Distant Annihilation. (Tarquin Collingwood Adventures Book 1)

by Azam Hossain

  Ollie sat down and crossed her legs, looked towards Solomon and with empathy said that she worked for M16 and that he would be protected provided he cooperated; and that the alternative for him would be a British prison. I looked at her thinking what cheek. By what authority did she make such a promise?

  Solomon relented, “The suppliers name is Forsythe Landor Consolidated.”

  I heard Ollie give a long sigh under her breath. After a few more questions, including ones about deliveries and dates we had finished. Ollie told Solomon to continue with the supplies, so as not to arouse Zhukov’s suspicions and that someone would be in touch regarding her promise of protection if he cooperated.

  “What do you know about Forsythe Landor?” I began as we walked down the hotel corridor after having left Solomon’s room.

  “They’re a mining company. But it’s what they mine that concerns me,” she said gravely.

  I stopped as did she. “If you have any suspicions Ollie I think you should tell me.”

  She checked to see that the corridor was empty and took a step closer to me and said solemnly, “Forsythe Landor has many interests, mining being their main concern. Now it may be a coincidence and I may even be wrong, but given the cloak and dagger stuff, one of the things that Forsythe Landor mines is uranium...........”

  Suddenly my heart sank and my jaw dropped. I was convinced it was no coincidence.

  CHAPTE R 10 – “CAVIAR.” PERFIDY. INDUCEMENT.

  “Good morning,” Guy bid me cheerfully as I entered his office.

  “Hello,” I said meekly.

  The realisation that Solomon’s disclosure could have international ramifications had filled me with a sense of dread and had caused me a sleepless night. I sat down feeling the weight of last night’s revelation. Ollie who was already seated confirmed her assertion of the previous night. She announced that Forsythe Landor do indeed mine uranium but that they also mine other things. But there was no other business interest which they had, that would have necessitated all the skulduggery that Zhukov was employing.

  Guy seated behind his desk, turned to me and announced, “Zhukov is having a reception at an art gallery which is opening tonight. I’ve arranged an invitation for you and Ollie.”

  I thanked him mechanically, as I was rather preoccupied with the news about the uranium.

  Guy cleared his throat and resumed speaking softly and solemnly, “I think we must under the circumstances assume that it’s uranium that CB Holdings have contracted to supply to Zhukov, unwittingly or otherwise. I thought Beluga CC238 was a rather strange name; Beluga is a Caviar from the Caspian, that’s what the CC stands for Caspian Caviar - it’s the most expensive form of caviar there is. Whatever they’re transporting, judging by the code name it’s something rare and thus valuable. After thinking about if for a few moments I speculatively looked up uranium. Type 238 it’s the most common type - over 99% of uranium is type 238 - thus the abbreviation CC238. In order to be of use in nuclear production the uranium ore needs to be refined through various processes to produce urania –uranium oxide, otherwise known as yellowcake. It’s that that Zhukov must be smuggling. When hit at high speed by a neutron in a nuclear reactor it can be transmuted to fissile Plutonium-239........and we all know the weapons potential of Plutonium.”

  This information with Guy’s precision, calmness and erudition left me cold. It made perfect sense: Illegal exports, large sums of money, criminal gangs and murder - and where did it all lead? Nuclear weapons! I listened as the enormity of it all began to sink in as Guy continued, “This means that things are as grave as we had imagined. You may recall Tarquin I mentioned at the Embassy that some of our spies, contacts and informants in the east had provided intelligence which was of concern to us. The strong suspicion that Zhukov is smuggling Yellowcake appears to be consistent with some previously received intelligence.”

  “Yes, go on,” I said intrigued.

  Guy looked across at Ollie as if to get her support and then continued, “You’ve no doubt heard of the state of Azakistan. It was previously part of the Soviet Union in Central Asia. It’s a failed state if ever there was one. Its government is effectively controlled by criminal gangs. It may be a government by name, but it does little governing that benefit’s the majority of the population. The intelligence we’ve received leads us to conclude that at least some of the exports that CB Holdings have been supplying are destined there.”

  Guy then reached for a large envelope and emptied the photographic contents on to his desk.

  He continued, “These were taken by one of our operatives in Azakistan.”

  They showed two men. One of whom Guy pointed out was Zhukov meeting Ghulam Riaz Mesud; the pictures showed a European man – Zhukov, with a bearded man who was dressed in turban and the traditional dress often seen worn by men in Central Asia.

  “Mesud is the leader of a secessionist movement the JFF (Jihad for a Free Faryab) with strong Islamist tendencies in Azakistan. He wants the North West of the country to succede from the rest of Azakistan on the pretext that it, Faryab, is majority Muslim. Over the last 5 years he and his motley crew have engaged in numerous bombings, kidnappings and assassinations in the province of Faryab. However, recently they’ve become emboldened enough to carry out attacks outside the North West.”

  I recollected that I had heard of the fellow on the few occasions, over the years when I had troubled myself to see what the media had to say for itself.

  Guy continued, “This is a bad enough situation for the natives of Azakistan and anyone concerned with the countries welfare and the stability of the region. However Mesud has received sustenance and succour from the Persian government, which has naturally put a strain on the relations between the two countries. I’m afraid that Mesud’s organisation has strong connections with other Islamist groups including Al Qaeda. The province of Faryab, which is largely the area in which Mesud operates, is effectively a lawless zone where the government’s writ can barely be said to run. It’s largely mountainous and barren; an ideal ground for guerrilla fighting from whence you can easily vanish into the mountains.”

  Guy paused looking pretty grim, which I later realised was the pause for the denouement which he was about to deliver, “The Persians, Iranians if you will, are subject to U.N. economic sanctions, designed to deter them from developing their own nuclear weapons.”

  Persians? I thought; this was sounding more curious by the minute.

  “What I’m about to divulge,” Guy continued, “is something so audacious and devilishly duplicitous that we have had our spies, contacts and informants in the east, check, corroborate and verify the received intelligence so thoroughly as to leave no doubt as to its veracity; whilst simultaneously, we hope, not alerting foreign governments or indeed anybody else of our suspicions. Not even the British Prime Minister knows what I am about to divulge, although he will learn of it at his next weekly security briefing. This is all TOP SECRET Tarquin,” he concluded as if to emphasise his point.

  “You needn’t worry Guy, I’ve dealt with confidential material in the army,” I explained.

  Guy nodded and seemingly reassured resumed, “The intelligence leads to the conclusion that the Persians have decided to ensure that no nuclear weapons will be found or detected by IAEA inspectors in Persia. But that does not mean they will not have such weapons or the ability to use them.”

  “How is this possible?” asked Ollie who was clearly as much in the dark as I.

  “Most likely they will desist from the development of any fissile material – unless it’s very well concealed in their own country.....”

  Good Lord I thought, thinking I could see where this was leading.

  “.....or alternatively, as our intelligence leads us to conclude, the Persians have decided to use intermediaries to develop and install a crude nuclear device and launch capability outside Persia. This way they can purport to show clean hands to the outside world whilst plausibly denying any involvement. And if, God
forbid such a weapon should ever be used on Tehran’s instructions, any retaliation would be directed not at them, but at the unwitting host country from where the missiles were fired.”

  “And I suppose the innocent dupe for all this is poor old Azakistan?” I said wearily as I felt my innards sink on hearing the news of this outrageous Persian perfidy.

  Guy replied that Azakistan was perfect for the role which Persia had assigned it. It was a neighbouring country, poor, corrupt and lawless, contained an insurgency which could be manipulated, terrain that was amenable to concealment and a porous border.

  A lamb to the slaughter by another name I reflected.

  “But this is appalling! What can we do to stop this?” said Ollie rather alarmed.

  “Try not to get too excited, it never does any good,” counselled Guy paternally, “There are three ways of approaching this. Do nothing. Do something officially, alone or with other countries. Or do something secretly, unofficially – covert operations, that sort of thing.”

  “It seems to me doing nothing, is not an option,” I began, “Acting with other nations would be too convoluted, laborious and give the Persians plenty of time to take evasive action.”

  “Quite so......... that leaves the last option,” concluded Guy.

  “What do you have in mind?” I asked intrigued.

  “We need our own man in Azakistan with the right attributes: perceptive, patriotic, military background, knowledge of espionage and intelligence, knows how to handle himself and loyal to Queen and Country.”

  “But where do we find such a man? Is there such a man?” asked Ollie breathlessly. I was thinking just the same thing.

  Guy turned away from Ollie and looked towards me inscrutably and then simply said, “I don’t suppose you’re game, are you Tarquin?”

  “Me?” I said astounded, nearly jumping out of my seat, nonplussed by the invitation.

  “You fit the bill Tarquin. You have all the attributes I’ve just described,” Guy said in a matter of fact sort of way, “We need to act quickly and you’re already apprised of the situation. You could be there tomorrow! You were sporting enough to come out to Moscow –if Moscow why not Azakistan?”

  I had expected to be in Moscow for a few days before returning to England, and now to my consternation I was being prevailed upon to go to Azakistan, a country which made Russia look positively civilised by comparison.

  “Damn it Guy, I’m only here to get Andrew’s killers!” I pleaded.

  “In that case Azakistan is the place to be - Zhukov goes there in a few days time with his entourage,” said Guy emphatically looking me straight in the eyes.

  CHAPTER 11 - AN EPIPHANY.

  My feelings were mixed, from one of anger and a desire for revenge to one of apprehension and curiosity about meeting such an appalling excuse for humanity – Vasily Ustinovich Zhukov. As I was driven to the Onegin Gallery with Ollie, it occurred to me that this was an opportunity to see my adversary in close proximity and gather some intelligence. In accordance with Russian nouveau riche ostentation it was not so much the occasion that warranted the gathering, but whom one invited, the number and the lavishness with which they were to be entertained, that determined how important an event was. As the car approached the Gallery I could see the area littered with expensive cars, which had no doubt just delivered some of the guests to this function. The car stopped and Ollie and I got out and headed towards the entrance. As I expected the photographers took no notice of us, we showed the security personnel our invitations and were shown in to the lobby. A moment later we were in the main reception area where drinks and canapés were being served. As the guests mingled I heard not just Russian being spoken but French, English and German; it was a truly international crowd.

  I sipped my champagne and looked around and asked Ollie, “So what’s Zhukov’s interest in art? I thought he was far too base for all this.”

  “It’s all in aid of his girlfriend. I understand that she fancies herself as a bit of an art connoisseur. She also paints,” Ollie replied.

  “You’re remarkably well informed,” I teased, “You haven’t been reading the celebrity magazines I hope.”

  Her brows furrowed in annoyance, “It’s my job to know,” she rebuked me haughtily.

  Just then a waiter passed with a tray of canapés and Ollie and I partook.

  “Tell me about this girlfriend,” I implored. I imagined some spoilt, vain and vacuous bimbo.

  “It’s not her we have come to meet,” she chastised “It’s Zhukov that has brought us here.”

  “Meeting the girlfriend might enable me to insinuate myself with her so that she might reveal valuable intelligence,” I explained with a logic I thought beyond refute.

  Ollie looked over my shoulder and teased, “Here’s your chance to insinuate yourself with not just the girlfriend but Zhukov.”

  I turned around and saw a man I recognised from the photograph that Guy had shown me as Zhukov, looking very well for his years: fit, lithe and athletic; wearing an immaculate dark suit with a white open necked shirt. He had pronounced cheek bones, piercing eyes and an air of self assurance, acquired no doubt, from years of getting his own way through his wealth and casual attachment to violence. With him was a beautiful brunette woman about 27. She had slim hips, nicely proportioned breasts, an exquisite smile, silky smooth lightly tanned skin and beautifully lustrous hair. She wore a skirt with a matching designer jacket. They were accompanied by a couple of officials and were meeting and greeting their guests.

  “Got a good look Tarquin?” whispered Ollie teasingly as she stood by my side and spoke discreetly into my ear.

  I turned to look witheringly at Ollie, rather annoyed that she had disrupted my appraisal of the couple, or the gorgeous brunette if I’m candid.

  “What’s her name?” I asked and as if to justify my question, “It would be frightfully bad manners not to know the name of ones host,” I added.

  “Her name is Anastasia Olonova,” answered Ollie begrudgingly.

  They worked their way through the crowd and gradually came closer to us.

  “May I introduce Meester Damian Willoughby from England and his wife,” said the official escorting Zhukov and Olonova. My alias was coming in useful already!

  “How do you do?” I said as graciously as I could, as I got a good look at their faces close up. Everyone was all smiles. I noticed there was a look of steely confidence in Zhukov’s eyes and an assured effortless confidence about his persona as we shook hands.

  “It so nice of you to come,” said Olonova when it came to her turn to shake my hand. I looked into that beautiful face and wondered whether we would ever meet again.

  Ollie greeted the couple in Russian, which suitably ingratiated us with them.

  “Are you an art dealer?” Zhukov suddenly asked me.

  “No. However I do admire beautiful things. You have filled this gallery with great works of art. I look forward to visiting each room and being suitably impressed.”

  He appeared content with my answer. They left and moved on to their other guests.

  “You were charm personified,” said I to Ollie.

  “You weren’t too bad yourself,” she praised.

  After awhile Ollie and I agreed to split up. I soon became rather disenchanted with making small talk to fellow guests and so I moved away from the main throng to one of the galleries. I’m rarely averse to a bit of self deprecation but what I know about art is hardly worth knowing. I like Titian, Gainsborough, some of the Dutch masters amongst others. The gallery rooms only contained the occasional guest whom like me decided, miraculously enough in an art gallery, to admire the art. I was looking at the paintings for several minutes in a rather disinterested fashion, when over my shoulder I heard a voice ask, “Mr Willoughby?”

  I turned around and saw Anastasia Olonova all alone and smiling.

  “Ms Olonova,” I gushed surprised.

  “Hello. What do you think of this piece?”

&n
bsp; She was referring to the picture I had just been looking at. It was a Cubist painting, consisting of coloured shaped blocks in the middle of which were some contorted semi human faces. It was by all accounts a grotesque looking piece, but no more so than your average Cubist painting.

  “It’s an extremely interesting example of the Cubist school. I find the way the colours are juxtaposed with each other symbolic of what the painter is trying to communicate,” I began, looking at the picture and gesturing with my hand to emphasis my words, “I’m particularly enamoured of the heads looking in different directions in the centre and the disparity that they represent. The facial features are acute and no doubt have a significance that the painter is trying to impart to the viewer.”

  I finished there – thinking that that was enough waffle made up on the spot to be going on with. I turned away from the picture to look at her at my side. Her face was lit up seemingly impressed at my answer.

  “You really know your art,” she said barely able to conceal her delight.

  “I know nothing really,” I said truthfully, shrugging my shoulders and smiling.

  She laughed, “You are so modest. It’s what I love about you English. Russian men are so proud, serious and never laugh. I find you very refreshing Mr Willoughby.”

  “Oh please call me Damian,” I said feeling very self conscious, as is my wont when speaking to a pretty girl and it was an effort not to keep smiling like a fool. The fact that she seemed so impressed with my answer, which I had made up on the spot, did not to my mind say much about her knowledge of art.

  “How did you and Mr Zhukov meet?” I asked, deciding that I had had enough of art talk and recalling my reason for being here.

  Her face changed expression, to one of mild surprise and then after pondering for a second she replied, “We met about three years ago at a party.”