Sir Harris took a sip of coffee. “I am surprised that you were unaware of the depth of Mister Verkatt’s activities. Illegal nuclear trade is, after all, a very hot topic for your lot. You do have a mission in Monrovia, just up the coast. Surely your station in the Belgian Congo keeps tabs of North Korean activities there.”
“Thanks to budget cuts, we had to cut the Belgian Congo operation back. Add to that, Angola is about ready to come to a boil again, and there’s a civil war going on in Liberia. My manpower there is less than thin, it’s anorexic. Besides, Africa’s always been your area. You guys have always paid more attention to it than us.”
“Consider it a colonial thing, the good of the Commonwealth and all that. Our friends in North Korean are up to something in the Congo. My sources in the region say that the mission there is in a bit of a panic. Somebody high up has gone missing, and the Ambassador has been recalled to Pyongyang. Now, do you think our good friend Mister Verkatt could be involved in any of that?” Sir Harris leaned forward, his face serious. “I find events like that very odd, unlikely even. Why do you think I am here, Mister Babitch, because I like the way your secretary makes coffee? Three nuclear warheads are missing, final destination unknown. My office needs to know what is going on with your end of this. My country has had too many nasty surprises served to us over the years. We would like to avoid nuclear weapons in Piccadilly Circus if we could.”
Babitch sat back in his chair and opened the top drawer of his desk. He extracted a series of black and white photographs. “These were taken in Batumi, Georgia, in the former Soviet Union yesterday. Three of the bodies are officers from the Strategic Rocket Forces base there. The fourth? Well, nobody knows who he is yet, but it’s a good bet he’s a former citizen of East Germany, probably ex-STASI, but then who the hell his age wasn’t?” He slid the pictures across the desk to Sir Harris.
The Spymaster looked over the grainy pictures. “Professional job,” he remarked. “Not our style, you understand, but still, a professional job. If you ask me, it looks like the work of a soldier, somebody with training and combat experience.” He held out the photograph to Babitch and pointed to the bodies. “Take a closer look. See how all of the rounds struck them mid-chest? The line of impacts are the same height for all of them, the work of a single shooter.”
“So one man, possibly a soldier, did it? I have an entire team of analysts go over these and you waltz over and hit me with, ‘a soldier did it.’ The world is full of mercenaries right now. How hard would it be to hire one?”
“Quite right; not very hard at all. There are a large number of professionals out of work right now. A little side benefit of this peace dividend that your lot likes to bandy about.”
“This is way beyond anything mercs would pull,” Babitch protested.
Sir Harris raised an eyebrow and took another sip of coffee. “And why would you think that?”
“I’ve seen them in action. I doubt they could pull off a theft of this magnitude.”
“That’s strange. I can think of at least three distinct groups of your own military that could, as you say, pull this off.”
“Like who?”
“Your Green Berets, Delta Force and any one of your SEAL teams, not to mention your own CIA special teams.”
“We don’t have any special teams.”
“Of course you don’t.” Sir Harris put his coffee cup down. “Regardless, they are professional soldiers, men who your country has educated at great expense to be the best, the brightest and the most deadly.”
“And your point is?” Babitch looked at his watch in impatience.
“Any person with that sort of training could do this, any person at all. In light of the special relationship, I would like to offer two of my best men to assist you in tracking down these warheads. They are presently in Syria and I will arrange transport to Batumi within the hour.”
Babitch shook his head. “Thanks, but no. The Russians don’t want this to become public knowledge. Your organization is far from secure when it comes to leaks.”
Sir Harris kept his anger in check; it would not do to explode now. “Mister Babitch, I was playing this game while you were trying to stack blocks in your playpen. Your organization is hardly immune to leaks either. It is the nature of our business to spring leaks every now and then. It keeps us all on our toes. At least when we leak, it’s not for political gain.”
An uncomfortable silence settled between the two men. Sir Harris had little respect for Babitch. This latest slight had shown him, once again, too be much the politician, and too little the Director of Intelligence he was supposed to be.
The new CIA, under his directorship, was too busy guarding themselves against world opinion, and how their organization looked to Congress. It was as if they lost sight of the real purpose of the agency.
“You are assuming we will make this a joint operation after all.”
Sir Harris began to hate the sheer superior smugness of this man. He forced his voice to be calm and level. “Mister Babitch, you will be making this a joint operation. It is in the best interests of the special relationship.”
Babitch did not see the danger signs. “And why is that?”
“Because if you do not, we will do more than leak that warheads have gone missing from a rocket base in the former Soviet Union. We will release a flood, no a tsunami, of information, foremost of which will be how poorly you and the CIA have performed.”
Babitch shot bolt upright, anger coloring his face. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Three warheads go missing in a region populated by extremist Muslim groups. Groups who are more than capable of carrying out a suicide mission with a nuclear weapon? Throw in a South African arms dealer who specializes in the supply of strategic materials to mad bastards like the North Koreans, one of the most militant nations on this Earth.” He looked Babitch in the eye. “Just bloody try me. We’ll start with Fleet Street and the World Press. We’ll see what’s left of you after they get started.”
The blood drained out of Babitch’s face.
Sir Harris had guessed as much. “Give me the mission requirements and I’ll pass them on to my men.”
Babitch was still rattled, he pulled another file from his desk and passed it over to Sir Harris. “We already have a joint NEST team on their way to Georgia. They should be there within fifteen hours.”
Sir Harris nodded. “I’ll have my driver meet me at the front then.” He stood to leave and extended his hand towards Babitch. “Don’t feel bad, Mister Babitch. Nothing personal. It’s for Queen and country, after all.”
CARASAMBA, TURKEY
Water rose around the command bridge of the gunrunner as it sank to the bottom of the small dock. Stamopolis had opened the sea cocks, flooding her hull in a bid to hide the boat from the air and buy them some escape time. Sykes stood in silence beside him. Stamopolis watched with regret the indecorous end of their boat. As the short radio mast slid beneath the water, he had a gut feeling that they should have turned this job down, no matter what the payment was. If their contractor had arranged to dispose of the men who stole whatever was in the crates, what would there be to stop him from killing the delivery men as well?
Sykes turned and walked towards the waiting loaded trucks, impatient to be moving. Petros lingered behind and looked at the last few air bubbles breaking the surface of where his boat used to be.
“Come on, Petros, I’ll buy you ten others just like her when this is over.”
Petros turned from his now-sunken boat. As he climbed into the cab of the big Daimler-Benz truck Sykes had somehow acquired, he took the AK-74 his partner handed him. Marc was in the enclosed back, hidden just in case there were some unforeseen surprises in store on their journey to the pick-up point.