Latent Hazard

by Piers Venmore-Rowland

  The colonel paused. ‘I have some more bad news, unfortunately. The FSB tell me confidentially that a little while back pro-Chechen rebels captured a consignment of Kornet E Anti-Tank Armour missiles: five launchers with optical sights and twenty missiles, to be precise. They believe that they were sold on by Restaya, a company with which AEIEA has had dealings. This makes it all rather too close to home for comfort!’

  Kate was going to speak, but the colonel carried on.

  ‘I have been interviewing the manager. He is pleading ignorance. He insists that he only runs the company and its day to day activities without asking any questions, stating that real decisions are made by the directors whom he doesn’t see often. When I interrogated him further, it turned out he did not know to whom the missile launchers and missiles were sold, just that he delivered them to the same rifle range outside Tallinn that my colleagues visited. He described the size of the wooden crates and the lettering on them. Unfortunately I can confirm that they are a match for the missing Kornet missiles and launchers. We are keeping the manager in custody. He is not being allowed to talk to outsiders. His secretary has been told of his driving accident and that he is being held pending a murder charge.’

  ‘How long can you hold him for without him seeing his solicitor?’ asked Kate.

  ‘As long as you like,’ came the reply, ‘now that we know he is involved with a major terrorist plot. Questions will be asked as to why he cannot speak to his solicitor in probably forty-eight hours. My team is currently going through the import/export agency’s paperwork with a fine-tooth comb to see whether any other armaments have recently passed through their hands. I will keep you informed of their progress.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Kate.

  ‘That is not all. I have been looking into the other company you mentioned: HFFF. It owns two deep sea trawlers, the Anu Riina and the Anu Maarja; they both operate out of Tallinn docks. Both are at sea – they left five days ago. Before that they spent seven days in port. I would bet that your Kornets are on board. We understand the vessels are somewhere north of the Faeroes. That is all for the moment. I will get in touch as soon as we know anything else.’

  Kate looked thoughtful and replied, ‘Thank you. You’ve given us more than enough to get on with. All your help is much appreciated.’

  ‘A pleasure. I must go now. Give me a call if you need anything more. Sorry to have been the bearer of such bad news.’

  Kate put the phone down and sat there, thinking.

  ‘Things have just got bloody scary, haven’t they?’ said Emma. ‘When the safety specifications were drawn up for oil and gas depots, or even airports or nuclear power stations, they can’t have had any idea that such a monster as the Kornet missile existed?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Kate, ‘or if they did, it was one hell of a cover-up by our political masters.’

  ‘If only we had a better idea of the timescale,’ mused Rafi.

  ‘We should work on the basis that the attacks are imminent,’ said Kate.

  ‘A thought,’ he replied. ‘If Aidan and I are right and the financial markets are at the heart of the terrorists’ plan, then the attacks won’t come today – it’s already too late. They’ll come first thing in the morning. That way they will get full news coverage and have the whole day to spook the markets. Now whether that’s tomorrow or next week, I don’t know.’

  ‘We must get information on who the foot soldiers are and what they’re targeting. Carry on researching your leads and keep me informed of any developments,’ said Kate. ‘I need to brief the commissioner.’

  John returned with Jeremy right behind him.

  ‘Rafi, I’ve been thinking a bit more about the terrorists and their possible exit routes,’ said John. ‘I really would put good money on them using a fast motor vessel in addition to the trawlers. Especially as they could easily afford something very fast.’

  ‘Where would you look?’ Rafi replied.

  ‘Firstly, I’d look at the ringleaders,’ said John, ‘and see whether the sheikh, Basel, Jameel or Maryam own a large powerboat.’

  ‘I’ve a friend at Lloyd’s Shipping Register. Let me give her a ring,’ said Emma.

  It turned out to be a short conversation. ‘She says our task will be difficult. There are many large powerboats scattered all around the smart harbours and marinas of Europe. The difficulty is that most are owned through special purpose companies for tax reasons and this makes it hard to trace their owners.’

  Emma thought for a moment, then got up and went to see Aidan, who was sitting behind a large volume of paper.

  ‘Aidan, if you wanted to find out if a business contact owned a smart and expensive motor vessel, where would you start?’

  He looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Anyone who spends several millions on a yacht will no doubt thinks it’s the best thing since sliced bread. My bet would be to go and look in their offices, where they’re bound to have photos of it.’

  ‘Good idea, but we don’t have the time,’ said Emma.

  Rafi lifted his head up from his paperwork. ‘Of the four individuals, I doubt whether Jameel has one stashed away. He’s never spoken of boats to me and, to my knowledge, he spends most of his holiday time skiing or playing golf. Basel is a workaholic and I don’t see him leaving something valuable tucked away in a marina, unused. That leaves Sheikh Tufayl and Maryam.’

  ‘I’d rule out Maryam,’ said Emma. ‘She also works long hours and spends too much time between her homes in the Gulf, Luxembourg and London. I don’t see a large powerboat and outdoor activities going with her lifestyle.’

  ‘What about her hubby?’ asked John. ‘He is extremely wealthy.’

  ‘Could be,’ said Kate, ‘but in my book the sheikh seems to be the most likely.’

  ‘I’ve got an idea,’ said John. ‘It’s a bit off the wall, but how about we chat to someone working for the tabloid press and see if they’ve any pictures of Sheikh Tufayl and Maryam’s husband, and see if a big boat is in any of them? We must have some good contacts. Should I make a couple of phone calls and get some names?’

  Kate nodded. ‘But the discussion would have to be in confidence, perhaps in return for a story later.’ Ten minutes later, John’s phone rang; he scribbled down the information on two contacts: one working for a red top newspaper and the other for a tabloid magazine.

  ‘I could do with a volunteer to pay a journalist a visit,’ said Kate.

  ‘Count me in,’ replied Jeremy.

  ‘See what you can find,’ said Kate.

  ‘Will do.’ Jeremy picked up the piece paper with the names and phone numbers on. ‘Which do you reckon I should try first?’

  ‘I’d take the first one – he works down at Canary Wharf when he’s at home but, like most tabloid journalists, he could be almost anywhere.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Jeremy, slightly sarcastically. ‘It seems a straightforward task.’ He dialled the first journalist, Pete Lockyer, and smiled when the mobile was answered almost immediately.

  ‘Hello,’ said Jeremy, ‘I was wondering whether you could help me?’

  ‘Who are you?’ said a slightly shrill voice on the other end of the phone.

  Jeremy gave a wry smile. ‘Someone you don’t know. And who probably doesn’t exist in any of your files.’

  ‘Are you taking the mickey?’ snapped Pete Lockyer.

  ‘No,’ said Jeremy. ‘I work for a rather special part of the Government and your name has been put forward as someone who could help us.’

  ‘Sorry mate, I’m rather busy at the moment.’

  ‘OK,’ said Jeremy. ‘I thought I’d try you first as you come highly recommended, but if you’re too busy, not to worry. I’ve another couple of people to try, including a rather pushy sod at a tabloid magazine.’

  There was a pause at the other end of the phone; one could sense Pete considering if he was about to turn down a potentially lucrative story.

  ‘How much of my time would you need?’ inquired Pete
.

  Jeremy tried hard to conceal a large smile and winked at Emma. ‘Not long! Perhaps you might have time for a cup of coffee or a glass of wine?’

  ‘It’s a bit early for the wine. Let’s make it a cup of coffee. There’s a decent coffee bar around the corner from where I work.’

  Jeremy took down the address. ‘Could we meet there in, say, twenty-five minutes?’

  ‘Fine,’ said the journalist. ‘How do I recognise you?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Jeremy, ‘I look fairly nondescript. I’m in a grey suit, open-necked shirt, six foot two and I’ll be carrying a notepad. My name is Jeremy, by the way.’

  ‘See you in half an hour.’

  ‘Twenty-five minutes would be better,’ said Jeremy and hung up. He looked across at Kate. ‘Any bright ideas on how I get to Canary Wharf and back?’

  ‘No problem. If you go down to the car park, I’ll arrange for you to be looked after.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Jeremy picked up his notepad and hurried off on his errand.

  The pressure was on. The team had uncovered a number of crucial leads, but the overall picture was still far from clear. There was trepidation in the air.

  ‘Emma, how have you been getting on with your maps?’ asked Kate.

  ‘Rather well, actually,’ replied Emma. ‘Before I show you what I’ve got, though, I think we should consider how many targets there could be.’

  ‘Good point.’ Kate nodded for her to continue.

  ‘They have five missile launchers. Of the twenty missiles they started off with, four were used in Estonia, leaving three or four missiles per launcher. This gives each operative probably one or two targets only. The missile launchers and their tripods are bulky. If the terrorists don’t want to be captured and are keen for a quick getaway, I’d go for one target per launcher and use the three or four missiles to knock the living daylights out of it. A well-trained operative could fire four missiles in less than two minutes and then leave the area discretely.’

  ‘What if they fire their first couple of missiles at one target and then take their missile launcher with them to some pre-stashed missiles at a property or a vehicle parked near to their next target?’ added Rafi.

  ‘So we could have ten targets!’ whistled John. ‘Flaming heck! And if they had access to a roof of a suitably located property, they’d have a great launching pad!’

  ‘Or if a vehicle is involved, a nearby property would be useful to keep it out of sight prior to an attack,’ added Emma.

  ‘Oh sod it! I suggest we look for ten targets and scale the number down only when we have conclusive proof,’ said an agitated Kate.

  ‘I’ve been making progress on the property front,’ said Rafi. ‘The mortgage register of PREH gives us an interesting set of addresses. Emma has chatted to John’s team who have been helping us rule out the other properties. We’re left with our original four properties as possibles: Peterhead, Hartlepool, North Walsham and Prestwick.’

  ‘Now for the clever bit,’ said Emma. She was standing next to a large, touch screen monitor which Greg had set up by the whiteboard.

  ‘First, let’s put up a map of the UK and add on to it the four suspect properties.’ Emma tapped the LCD screen, highlighting the four locations with bold blue crosses. ‘We can now add an exit port.’ As if by magic a little icon depicting a trawler appeared next to Peterhead.

  ‘Sorry, I’m still working on where the other trawlers are. However, I’ve done some work on the location of our major energy installations.’ She moved back to her PC and, with several clicks of her mouse, a mass of coloured dots appeared on the screen.

  Rafi let out an appreciative whistle.

  ‘To make life easier I’ve colour-coded them,’ said Emma. ‘The green dots are for major gas and oil plants, red dots for the nuclear powers stations, the large red blob is for the Sellafield reprocessing facility in Cumbria and, lastly, the numerous black dots are the oil, gas and coal fired power stations.’

  ‘Bloody hell!’ said John, ‘I didn’t realise there were so many of them.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Emma. ‘But I reckon we can safely remove the black dots. The fossil fuel power stations, whilst large, aren’t in the same league as the others.’

  A couple of clicks later and the black dots disappeared from the screen.

  ‘Oh yes!’ blurted out Rafi, as green and red dots showed up close to the four PREH properties.

  ‘Precisely what are those dots, Emma?’ asked Kate.

  Emma pointed at the screen. ‘Peterhead is between the vast gas facility at St Fergus and the main North Sea oil pumping station at Cruden Bay. The Hartlepool property – here – is right on top of a nuclear power station. If we go down a bit, the North Walsham property – here – is next to the huge gas terminal at Bacton and just down the coast is Sizewell nuclear power station. And, over here, Prestwick is only twenty miles from Hunterston nuclear power station.’

  ‘Phew!’ exclaimed Aidan under his breath. ‘What percentage of our gas supply comes through St Fergus and Bacton?’

  ‘I guess around 30-40%,’ replied Emma.

  ‘The gas market is inelastic,’ said Aidan. ‘A shortfall of just 10% would cause problems; 30% would be catastrophic – sections of UK industry would have to shut down. There would be electricity blackouts; the financial markets wouldn’t like it at all, sentiment would be hit and the falls could be dramatic. On top of this, crippling the North Sea oil pumping station would shut down the oil refineries it serves, causing considerable knock-on effects.’ Aidan looked worried.

  Bingo, thought Rafi, we’ve found another trigger for the financial chaos theory.

  John looked thoughtfully at the map. ‘If we added this little lot up, what would we have?’

  ‘Potentially six substantial energy targets, of which three are nuclear,’ said Emma frowning. ‘The bad news is, if you look at the screen, there are a number of other possible targets.’

  ‘Oh my God! It’s like looking for ten bloody needles in a frigging haystack if you ask me,’ said John.

  ‘I’ve got a question.’ Kate was looking worried. ‘How does the nuclear fuel travel to and from the power stations and the reprocessing units – and how often?’

  ‘By train,’ answered Emma, rummaging around for some paper on her desk. ‘Ah, yes, here it is. The trains average one round trip a week.’

  ‘Do any of them by any chance go near London?’

  ‘Yes, the Sizewell train does,’ answered Emma. She flipped through her notes. ‘It uses the North London line from Stratford round to the marshalling yards at Willesden Junction, before going on to Sellafield.’

  ‘Next question,’ said Kate. ‘How robust are the canisters that carry the nuclear fuel?’

  Emma looked at her paperwork. ‘It says here that the design and specification of the canisters have been certified by Government experts.’

  ‘Does this include the ability to withstand state-of-the-art missiles, like the Kornet missile that our terrorists most likely have?’ continued Kate.

  ‘Their thickness is . . .’ Emma looked for the figure. ‘Yes, 900 mm – about three feet.’

  ‘Could a direct hit penetrate a canister?’

  ‘Yes, I reckon,’ replied Emma, looking at Kate to see if there was yet another question winging her way.

  ‘And a glancing blow would probably ricochet off?’ added Kate.

  ‘Probably,’ replied Emma, uncertainly. ‘However, the experts who determined the safety specifications don’t seem to be worried. Somewhere it says that – Ah yes! Here it is – the worst radioactive release following a terrorist attack is calculated to be only 0.0024 of 1% of the nuclear waste escaping as respirable particles. Each canister is reckoned to contain 3.5 tonnes of spent nuclear fuel.’

  Emma paused, so by my calculations their figures point to only 0.1 kg of nasties being released, which they think isn’t too calamitous. And as I read them, the reports don’t consider there to be a remote possibility of a successful
missile attack. What scares me,’ continued Emma anxiously, ‘is I reckon the contents of each spent fuel canister contains about a quarter of the fallout from Chernobyl and it is around a million times more radioactive than the uranium fuel initially sent to the nuclear power stations. I know they say it’s as safe as houses, but if a terrorist were to . . .’ her voice trailed off.

  The uneasy silence was interrupted by John. ‘The question that the terrorist leaders would have to ask themselves is: how easy would it be to hit accurately a moving canister? And are the odds ones that they would be prepared to gamble on? Having said that, a successful attack at Willesden would have a major impact – it is close to very desirable parts of London.’

  ‘I suggest you put Willesden marshalling yards on your map,’ said Kate.

  ‘John’s got a good point – nuclear power stations seem more likely targets, don’t they?’ said Emma sifting through a pile of papers. ‘And I’ve browsed through the reports from the House of Commons and the Mayor of London’s office, which have looked at the issue of nuclear waste transport. Neither is best pleased with the nuclear cargo going through London, but they both conclude that the canisters are safe – as advised by their experts.’

  ‘For the time being, let’s focus on key oil and gas plants, the nuclear power stations and reprocessing plants,’ said Kate. ‘Excellent work Emma.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Aidan. ‘If you go back to what we discussed earlier – the issue Rafi and I have been debating – what would trigger a very sharp rise in interest rates? The Public Sector Net Cash Requirement is currently at record levels – at the top end of what the financial markets will tolerate. Rafi and I agree that a significant increase in the Government’s borrowing requirements would be seen as a tipping point and if the Government had to borrow large amounts more, then they would have to offer higher and higher yields to entice investors to buy their gilts. Hypothetically, let’s say Hartlepool or Hunterston nuclear power station were to be compromised and shut down following a terrorist attack and radiation leaks. Public opinion could easily swing against all things nuclear. Were nuclear power to become politically unpalatable and phased out sooner rather than later, the Government could get hit with a bill of, say, £75 billion for the radiation clean-up costs and the decommissioning costs of the other power stations. If at the same time a couple of large gas plants were to go out of action causing power cuts and at the same time PSSAF went belly up, it would give the UK financial markets a dose of the screaming abdabs.’