Zero 22, p.18
Zero 22, page 18
part #8 of Danny Black Series
‘I demand to see the British foreign secretary!’ Poliakov shouted. ‘This is no way to treat your allies! Untie me! Give me my clothes! Give me medical assistance!’
‘We heard your conversation with O’Brien, Poliakov. Chapter and verse. He was giving you sensitive military intelligence so the Russians could ambush a British unit.’
Poliakov’s wild eyes narrowed. ‘Give me my phone,’ he said.
‘No phone calls,’ Stark said.
‘I don’t want to make a phone call! Give it to me!’
Stark nodded at the masked man. He produced a phone and handed it over.
‘I have only met O’Brien once,’ Poliakov said. ‘In Crete. I recorded our conversation. You can listen to it. It will tell you what you need to know.’
It was a messy business, tapping the fingerprint sensor on the phone with Poliakov’s bleeding hand. Stark did it with obvious distaste, holding the phone by the edge gingerly in an attempt not to become bloodied. Poliakov directed him to a recording app. ‘June the twentieth,’ Poliakov said. ‘Play the recording.’
Alice was aware of a strange shift in power as Stark followed Poliakov’s instruction. He put the phone on speaker. Two voices filled the room: Alice recognised General O’Brien and Poliakov himself. They were muffled. It sounded to Alice as though Poliakov’s phone had been in a pocket as he was recording. But they were audible.
— I don’t feel good about this. I’m supposed to be on vacation. We shouldn’t be seen together. Your people or my people work out we’ve been talking, it could blow everything apart.
— You think I would take this kind of risk without looking you in the eye? I need to know you mean what you say.
— You don’t need to worry about that. I got the security of the whole damn United States in my hands. That son of a bitch in the Oval Office is unhinged and I gotta deal with him. And I can’t do it without you, right?
— Right.
A pause. The clinking of glasses. A low hubbub of voices in the background. Poliakov cleared his throat in the recording.
— I have something for you.
— I’m all ears.
— The Americans have passed us information about a British military operation in Syria. I have details. Fourteen men. A night-time raid on a prison facility to collect some Kurdish militants. Operation call sign, Zero 22. My people have passed it to the Wagner Group. There will be an ambush. A massacre.
Another pause.
— Jesus. Fourteen men. Zero 22, you say?
— Zero 22.
— I can’t do anything about it.
— You must tell the British.
— Not possible. If my people have given your people hard intel, and the Brits suddenly change their plans, we got a whole world of problems. Both sides are going to know there’s a leak, and our job becomes twice as hard.
— Maybe you’re right. This is the biggest operation we’ve worked on. We need to be careful we don’t make a mistake.
— I need to be careful nobody points a finger at me.
Pause.
— Damn, it bites. Fourteen men. SF, by the sound of the op. Fourteen good men. But what we’re doing is more important, grand scheme of things. We got to accept there’s going to be collateral. Casualties of war. Every soldier knows the risk.
Pause.
— Damn, it bites. You’d better get out of here. Anyone sees us . . .
The conversation was suddenly drowned out by the blare of loud dance music. But they’d heard enough. Stark killed the recording. Silence fell on them like a heavy weight.
‘Untie me,’ Poliakov said.
‘Do it,’ Stark said. He sounded slightly sick.
Poliakov’s release was an unseemly business. Once the ropes were loosened, he slipped in his own urine, seemingly dizzy from the loss of blood from his wound. He refused any help to put his clothes back on, but it took an age as he awkwardly wormed his damaged hand into his shirt, smearing blood all over the material as he did so. Scruffily dressed, he turned back to Stark and Alice. ‘Where are my family?’
‘Safe,’ said Stark.
‘I don’t trust you. I demand to see the foreign secretary and I demand to see my family. I don’t say another word until I see them.’
‘Forget it,’ Stark snapped. ‘You see nobody until I have more information. And if you don’t give me that information, you know what will happen. You said Rostropovic was the only person you trusted to hide your family while “O’Brien does his work”. What did you mean by that?’
Poliakov spat on the ground. Stark turned to the balaclavad man with the secateurs and nodded. He strode towards Poliakov, who shrank back into his chair. ‘Get this animal away from me!’ Another nod from Stark called the masked man off. Poliakov clutched his bleeding hand. His eyes rolled, and for a moment Alice thought he might faint. Then he seemed to compose himself. He closed his eyes. Opened them again. ‘My government is working with the American president.’ The sneer on his lips made it quite clear what he thought about that arrangement.
‘Collusion,’ Stark said.
‘Collusion?’ Poliakov said it like it was an absurd word. ‘You cannot even imagine the extent of it.’
‘Enlighten me.’
Poliakov’s eyes were rolling again.
‘He needs to sit down, sir,’ Alice said, earning herself an irritated look from her boss.
‘Talk,’ Stark said.
‘My people . . .’
‘When you say “your people”, you mean the Kremlin? The FSB?’
‘Elements within both. Close to the Russian president. They have been supplying—’ He frowned for a moment and closed his eyes. Alice thought he was going to pass out and stepped forwards to help him. But then he opened his eyes again and she realised he had been searching for an English word. ‘Deepfake,’ he said.
‘What do you mean?’ Stark turned to Alice. ‘What does he mean?’
‘Deepfake video, sir. It’s mostly a pornography thing. The faces of celebrities mapped on to porn actors. The technology is very advanced . . .’
‘Pornography,’ Poliakov spat. ‘This is nothing to do with pornography. This is deepfake video footage of the American president’s political adversaries meeting with known terror suspects.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Stark. ‘Which terror suspects?’
‘There are no terror suspects, sir,’ Alice said. ‘They’re fake. Their faces are mapped on to the faces of ordinary people the President’s political rivals might have met quite innocently.’ Her mind was rushing. Dots were joining up. She realised she was several steps ahead of her boss, and an icy sensation hit her in the gut. ‘Sir . . .’ she said.
But Stark brushed her away. ‘Do you have evidence of this?’ he demanded of Poliakov.
‘I gave it to O’Brien,’ Poliakov said. ‘The original footage and the deepfake footage. Separate files. Anyone looking at them side by side will understand what is going on.’
‘You have copies?’
Poliakov looked at him like he was stupid. ‘You think I would risk that?’
‘Sir . . .’ Alice said.
‘You didn’t upload it somewhere?’
Poliakov didn’t even bother replying to what he clearly thought was a preposterous suggestion. ‘I gave it to O’Brien,’ he repeated. ‘He knows what to do with it. But he must be fast. The American president is planning something. An attack. On his own soil.’
‘When? Where?’
‘I don’t know where.’
‘When, then?’
Poliakov swayed. He said something, but it was indistinct. Stark nodded at the masked man, who strode up to Poliakov, held him by both shoulders and shook him. ‘When,’ he repeated.
Poliakov’s reply was hoarse. ‘The fourth . . .’ he said. ‘Of July.’
‘Sir . . .’ Alice repeated, her voice urgent. The masked man was helping Poliakov to the ground. Stark was staring at him, apparently frozen by this new intelligence.
‘Sir, if O’Brien is innocent, we need to move fast. Hereford have sent someone. To deal with him. It’s happening, sir. Now. He might already be dead.’
Poliakov looked aghast at her, his face wracked with pain. Then, quite unexpectedly, he started to laugh. ‘They’ve conned you into doing that?’ He shook his head, as though he couldn’t quite believe their stupidity. ‘They’ve persuaded you to kill O’Brien? Then it’s over. All the risks I took have been for nothing.’ His eyes rolled.
‘We need to stop it happening, sir,’ Alice said.
Poliakov laughed again. ‘You will never stop it happening,’ he said. ‘Don’t you see?’
‘We need to speak to Hereford, sir. Tell them to pull the op.’
‘They don’t make mistakes, these people,’ Poliakov said. ‘There is always a backup plan. Always.’ His voice was fading. ‘Where is O’Brien now? Jordan? You’re taking out a hit in Jordan? Trust me, if the American president has decided to eliminate him, it is with the knowledge of the Russians. They are the same, don’t you see? And we will have someone else there . . . the Wagner Group . . . ready to finish the job if you call it off . . .’
His eyes rolled again and he slumped heavily on to the balaclavad man, finally unconscious.
Stark stared at Alice. She could see a pulse in his jaw. He suddenly looked ten years older. He pulled out his own mobile phone, dialled a number and practically screamed into it.
‘Get me Hereford on the line. Just do it! Now!’
FIFTEEN
The General might have instructed his guys not to follow her, but Bethany couldn’t assume they’d obeyed.
It was seven forty-five. An hour and fifteen minutes since she had made contact with the General. His suite was on the third floor. He’d given Bethany – or Sophia, as she’d introduced herself – the room number, 318. Bethany took the plushly carpeted stairs but walked a circuit of the second floor to check she wasn’t being tailed. Her destination was hardly a secret, of course, but if she was being followed she would have to tell the General – or Frank, as he’d introduced himself – so that he could dismiss the overenthusiastic guard from outside his door. She hoped the procedure she had in mind would be silent, but she had to plan for the unexpected.
No tail. Back in the stairwell she could hear two men speaking in Russian on the floor below. Should that concern her? Chances were she could find guests from twenty different nations staying here if she cared to look. She moved to the third floor, found the General’s room and knocked.
She couldn’t help but be inwardly revolted when he opened the door in his hotel robe. It was a patterned Japanese kimono, knee-length, flimsy satin material. The General was a big guy and the kimono was almost comically inadequate. His greying chest hair was visible where the lapels crossed and his military ID tags, which he wore around his neck, nestled half-hidden in the hair. The sleeves stopped a good couple of inches above his wrist. His shins were much paler than his face and hands, and, although he was well built, his legs had lost all their hair like some older men’s do. But he seemed pleased with himself. Bethany forced herself to be outwardly appreciative, even though she found the pungent smell of aftershave and martinis unpleasant. ‘I see you’ve slipped into something more comfortable,’ she said.
‘When you spend as much time as I do in uniform . . .’
‘It must be stifling. Are you going to invite me in?’
The General raised an eyebrow, stepped to one side and gestured for Bethany to come in. The door clicked shut.
‘Nice,’ she said, looking around the well-appointed room. The blackout curtains were closed, blocking what Bethany’s sense of direction told her would be a view of the square at the front of the hotel. There was a comfortable sofa and a dining table. A large TV and even a small cocktail bar. Two doors on opposite walls. ‘I thought soldiers had to make do with grubby little barrack rooms.’
‘Oh sure, I’ve seen my share of those.’ He winked at her like a kindly uncle. Bethany had to stop herself cringing. ‘But there have to be a few privileges of rank, don’t you think?’
‘Were you going to offer me a drink?’ she said.
‘Name it. Uncle Sam’s paying.’
‘He sounds like a very generous uncle.’
‘Well, like lots of uncles, he has his good traits and his bad.’
There were tumblers, highball glasses and champagne flutes behind the bar. The tumblers looked sturdiest. ‘I’ll have a Scotch,’ she said.
‘A girl after my own heart,’ said the General. He poured two whiskies and handed one to Bethany. She was right. The tumbler felt solid in her hand. If she smashed it against the counter, it would provide a sharp, heavy duty shard. Clumsy, but useable in the absence of any other weapon.
She took a sip of her whisky. Take it slowly, she told herself. Let him make the first move. The more he thinks he’s in control, the less he is. ‘You’ve a busy few days coming up,’ she said.
‘The peace talks? Lots of the heavy lifting has already been done, truth to tell. That’s what all these meetings have been over the last couple of days. Hopefully we’ll get some ink on paper at the main conference tomorrow. If I manage to stop the Turks and the Kurds shooting each other across the conference table, it’ll be a goddamn result. Those are some crazy sons of bitches.’ He gave a rueful smile. ‘But they seem to listen to me, so I do what I can. And then back to DC. You ever been?’
‘A couple of times.’
‘It’s a bear pit, Sophia. And it’s about to get a helluva sight uglier, mark my words.’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘Oh yeah. With yours truly in the middle of it.’
‘Sounds to me like you could do with relaxing before it all kicks off.’
He held up his whisky glass, winked at her again and took a sip. ‘Hey, I don’t normally do this kind of thing, you know.’
‘Liar,’ Bethany said archly. ‘Mind if I freshen up?’
‘Knock yourself out.’
She pointed enquiringly to one of the doors.
‘That’s the bedroom,’ the General said.
‘Well we don’t want to jump the gun,’ Bethany said, and she headed through the other door. She locked herself in the bathroom. A marble surround to the bath. Bright downlighters. The smell of aftershave. She stood for a moment with her back to the door, eyes closed, breathing deeply, calming herself, trying to keep her focus. She thought of her little boy and wondered what he was doing now. That thought got her focused again. The sooner she left this place, the sooner she could see him again. She made a quick audit of the General’s toiletries. Hotel shampoo and shower gel. A tube of shaving cream. A bottle of Aramis. A packet of Viagra hidden behind a box of paracetamol. She had been prepared to crack open the plastic housing of a safety razor, but it seemed like the General favoured the old-fashioned way. There was a traditional razor on the glass shelf in front of the mirror, and a small white plastic box of spare blades. She slid one of the blades out and took off her shoe. She lifted the inner sole, hid the blade underneath it, then she put the shoe back on. She flushed the toilet and ran the tap for thirty seconds. Then she fixed herself in the mirror and returned to the main room.
The General had finished his whisky and was leaning against the bar. His kimono had slipped a little, revealing more of his chest hair. He appreciatively eyed Bethany up and down and there was an expectant silence. Bethany walked up to him, taking her time, her lips slightly parted, fixing him with the kind of stare that she knew made men helpless. There was something quietly pathetic about his puppy-dog eyes and the way his breath trembled as he exhaled. She approached him, and as she walked her mind was making tiny calculations. The General was at least half a head height taller than her. And though he had thirty years on her, he still had a powerful frame. There was simply no way she could overpower him physically. Even if she managed to attack him with the razor blade, he would likely still have the opportunity to call for help. It was essential, therefore, that he was entirely disabled before she made her move.
She stood just inches away from him. She could smell the booze on his breath, a mixture of the martinis and the whisky, neither of them masked by his aftershave. He started to say something, but she put one finger to his lips. With her other hand, she pulled the cord of his kimono. It fell open. He was completely naked underneath. Naked and grotesquely ready for action. His body was fit, but ageing. She slid her forefinger from his lips, down along his chin to his neck, along the centre of his chest, stopping just where his stomach protruded tightly. ‘Which door was the bedroom again?’ she said.
The hotel bar continued to fill up. It was busy now, but Danny had chosen his position wisely and could still see both exits: the one to his left by which he’d entered, and the one at the far end of the bar. He ordered another drink and waited. The General’s guy was still sitting at the main table by the bar. Like Danny, he was sipping from a glass of mineral water, but now lacked the military stiffness that had been evident when the General was present.
He picked up his phone from the table. He pretended to scroll through it again while surveying the room and trying to work out how long he would need to sit there. Bethany had left ten minutes ago. How long would she need? Half an hour? Longer? He found himself thinking of the photographs he’d examined back in Hereford of her previous handiwork. He wished he’d told her not to get creative. The General just needed to be dead. There was nothing to be gained from putting on a show.
His phone buzzed silently in his hand. Number withheld. He frowned. Who the hell would be calling him? Only Hereford had this number, which answered the question. He took the call. ‘Yeah?’
‘Black?’ He recognised the CO’s voice and knew it was important for Williamson to be making the call himself.
‘Go ahead.’
‘Abort. Immediately.’
A beat.
‘What do you mean?’
‘What the hell do you think I mean? Six have got it wrong. They’re being manipulated. You need to get the General safely out of there. Whatever it takes.’
