Traitor (29 page)

The seated men exchanged glances.

‘You may recall a certain Russian naval vessel called the
Inessa
,’ Sumners said, glancing at Stratton, well aware of his failed operation on that mission. ‘One of its uses is as a “stable” for long-distance mini-submarines.The operation that Stratton failed in was completed a week later by MI16.’ Sumners showed no sign of revelling in the comment. Stratton knew him well enough to know how much he really was.

‘The
Inessa
was monitored leaving the North Sea at a time and place that calculations indicate could have enabled a rendezvous with a submersible from the area of the Morpheus not that long after its sinking. It is also interesting to note that while Jackson was holding position in the SBS mini-sub after dropping off Stratton and the others, its Doppler sonar picked up a significant shadow about as large as a medium-sized whale. Close examination of that recording revealed that he had inadvertently registered another submarine. Since we did not put all of this together till well after the incident, nothing was done about the
Inessa
at the time.’

Sumners picked a glass of water off the table and took a sip, giving the others time to digest the information so far.

‘Working on the principle that the guilty are usually far closer to home than one might expect to find them, a subsequent investigation into the owners of the Morpheus revealed some interesting facts. I won’t go into all the details simply because of the time factor. But in summary, one of the major shareholders of the group that owned the platform has been in financial difficulties for years. During the last twelve months they uncharacteristically began putting money into the venture, spending it mostly, apparently, on costly improvements. That increased its insurance value. The controlling cadre is made up of four significant characters: two Arabs and two Russians.’

The men’s images appeared on the sceens - the four in Abu Dhabi who had given Deacon the go-ahead by satellite phone.

‘The character we’re going to examine is one of the Russians: Dimitry Robalesk. He has a brother in the Russian Ministry of Trade, Vlad Robalesk. Vlad has financial interests in mining along with his brother. Vlad also has a history of industrial espionage. The pattern of relationships between businessmen and government officers grows more nefarious and complex the deeper we dig.

‘Suffice it to say that it all boils down to a collection of significant pointers relevant to our subject. First of all, those who owned the oil platform would not lose any money from its destruction, by natural or terrorist means, due to the insurance cover. Close friends and associates of those who owned the platform would pay a high price for obtaining the tile.

‘Binning was the “operative” who succeeded in recording the
Inessa
’s data after the failed SBS operation. His disappearance after the Morpheus disaster and the theft of the tile naturally prompted an intense investigation into all his MI16 projects, as well as a closer examination of the one operation he carried out against the
Inessa
. The timings reveal that he had adequate opportunity to liaise with and board the vessel. We believe this is what actually happened and where he was able to meet representatives of the players personally and finalise the plan, and no doubt his own deal. We believe as part of the arrangement he was allowed to gain certain information about the
Inessa
and thereby succeed in his operation. The meeting was obviously prearranged. In short, gentlemen, a large portion of this highly complex and, it has to be said, quite brilliant plot was probably engineered by Binning himself. But it also has the hallmarks of government sponsorship written all over it.’

A moment was left for the clearing of throats and the exchanging of glances.

Sumners continued: ‘Can you bring up the map of Russia, please? North of Plesetsky.’

The operations officer tapped several keys on his console and the large monitors came to life.

‘Now,’ Sumners said, clearing his own throat. ‘Where does that leave us and our counter-operation to retrieve our stolen goods? Well, Vlad Robalesk owns several mines, two of them in the Plesetsky area.’

One of the monitors gave a satellite view of the vastness of Russia before zooming in on the central region.

‘Some forty years ago the Russians converted an old mine into a research and development laboratory. The reason they needed something deep in the ground was, you won’t be surprised to hear, not only security against prying eyes in the sky but also because it was to be a chemical and biological weapons laboratory. They needed to be able to seal the place off if something went wrong. The facility’s in this area here.’

A large square graphic appeared on the screen.

‘Robalesk acquired the converted mine shortly after the collapse of the communist government, apparently with the intentions of cleaning it up and reopening it as a going concern. We don’t think that happened. And neither did he close the facility down. Now this is where it helps to have an intelligence organisation that knows how to cross-reference information not only by subject but also in depth and time. Two years ago, when the
Inessa
was being fitted for its current role, in our efforts to try to discover its purpose we naturally followed every lead we had, in and out of the shipyard. One of them led to the chemical warfare mine, as it became known, in Plesetsky. It was from there that we constructed our understanding of the relationship between Vlad Robalesk and certain players in the FSB and the Russian government. We have been closely observing the area for the past two weeks and there has been significant activity along the road that links the town of Plesetsky to the laboratory. Vlad Robalesk has been identified twice, along with several other significant players. This is certainly an indication that something of great interest has recently arrived at the mine.

‘The surveillance photography, if you don’t mind,’ Sumners asked the operations officer.

Several grainy photographs appeared in layers on the screen. They were of a sedan driving along a road covered in snow. The photo zoomed in to reveal a figure seated in the back. It was difficult at first to identify him but as the pixels adjusted his features became clearer. Other similar images appeared, a time-line shot of the same vehicle moving along the road.

‘A close examination of the photographs confirms it is indeed our man Binning. These photographs were taken eleven days ago. The
Inessa
arrived in Sevastopol two days before. One might be allowed to assume that Binning was on board. A day of debriefing and then to work. I think it’s also safe to assume that Binning has not only provided them with the tile but that he also has a new employer.’

Sumners took another moment to allow the information to be digested.

Stratton was already thinking ahead to what the operation might be.

‘We currently have a surveillance operative in the area, the person responsible for the photographs. Binning appears to commute to the town of Plesetsky where he is staying in a house. He doesn’t travel every day. Sometimes he overnights at the mine. We don’t know how long these circumstances will continue. Therefore it has been decided that we should act as soon as possible.

‘And so,’ Sumners expressed with theatrical fatigue, as if he had finally reached the point of his presentation. ‘The operation. You will of course present the details but while I’m here I’ll provide the general outline. We are going to pay Mr Binning a visit. We are going to find out where our tile is. We are going to find out as much as we can from Binning about the operation, the players, et cetera, et cetera. And then we are going to terminate Mr Binning.’ Sumners looked directly at Stratton as he said it.

A phone console buzzed and displayed a flashing red light. Mike quickly answered it. ‘Okay,’ he said before replacing the receiver. ‘Your guest has arrived,’ he said to Sumners.

‘You can bring him down.’

Mike excused himself from the briefing.

‘The task is being offered to you, Stratton,’ Sumners said, examining the screen without looking at him. ‘I assume you will take it and do a good job. I think you owe us that much.’

Stratton didn’t respond immediately, not even with his facial expression. His crime as he saw it had been to use government property to try to rescue an old friend. He’d do it again if he had to. Binning stealing the tile and everything else had nothing to do with him. Sumners had chosen to put it in a manner that suited his own mean streak. He was being a prick as usual, and this time for an audience. Yet Stratton realised his own suitability for the operation. For a number of reasons. He knew Binning for a start. Bringing in other players would only increase the number of people who knew about it. This entire affair had to be kept as secret as possible. Yet somewhere within him he knew that wasn’t enough. There had to be something else, some other, more substantial reason why he had been selected. He couldn’t think of it at that moment. He might never know. But of course he would do the op. In fact, he was looking forward to it. As usual Sumners was trying to wind him up and Stratton would not dignify the attempt with any sort of reaction.

But Sumners wasn’t finished yet. He had his little ace to play. ‘You won’t be going alone, of course. I need someone to keep an eye on you.’ The MI6 man looked towards the back of the room, waiting for the visitor to arrive. As he did so Mike stepped through the black curtains and Jason Mansfield walked in behind him. There was an air of authority about him.

Stratton looked around and could not believe his eyes. He looked at the CO for a reaction. The man was far too professional to give him one.

Stratton’s head was filled with questions that he couldn’t ask. Dominated by one in particular: what was a civilian with no experience in this kind of operation doing here? Yet it was pointless to complain. The decision had been made at a very high level. This was an extremely sensitive operation with many potential repercussions if it went wrong. He decided to keep his mouth shut and wait for the rest of the briefing.

Jason came over to Stratton, wearing that same supercilious smile he’d worn when they’d first met. It was as if he had been cleansed of the past and everything was the same between them. ‘Good to see you again, Stratton. You all healed up?’

Stratton remained sitting and looked up at the man. ‘I’m fine,’ he replied dryly.

Jason leaned down and spoke softly. ‘You don’t look pleased to see me.’ He stood upright and said, as if for the room’s benefit, ‘Hopefully this won’t be as vigorous as our last adventure. ’

The man was talking like he’d been doing it for years and that they were old operational buddies.

‘This is the SBS CO,’ Sumners said.

Jason took the CO’s hand and shook it. ‘Good to meet you. I’ve been looking forward to visiting Poole for such a long time and to meet the people who play with the toys I make.’

Stratton cringed. Any positive feelings he’d developed about the man after his actions on the platform withered.

‘Have they sorted you out a room in the mess?’ the CO asked.

‘Yes, thanks. Very comfortable.’

‘Good. Right, then. Shall we get on with the detailed briefing? You both have an early start tomorrow and we’ve got a lot to cover.’

‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Sumners said. He took a black woollen overcoat off the back of a chair and pulled it on. ‘Don’t be offended if I don’t wish you luck, Jason.’ He wrapped a scarf around his neck. ‘I never do. Don’t believe in it . . . which is something of a surprise after witnessing Stratton’s activities all these years.’

Jason made a poor effort of trying not to smirk, as if he was in the know.

Sumners nodded farewell to the CO and ops officer and headed for the curtains. Mike escorted him out.

The CO leaned close to Stratton. ‘You have my sympathy,’ he whispered. The comment had a calming effect, no doubt its intention.

‘Gentlemen,’ announced the operations officer. ‘If you would like to be seated, we will proceed.’

Jason sat beside Stratton and took a notebook from a pocket.

The ops officer saw him scribble a couple of lines on a page. ‘You can take notes of the briefing, Mr Mansfield, but nothing leaves this room.’

‘I fully understand, Captain,’ Jason said, with barely a glance at the officer. ‘I have a photographic memory. All I need do is write down the relevant data and then I can immediately dispense with it.’

Stratton glanced round at Mike who had returned in time to hear the comment. The sergeant major grinned broadly at his friend, knowing how painful this was for him. He pointed to Jason and gave the thumbs-up, mouthing the comment ‘Top man.’ He then pointed to Stratton and mimicked a wanking motion.

Stratton faced the front. He felt inclined to agree with his old friend concerning the latter gesture.

Stratton sat in the train, looking out of its window as it clattered through a vast countryside, the view an endless portrait of winter, black leafless trees and hedges the only contrast to a frozen white backdrop. Long icicles, pointing at steep angles towards the back of the train, had formed along the outside edge of the glass. The flat and featureless land stretched to the horizon, punctuated occasionally by small rustic villages on one side or the other, some like cosy straw hamlets while others were more modern, concrete and drab. Passing through one small town, Stratton saw a man standing in the road with a goat on a leash. The man watched the train. He looked cold and hungry. It all seemed so isolated and vacant. So many miles of empty and seemingly untouched land.

He had been staring outside for hours and his eyes began to ache. He looked back inside the carriage. It was the image of uncomfortable sparseness, communist-inspired, as if nothing had changed since the fall of the Wall a couple of decades earlier. Short, stubby icicles hung from the centre of the ceiling along the length of the long carriage. A handful of people occupied the pewlike bench seats, each of them silent and unsmiling. A man snored intermittently in the row beyond Stratton’s, an empty vodka bottle in his hands, although he could hardly be heard above the clatter of the wheels. He had joined the train at Moscow with a full litre and within an hour had drunk it and fallen unconscious. He wasn’t the only heavy drinker on the train. Boozing seemed to be a national pastime.