Undersea Prison (6 page)

Sir Charles gave a grunt without looking up from his file.

Jervis sat down in the armchair furthest from the podium. ‘Don’t suppose you can smoke in ’ere?’ he asked.

Sir Charles frowned.

‘I’m afraid not,’ Sumners said.‘Apparently it can interfere with the bubble’s instrumentation,’ he added by way of an apology for denying his superior a chance to indulge his habit.

Jervis smiled thinly. He was well aware of the rules but liked to take every opportunity to rub the toffs up the wrong way.

Sumners busied himself checking various cable connections in order to distance himself from the tension-tainted atmosphere. The hostility sometimes displayed by certain department heads towards each other never ceased to perturb him. This was a particularly bad lot and he put it down to their extremely diverse pedigrees. Sir Charles was ex-army, Hussars, a retired general, very old school, tough as marching boots and a consultant to the Ministry of Defence and certain lords and monarchs. His brand of diplomacy and numerous highly placed contacts in Europe and America made him very useful in certain areas.

Unlike the other two,Van der Seiff had no military experience. On paper he was the classic brilliant Intelligence recruit: an Oxford graduate, fluent in French, Italian and Spanish with masters degrees in both classics and history.The abilities that placed him a notch above those with similar credentials were an extraordinary geopolitical vision, outstanding analytical skills and a cold, ruthlessly logical mind unhindered by emotion. Van der Seiff had been in MI for eight years and was currently with the Directorate of International Special Services. He was tipped to go all the way to the top of the intelligence ladder.

Jervis was more like a common urban fox but with some very
un
common qualities.The events of his earliest years were shrouded in rumours, one of which gave him gypsy origins and another a criminal record. Strangely, all documentation of his life before the age of nineteen no longer existed, the result of either catastrophic bureaucratic failure on several levels or the work of a very senior government official. Jervis had found his way into the Secret Service through the army, signing up to the Intelligence Corps, the first documented proof of his existence. After a year training as an analyst in a camp outside Dover he volunteered for and was accepted on a posting in Northern Ireland. This was during the heyday of the campaign against the IRA, in the late 1960s and during the 1970s, and after showing great promise he was trained and eventually operated as a tout maker, one of the most dangerous jobs in the MI field.

It was during this period of Jervis’s life that he began to display some extraordinary gifts. For example, he had a photographic memory and was able, after single and often fleeting observations, to quote countless vehicle registration numbers as well as each vehicle’s make and colour. But his greatest skill was an ability to piece together seemingly unrelated or only remotely connected pieces of information. The sum of these talents made him a most useful operative. He was posted to London where his skills developed further and were applied to Cold War diplomatic counter-espionage with impressive results. After his success in piecing together a particularly complicated surveillance operation involving Russian mini-submarines and Eastern European diplomatic staff in Scandinavia he came under the gaze of the head of MI6.

Despite Jervis’s rough edges he began to make his way up through the ranks. He was unlikely to see promotion above his current post but as head of ‘special operations worldwide’ Jervis had reached far higher than he could ever have originally expected. He had earned his position despite his reputation for mischievousness which some of his peers interpreted as disrespect. His high proportion of successes, however, ensured a long career ahead of him despite the misgivings of his many detractors.

The last man to step into the bubble was Gerald Nevins, department head of the South-Eastern European Section and Sumners’s immediate boss. After a quick look around to see if everyone was present he closed the triple-skinned door and turned a locking lever until a green light appeared at one side, indicating the room was sealed.

Nevins ignored the remaining armchair and, looking quite solemn, chose to stand at the back of the room. Folding his arms across his chest he gave Sumners a nod.

‘Gentlemen,’ Sumners began and then took a moment to clear his throat, sipping from a plastic water-bottle he had brought with him. ‘Pardon me.’

Sumners was an experienced briefer but had never before addressed a group made up exclusively of such senior personnel.When he’d been walking up the stairs from his office on the floor below he hadn’t been able to help thinking how this was not just a briefing but a personal assessment.These sorts of things always were. They placed a person under the microscope, something which could be both a good and a bad thing. Giving a briefing not only put on display a person’s eloquence and ability to address their superiors comfortably. It also exposed organisational, analytical and presentation skills as well as conciseness of expression and general bearing. If a person made a hash of it, especially in front of such an eminent audience, it could have detrimental effects the next time their name came up for review. People always remembered bad briefings.

Success at this stage of Sumners’s career was more important than ever to him. He did not possess what would be considered by his peers as the best of pedigrees and it was growing late in the game for him to make a significant step up the ladder. He was the son of a British Army colonel who was not from the right regiment and Sumners himself had not gone to the right university. Jervis might well be proof that pedigree was not everything but Sumners did not possess any of that man’s extraordinary skills either. However, because of current world instability, specifically the threat from international terrorism, further promotion was not out of the question by any means.Years ago it had been not only a case of pedigree and contacts but also of dead man’s shoes. But since 9/11 the service had expanded rapidly in all directions, with government funding increasing every year. There were many more senior positions opening up all around the globe and Sumners was in a good position to grab one of them.

He could only hope that his fate would not depend on the contents of this briefing, a fear that grew as he compiled the latest intelligence on the day’s subject. If it did then his career opportunities would probably terminate immediately on completion of the presentation. In his opinion it was a God-awful mess and heads were undoubtedly going to roll because of it. On a positive note, though, that could only open up new positions which he might be able to take advantage of.

‘Sorry for the initial alert two days ago and then the long wait followed by the short notice this morning,’ Sumners said. ‘Intelligence is still coming in but time is a factor and we have enough - er - info to get the ball rolling.’ Sumners glanced at Nevins who was giving him one of his ‘get on with it’ looks.

‘Right. If I can quickly bring us all up to speed regarding the various pertinent regional situation reports.’ Summers cleared his throat again as he hit a series of computer keys on the podium. The wide-screen monitor came to life, showing a satellite image of Afghanistan. It continued zooming in on Kabul before moving to the open countryside north of the city, finally focusing on a scorched patch of ground with the charred wreckage of a helicopter at its centre.

‘We have positively confirmed that the package was recovered from the wreckage by Taliban fighters immediately after it was shot down. All hard-copy files in the mission briefcase have now been declassified. All operations referred to in the documentation have been cancelled. I can also confirm that the memory tablet carried by the intelligence officer contained all one thousand, four hundred and forty-three British- and US-run indigenous agents and informants operating in Afghanistan and the Middle East - including Iraq of course.’

‘Does the list include top tier?’ Sir Charles asked.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Maple, Geronimo, Mulberry?’

‘All of them, I’m afraid.’

‘Good God,’ Sir Charles muttered as his jowls collapsed to put a seriously unhappy expression on his face.

‘What level of personal details exactly . . . for the individual agents?’ Van der Seiff asked.

‘In most cases, pretty much everything: telephone numbers, addresses, emails, secondary contacts. Many of the attached notes include meeting points, dead-letter boxes and personal contact codes. Suffice it to say that if the tablet was decrypted it would provide enough information to identify every one of them.’

‘How many can safely be expatriated?’Van der Seiff asked.

‘I . . . I don’t have those figures, sir,’ Sumners said, glancing at Nevins for help and finding none forthcoming.

‘I take it expatriations are in process, though,’ Sir Charles said.

‘No, sir,’ Sumners replied.

‘What?’ Sir Charles asked, half turning to look enquiringly at Nevins without actually making eye contact.

When Sumners looked at Nevins his boss was already contemplating a response. ‘Not at present,’ Nevins said.

Sir Charles made the effort to sit forward so that he could turn his stiff old neck around enough to look at him. ‘I take it you have an explanation.’

‘That’s one of the reasons we’re all here - to decide if such measures will be necessary.’

‘But we’re talking about a lot of lives here,’ Sir Charles thundered.‘Not to mention the exposure of other information if these people are captured and interrogated. It should have been the first thing to be put into motion.’

‘First of all, it would be impossible to bring most of them in anyway. Some of them are on official wanted lists. Others would not be able to run without rousing suspicion. Many have families that cannot immediately be moved. Some are so deep we are unable to make direct contact with them - we wait for many of our agents to contact us when they can. Closing them all down would put us back decades. The repercussions of such a strategy are incalculable. We are, of course, preparing measures for such a course of action but we must first examine every other alternative. I have some suggestions. Perhaps you’ll have some of your own,’ Nevins added. ‘Go on, Sumners.’

Sir Charles did not look confident.

‘Excuse me,’ interrupted Van der Seiff. ‘At the risk of ruining the dramatics of this presentation, do we know the current whereabouts of the tablet?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Sumners said, miffed on the one hand at the sarcasm but relieved on the other that he could answer the question.

Sir Charles cocked an interrogative eyebrow while Jervis toyed with a packet of cigarettes as if he was only vaguely interested.

Sumners touched several keys on the computer’s pad. ‘The security case taken from the wreckage was broken open in the Kalaz Alif Mosque in Kabul where it was delivered the same day it was retrieved from the helicopter wreckage.’

The screen image dissolved to a satellite shot of Kabul before zooming in on a mosque surrounded by narrow streets in a densely built-up area.

‘The senior mullah of the Kalaz Alif Mosque,’ Sumners went on,‘is one Aghafa Ghazan who we believe to be the most senior Taliban resistance leader in Kabul.’

A grainy image of Mullah Ghazan took up a portion of the screen.

‘The fact that Mullah Ghazan received the briefcase before anyone else would lend support to our assessment of his seniority. We have an informer in Mullah Ghazan’s staff who witnessed the briefcase being opened. He accurately described the contents. The same informant also witnessed the tablet being removed from its case and inspected by Mullah Ghazan. In the early hours of the following day - the security case was brought into the mosque in the evening - a doctor implanted the tablet into a Taliban fighter by the name of Durrani.’

‘You did say implanted?’ Sir Charles asked.

‘Surgically, yes, sir. In his abdomen. We don’t have a photograph of Durrani on file although the Americans have a current image that we have requested through Camp Souter’s int cell in Kabul. Durrani was then sent by Mullah Ghazan into Pakistan where we understand he was to hand over the tablet to senior Taliban or al-Qaeda personnel. We suspect the tablet was destined for members of ISI, the Pakistan Intelligence services, where it would have eventually been deciphered. However, fortune, in respect of that dilemma at least, was on our side. Before Durrani could make contact, he and his escort were captured by an American Special Forces patrol while attempting to cross the border.There was a brief firefight.Two of Durrani’s escorts were killed and Durrani was taken into custody with minor injuries.’

‘Do we know if Durrani was a specific US target?’ Van der Seiff asked.

‘We understand it was a routine border patrol with no specific orders other than to challenge those intent on crossing the border to avoid the frontier checkpoints. ’

‘I’m sorry for jumping ahead - it’s the suspense thing again,’ Van der Seiff said, his sarcasm tangible. ‘Do the Americans know anything about the tablet?’

‘We think not, sir.’

‘Why do we think not?’ Van der Seiff asked.

‘We would’ve picked up indicators by now,’ Nevins intervened, walking to where he could be seen without the others having to turn in their seats. ‘Which brings us to the first issue. The minister would like to avoid the Americans finding out about the missing tablet if at all possible.’

‘Obviously,’ Jervis mumbled.

‘You mean, this Taliban chap . . .’ Sir Charles stumbled to remember the name.

‘Durrani,’ Sumners said.

‘This Durrani chap is a prisoner of the United States military?’ Sir Charles asked.

‘That’s correct, sir,’ Sumners confirmed.

‘That’s a very dangerous game,’ Sir Charles warned, frowning disapprovingly.

Nevins glanced at Jervis and Van der Seiff for any reaction but neither man was giving anything away.