in his early sixty’s a slavic face with bushy eyebrows that reminded Blanco of Brezhnev. ‘Yes...yes that is something he might be very interested to hear, give me a day or two at the most, and then let’s talk again. Meanwhile, the less people who know about this, the better.’

  The meeting disbanded soon after and Esteban returned to Neglinnaya Street and the Ararat Park Hyatt, where his Russian associates had booked him into a comfortable suite.

  Blanco had been in his hotel for two days when he got a call from Vladimi
r inviting him to dinner. They met at Cafe Pushkin. Vladimir had made a reservation and as usual the place was packed. The restaurant was spread over three floors, each with its own ambient theme. Vladimir had reserved four tables on the library level to ensure they had a certain amount of privacy while still being able to enjoy people-watching.

  Vladimir was a big eater and he studied the menu with undisguised relish.

  ‘Esteban, you are going to like this place, the food is great, the best in Moscow. Is there anything you particularly dislike?’

  ‘Apart from Americans,’ he said, ‘nothing.’

  ‘Ha! Then trust me and I will order for us.’ Vladmir liked his friend’s sense of humour.

  The waiter came and Vladimir ordered a selection of Ukrainian, Georgian and Uzbek dishes and a fine bottle of French wine from the ample wine list. The waiter disappeared with their order.

  ‘Okay Esteban, he wants to meet you, are you ready?’

  ‘I have been waiting for that. When?’

  ‘Tomorrow, I will pick you up at ten and take you there.’

  ‘Fine, tomorrow, then, and thank you my friend for arranging this.’ Vladimir leaned back in his chair.

  ‘In that case let us not talk any more business. I have taken the liberty of inviting two friends to join us. I have told them about you and they are excited to meet a Latin man.’

  They were soon joined by two of the most beautiful women that Esteban had ever seen; they were charming, intelligent and dressed in designer clothes. Esteban was his usual attentive self and when the meal ended they left with him and joined him in his hotel suite.

  The following morning Vladimir arrived in a black Mercedes and Esteban was waiting for him in the hotel lobby.

  CheyNokov lived in a smart apartment off Ayvazovskogo Ulitsa not very far from his office. He greeted his guests and ushered them into his study.

  ‘Mr Blanco it is a pleasure to meet you personally at last.’

  ‘Mr CheyNokov I am pleased to make your acquaintance. It is always good when one can put a face to the name.’

  Vladimir sat quietly listening in on the conversation.

  CheyNokov was short and portly, he had a round, chubby face and thick lips that he liked to lick. He was dressed casually. CheyNokov offered his guests a drink which they accepted. He now studied Esteban with the shrewd eyes of an experienced interrogator and when he spoke it was in a quiet relaxed voice.

  ‘Mr Orlov said you have a proposal for me,’ he said pointing to Vladimir with a wave of his hand, ‘and I am most intrigued to hear what that might be.’

  Esteban considered where to begin and decided that, with this man, bullshit would be out of place. ‘Mr CheyNokov, let me come straight to the point. I am sure that your life, like mine, is more or less difficult depending on who the person in The Oval Office happens to be. It is my intention to arrange for a very friendly occupant to be elected to that distinguished post.’

  CheyNokov considered what he had just heard. He looked at Blanco and Orlov in turn, wondering what kind of crazy idea this Latin man was proposing and then he cautiously said:

  ‘Certainly what you say is true, but despite what the press like to say, our relations with The United States are very cordial at present. I am sure that President Putin would not appreciate any action that might jeopardize that.’

  ‘And there would be no need for that to happen. As the Americans put it we have a fall guy, or rather organization, who should take the honours—after all they like nothing better than to claim responsibility for the world’s great atrocities; we will just be saving them the trouble.’

  ‘Al-Quaeda. Ah yes, a possibility, certainly.’

  ‘It is good to know that we are, to paraphrase the Americans again, on the same page.’

  Yuri CheyNokov thanked him for his visit and promised that he would give careful consideration to his proposal and that he would not keep him waiting long for an answer.

  That same day, Grigori contacted CheyNokov to tell him that Robert Waynard had been saved by the British secret service, doubtless as a favour to their friends in the CIA. Yuri CheyNokov did not ask how he knew it was MI6 and not the CIA who had pulled Waynard, it was enough that he said so. This was the first time that the information he had received had not yielded favourable results and CheyNokov wondered if Grigori’s failure to neutralize the agent had been a lucky break or if his very expensive source at the DEA had been compromised. He would just have to run with it a little while longer. He would know soon enough one way or the other.

  Nathan King got the good news from Dwayne Young and lost no time telling the President that the mole had been found and that he would be put to good use to lead the Soviets down the garden path.

  Dwayne called Garrett and arranged to meet him outside the office. He told him about Bland and showed him photos that Milton had taken that put him together with Blanco. Ed, not one to be lost for words at the best of times, stared at the pictures in disbelief.

  ‘The fucking bastard. I can’t believe it. How long have you known this?’

  ‘Not more than a couple days, I had to tell The President first.’

  ‘Listen Ed,’ Dwayne said, ‘much as I know you want to wring the little shit’s neck personally, you cannot let him know that you’re on to him. What I am about to share with you only a very few people know—orders of The President—but as things stand I need you in the loop.’

  Garrett was curious and angry; how long had his department, and he personally for that matter, been under investigation?

  ‘You going to tell me when you decided I was in the clear?’

  ‘Don’t be crazy, you’ve never been a suspect with me but I had to keep you in the dark so as not to compromise the operation.’

  ‘You could have trusted me a little.’

  ‘It was a tough call to make and...well, if it had been up to me only...anyway it’s done, we’ve got our traitor, now the question is how do we use him?’

  Dwayne told Ed how the operation that had focused on Bland had soon led to Bland’s nephew Ian.

  ‘Naturally Tim Mitchell has been alerted, they’re watching him but not too closely or it might frighten him off. We want them all when we close the net.’

  Grigori flew from Budapest’s Ferihegy International Airport onboard Malév flight 614 and, on arrival at Gatwick got a taxi to his hotel.

  The following morning Grigori rose early and set off for his meeting. He arrived at an address in Hornsey Road and stood in front of an ordinary three-storey white house with peeling paintwork. He walked up the four steps leading to the entrance, rung the doorbell and waited. A few minutes later the door was opened by a young man wearing faded blue jeans and a white shirt. His name was Abdul Khan, a devoted Chechen Muslim who attended the North London Central Mosque. He was thin, had dark intelligent eyes and, with his short, black beard and studious looking horn-rimmed spectacles, appeared older than his twenty-four years and looked every inch the college student that in fact he was.

  Grigori sat facing Khan in the sparsely furnished living room.

  ‘My name is Timur Sautiev.’

  Khan wanted to ask a thousand questions but instead he remained silent while Grigori outlined his plans.

  In 2003, when the North London Central Mosque was still called The Finsbury Park Mosque, Grigori had been sent to infiltrate a cell loyal to the Chechen warlord Shamil Basayeb. He’d engineered a casual meeting with Kamel Rabat Bourahla after following him to a café on the Blackstock Road. Kamel was seated alone in the only remaining table in the café that had an empty seat available. Grigori asked him if the seat was taken and when he said it wasn’t, he sat down and struck-up a conversation.

  Grigori told him he was from Chechnya. Much later and only when they had met many times, usually at the same café, he opened up a bit and talked about his hatred of the Russian presence in Chechnya. He’d come to England hoping to escape the oppressive Russian federal security forces, and the rule of the Kremlin-backe
d local government in Grozny. He said he had no family to worry about and was hoping to make a new life in London. He had little money and was looking for work.

  Grigori spoke Chechen fluently and was able to dispel any doubts that Kamel might have had as to his story. After a while, Kamel introduced him to his friends Osman and Yacine. A common bond developed and eventually they felt comfortable enough with him to let him in on their plans so that, when Kamel and his friends went to Chechnya to fight alongside their hero Basayev, Grigori went with them.

  1st September 2004 saw the start of the Beslan massacre when a group of at least ten armed Muslim Chechen separatists and supporters took more than 1200 schoolchildren and adults hostage at School Number One in the town of Beslan, North Ossetia-Alania; an autonomous republic in the North Caucasus region of the Russian Federation. On the third day of the standoff, a chaotic gun battle broke out between the hostage-takers and Russian security forces. Three hundred and thirty-four civilians were killed including one hundred and eighty-six children and hundreds more were wounded. The Chechen terrorist Shamil Basayev took responsibility for the hostage-taking. At least two English Algerians participated in the attack: Osman Larussi and Yacine Benalia. Both died in the battle.

  Basayev died July 10, 2006 killed by an explosion. The Russians claim the FSB Chechens assassinated him while others claim it was an accidental explosion but, soon after Basayav’s death, Grigori left Chechnya and returned to Moscow.

  Grigori finished outlining his plans to the student Abdul Khan. He was always well briefed but, on this occasion, his researchers had let him down. There was something in the young man’s past that he should have been made aware of. Something that, had he known it, would have disqualified Khan and he would never have approached him.

  Abdul Khan was eighteen when Yacine Benalia was killed. At that time, Abdul’s surname was Benalia and Yacine was his older brother.