by Rob Sinclair
‘Do you have any candidates?’
‘On our side or at the FSB?’
‘Either.’
‘Yes, actually,’ Sanderson said.
He leaned forward in his seat, glancing around the room as though checking for eavesdroppers.
Silly old fool, Lindegaard thought.
‘I understand the JIA has a potential sleeper,’ Sanderson said, his voice quieter than it had been before.
Lindegaard raised an eyebrow and almost spat out his whisky. ‘We do?’
Sanderson shifted in his seat, as though uncomfortable about the information he was relaying.
‘The wife of one of the FSB’s deputy directors,’ he said.
Lindegaard’s mouth opened wide, but no sound came out. He was genuinely shocked by Sanderson’s disclosure. The deputy directors of the FSB were the cream of the crop – only two pay grades removed from the overall director. Having a sleeper not just in bed with but married to such a senior official was an incredible coup.
More than anything, Lindegaard was concerned that he had known nothing about this. Immediately, he began thinking through what damage a sleeper agent in such a position could mean for himself.
‘What’s her name?’ Lindegaard said.
‘I don’t know,’ Sanderson responded. Lindegaard wasn’t sure he believed him. ‘This is about as big as it gets, Jay. If the FSB found out about her, can you imagine what damage it would do to our credibility?’
‘We have to try to use her,’ Lindegaard said, even though in reality it was the last thing he wanted to happen. ‘Has she been activated yet?’
‘As far as I’m aware, no. Never, in fact.’
‘Who’s her handler?’
‘I understand it was Mackie,’ Sanderson said. ‘He was the only one to have ever dealt with her. She’s been in place for years. To be honest, I don’t even know if she’d be reliable anymore.’
‘But she could still be a way back into what’s happening at the FSB.’
‘Yes, she could be. We need to discuss this with Winter tomorrow. He’s the only one who has access to Mackie’s files.’
‘No. Let’s not bring that up tomorrow,’ Lindegaard said, his cunning mind in full swing. ‘Let’s see what Winter has to offer us first. Like you said, this is big. We don’t want the wrong person to activate that sleeper. If you ask me, it’d be better for all concerned to remove Winter first and take it from there.’
‘He may already know who she is, though,’ Sanderson said. ‘We need to find out what he knows.’
‘Let me handle that,’ Lindegaard said, struggling to hide a smile. ‘John, if you’ll excuse me, please could I use your restroom?’
‘Of course. You know where it is, right?’
‘Yeah,’ Lindegaard said, putting his whisky down.
He got to his feet and headed out of the room, his head spinning with thoughts. The sleeper agent was a real revelation. And one that could cause untold damage to his plans if the JIA were in contact with her without his knowing. He couldn’t let that happen. The radio silence between the FSB and the outside world was essential to keeping his dirty deeds in the dark and his plan on track.
When Lindegaard returned from the toilet, Sanderson was still in the armchair, facing away. Lindegaard stopped and studied a picture on the wall, a floral landscape where two bright bumblebees were feeding. Lindegaard hated it. It was garish and crudely drawn. It fitted the rest of the horrific furnishings perfectly. He guessed that nonetheless it had probably cost a small fortune.
‘In many respects, I find the life of the bumblebee to be quite sad,’ Lindegaard said after a few moments, moving away from the picture as he spoke.
Sanderson turned around in his chair, a quizzical look on his face. ‘You do?’
‘I just feel they got the rough end of the stick, so to speak,’ Lindegaard said. ‘The bumblebee is bigger, stronger than its counterpart, the honeybee. It’s more visually eye-catching too – its colours more vivid. Overall, you’d say it was a superior being.’
‘You could say that.’
‘And yet it has so many apparent flaws compared to the noble honeybee. Particularly in the eyes of us humans.’
‘How so?’
‘Well, comparatively they’re loners, their colonies significantly smaller. They don’t reproduce quickly, which is one reason they struggle to maintain a nest for more than one season. They do make honey of course, but their workers are just lazy. I mean, have you ever heard of anyone selling bumblebee honey? No, because they can’t make it as quickly or in as sufficient volume as those damned honeybees that congregate in their thousands and work all the hours God sends.’
‘Very interesting stuff, Jay,’ Sanderson said, getting to his feet and walking back over to the dresser to pour himself some more whisky.
‘No, John, it really is,’ Lindegaard said, more enthused now. ‘Because for all its apparent flaws, you shouldn’t underestimate the bumblebee. You know, the honeybee might characterise China or India or some such place. Endless drones, monotonous workers producing all the products you could ever need. Cheap labour. But what kind of life is that?’
‘Do you want another one or not?’ Sanderson said, shaking his empty glass.
‘Yes, please,’ Lindegaard said, grabbing his glass and moving over toward Sanderson.
He downed the remainder of the whisky in his tumbler and handed it to Sanderson, who poured them both another large measure before placing the bottle back into the dresser next to the vast array of other expensive-looking drinks.
‘It’s a novel way of looking at the life of the bee,’ Sanderson said, sounding just a little condescending.
‘It is, John. You’re right. But to get to the point, the bumblebee, you see, is still the king. Because it is bigger, it is stronger. It is the superior being.’
‘That was your point?’
‘No, John. The point is, I’m more like the bumblebee. And you’re not.’
Lindegaard lunged forward toward Sanderson, who still had his back turned, and coiled his thick right arm around his colleague’s neck. Sanderson squirmed and dropped the whisky glasses, which crashed to the floor. The amber liquid splashed onto the bottom of Lindegaard’s trousers, angering him and making him pull harder on his arm; he used his left hand to pull the vice-like grip tighter.
Sanderson squirmed pathetically and Lindegaard pulled and squeezed as hard as he could, gritting his teeth almost in a smile as he did so. Sanderson bucked and wheezed but he had no chance.
In the end, it wasn’t even a contest. Sanderson was old and soft and tired. Lindegaard still felt as strong and fit as he’d been at thirty.
Yes, he really was the superior specimen, he thought, as he happily choked the life out of the older man.
Just a few moments later, Sanderson’s body finally went limp. Lindegaard released his grip and the lifeless body of the MI6 agent slumped to the floor.
Chapter 33
Akmola Province, Kazakhstan
Logan was already awake when he heard loud chattering outside the motel room door. He’d woken a few minutes earlier, a result of the light rays seeping in through the thin curtains and the noise of cars, vans and articulated lorries blasting past on the nearby road. He and Grainger were in bed together, her warm, naked body still gently wrapped around his.
When the knock on the door came, Grainger stirred, shifted off Logan and turned over to face the other way.
Logan got off the bed and walked to the door.
‘Yeah?’
‘Twenty minutes,’ he heard Butler say from the other side.
‘Got it.’
He went around the bed and kneeled down next to Grainger, pushing the hair that was covering her face away and tucking it behind her ear.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s get a shower before we head out.’
Grainger groaned and opened her eyes, then smiled at him and Logan felt a burst of light inside him.
The two of them showe
red together, the mood between them infinitely more relaxed and natural than it had been over the previous few days. It seemed that resolve he’d seen in her eyes was finally breaking through.
After they’d dried and dressed themselves, they headed outside where Fleming and his men were already hanging around the two cars, chatting and smoking.
Logan shivered as the cold air hit him. He still didn’t have a replacement coat and he could feel the temperature was some way below freezing. There had been a fresh smattering of snow overnight, just a half inch or so, but no attempt by anyone to move the snow from the car park area. The soft powder underfoot crunched under Logan’s weight, his boots leaving perfect imprints.
The smell of fried meat in the air was rich above the cloud of diesel fumes from the carriageway. There was no restaurant or cafe on the site, but Logan wondered whether Fleming and his men had nonetheless been treated to breakfast by the motel owner. He and Grainger certainly hadn’t received the invite if that were the case.
Butler said something to Fleming as Logan and Grainger approached and the two men started snickering childishly.
‘Did you have a nice evening?’ Fleming said.
‘Those curtains are pretty thin, you know,’ Butler taunted as Logan reached them.
Logan launched himself toward Butler, ready to wipe the grin off his ugly face, but Grainger grabbed his arm and pulled him back.
‘It’s okay, Carl. Leave it.’
Logan huffed and shook himself down.
Fleming raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re a touchy fellow, Logan.’ He shook his head and turned to get into the car.
Butler cackled. ‘Yeah. Very touchy.’ He winked over at Grainger.
Logan did his best not to rise to the bait, though it took everything he had not to hurl himself at Butler.
‘Come on, we’ve got a long day ahead of us,’ Fleming said. ‘Grab some food and drink out of the boot before you get in.’
Butler was still grinning and he kept eye contact as he walked past Logan around to the driver’s side of the car. The four Kazakhs made their way to the Jeep, talking among themselves, their own little clique, seemingly oblivious to all around them except when Fleming barked an order.
Grainger and Logan went to the boot of the car to see what supplies were there. Fleming certainly hadn’t packed lightly. In the boot were three large cool boxes filled with all manner of fresh food, snacks and soft drinks. But what caught Logan’s attention most was something else: weapons. Two assault rifles. Two sub-machine guns. Utility belts. Helmets, visors, night-vision goggles.
Grainger and Logan looked at each other, alarmed at the mini armoury, but said nothing. Logan wasn’t sure whether the array of arms that Fleming was carrying made him feel more secure or just more suspicious.
And if all that was for just Fleming and Butler, what was in the Jeep?
After helping themselves to food, Logan got into the back of the car, behind Fleming. Grainger got in behind Butler. Then they were on the move again.
The journey, like the previous day, was long and boring. The scenery outside – vast wild steppes covered in snow and bathed in sumptuous sunlight – was initially breathtaking due to its vastness but was eventually entirely monotonous. Given Logan’s own experiences with Fleming in the Scottish Highlands, and more recently in the frozen wastelands of Siberia, it was hard for him not to look upon the view as sinister and foreboding. And yet, at least this time he was safe and warm. Well, he was warm. He wasn’t entirely convinced of the former.
There was little conversation between the four along the way. Fleming and Butler swapped positions twice during the long drive, giving the other a chance to sleep. Logan and Grainger also both took the opportunity to nod off.
‘It certainly is a big country,’ Grainger said to no one in particular as she stared at the desolate view a few moments after waking from a nap.
‘There’re some pretty spectacular sights actually,’ Fleming said. ‘Waterfalls, canyons, lakes, mountains. It’s a beautiful country.’
‘Just not in this part,’ Butler added.
‘And it’s definitely not the best time of year to see it,’ Fleming conceded.
He spoke as though he had a true fondness for the place, which Logan struggled to comprehend.
They drove on until the early evening. The clouds had pulled in during the afternoon, making the landscape outside appear to be an endless grey and causing the atmosphere in the car to seem all the chillier.
Logan had seen from the last road sign that Astana was now only a hundred miles away.
‘We need to take a quick detour,’ Fleming said. He was back in the passenger seat. ‘One of the base stations we’re running is out here. I’ve not been in a few weeks, so I want to make sure my guys are doing what they should be. We’ve got a few hours spare anyway and it’ll only take a few minutes.’
Logan grunted in agreement.
Not long after that, they pulled off the main road and headed down a less-well-used track. They continued for close to twenty minutes before there was any sign of life at all. Then, in the distance, the base station came into view.
Small brick buildings, each only a single storey, were spread in an uneven cluster. Overground metal pipes of various sizes – some only a few inches thick, others more than a foot in diameter – snaked around the buildings and in and out of the ground. All around the complex was a wire fence, about ten feet tall, with balls of barbed wire at the top.
‘What is this place?’ Logan asked.
‘It’s a compressor station for Kazakhstan’s main gas pipeline,’ Fleming said. ‘I supply security for all of the stations on the line, right across the country. It really is a feat of engineering. The pipeline stretches over a thousand miles across Kazakhstan and into China.’
‘Sounds like a good deal for the Chinese,’ Logan said. ‘Easy access to one of the world’s largest gas sources. But what do the locals get from it?’
‘Don’t be so cynical. The Chinese bring a lot of investment here. Granted, there’s some ill feeling toward them having their fingers in every pie, but the Kazakhs could never have got these projects off the ground without outside help.’
Logan was sure Fleming was at least partly right. The outside investment into the country was certainly generating a lot of wealth. Just look at Fleming. The problem, as was the case in nearly all resource-rich nations, was that it brought real wealth only to the few.
‘This should only take a couple of minutes,’ Fleming said as they neared the outer gates to the complex.
Logan peered out of the front window. They were now only a hundred or so yards away.
‘This place doesn’t look like it’s been used in years,’ he said, feeling a hint of suspicion.
Logan could see two armed men at the gates to the complex, dressed in uniforms very much like Fleming’s other guards. But he could also see now that the buildings were in some disrepair. Parts of the pipes around them had cracked and fallen from the struts holding them above the ground. Doors and windows were intermittently boarded up or just worn and old.
Fleming shrugged. ‘I don’t argue the toss about what goes on here or any other place. I just provide the security.’
The gates to the complex were open and Butler drove the car through, past the two armed guards, then parked on the opposite side of the open central area to where two other cars were already parked – a silver saloon whose make Logan didn’t recognise and a white Toyota Land Cruiser.
‘Come on, let’s get this over and done with,’ Fleming said, opening his door. ‘Grainger, Logan, this’ll be the last stop we make before Astana, so feel free to stretch your legs.’
Logan looked over at Grainger, who shrugged. Then they both went for their door handles. It had been four hours since their last stop, so this was a good chance to get out and get their legs moving.
Butler stepped from the car and made his way around to the boot. As Logan got out, his eyes followed Fleming as he made h
is way toward the two parked cars. When he was about midway, the driver’s door of the Land Cruiser opened and a man stepped out. He was wearing a uniform much like Fleming’s Kazakh house guards were. He casually walked up to Fleming and the two began a quiet conversation.
Logan looked over the car to Grainger. She was standing by her open door, stretching her arms in the air. Logan heard the sound of crunching gravel and snow as the Jeep carrying Fleming’s other men arrived. It pulled to a stop right next to Grainger.
In front of him, Logan continued to spy on Fleming and the man. He couldn’t hear their conversation but his mind was now racing. He looked over at the parked cars, then at Fleming and the man. Then at the two armed men by the gates. Then over to the Jeep, which the other guards were just getting out of.
Something wasn’t right. The whole set-up here wasn’t right. Logan was staring over toward Fleming, trying to figure out what it was he didn’t like, when the front passenger door of the Land Cruiser opened and another man stepped out, this one dressed in casual clothes: boots, jeans, a thick puffer jacket. He was tall and thin and young.
Logan glanced at him, then back at Fleming.
His heart was already thumping in his chest when the face of the man who’d just emerged from the Land Cruiser clicked into place. Logan shot his gaze back to the man. Logan had seen him before. More than that, Logan knew him.
Fleming had set him up.
He was turning Logan in.
Because the man who’d just got out of the car was nothing to do with Fleming’s business. He was a JIA agent. Paul Evans.
Chapter 34
Logan heard the boot to the car slam shut and was about to turn around to Butler when he felt a cold pressure against his neck. The barrel of a gun. Like a switch had been flicked, Logan was filled with unabashed fury.
‘Don’t even think about it,’ Butler said when Logan flinched.
Logan cursed himself for having been so easily foxed. Fleming turned around to meet his gaze. Evans too was looking at him.
