Authors: Scott Caladon
The one area in Europe which was not fertile ground for SVR activities was the UK. Ever since the poisoning of Alexander Litvinenko in 2006 and the death of Boris Berezovsky in 2013, Russian activities in the UK were under the microscope of MI5 in a big way. The SVR had not managed to place a senior operative into key circles of government or policy making for years. Most of the time this did not matter. In issues of most concern to Russia and the SVR, the UK government simply went along with whatever the United States decided. Every now and then the British bulldog may bark but it had lost nearly all of its teeth and rarely presented Russia with any credible threat or obstacle. Kruglov also was aware that the economic significance of the UK had diminished. The governments of the 1970s and 1980s had more or less wasted the legacy and potential economic power of North Sea oil, unlike modern day Russia. Britain now seemed to have a permanent balance of payments deficit and the accumulation of trade deficits year in, year out, meant that the external debt of this small island was ballooning forever higher, resulting in owing foreigners money at an increasing rate. Their political leadership was also on the wane. The twentieth century saw Britain with two great leaders, Winston Churchill and Margaret Thatcher. You could love them or loathe them, but they were strong, decisive, not possible to bully or pressurise. Since then it was all downhill. The current coalition government, in and of itself guaranteeing inertia, seemed to be populated by men who all looked the same, sounded the same and, eventually, did the same.
Yet, Igor Kruglov could not discount British involvement in the submarine theft. Despite its small size, its economic decline and its political jelly tots, the UK was still a formidable force in two areas. Intelligence and financial innovation. The British Intelligence services were, perhaps, the best in the world. The CIA, SVR and Mossad may have more loyal bodies dedicated to their cause around the world, but MI5 and MI6 were now extremely tough to penetrate and their defensive record against terrorist assault was impressive. Most of the time the British public did not even know that they had been saved from murderous attacks. The M's deep cover agents were brave and effective. It was also somewhat incredulous that this small dot of land and people in the vast ocean could retain the hub of the world's financial activities. It did and despite claims by one financial centre or the other, London was still at the pinnacle. If the submarine had been stolen for cash, thought Kruglov, then financiers in London would probably get to know about it, if not handle it themselves. Consequently, it was clear to Kruglov that he needed to take two steps immediately. One was to tap whatever information the SVR could get out of their meagre undercover sources in the United States. Second, initiate contact and a regular flow of information from their people in London. He would need help.
“Yuri,” said Kruglov, as he finished dialling an internal extension, “please come to my office as soon as you can.”
“Certainly, Sir,” replied Yuri Menkov. “I'll be up in a flash.” Yuri Menkov was as pleased as anyone that no harm had befallen Igor Kruglov following the blank result on the submarine case. Menkov had been involved in that project. If Kruglov went south, actually it would probably have been north to Siberia, then Menkov would have gone south with him.
“Deputy Director, how can I be of help?” asked Menkov, having been true to his word and arrived in Kruglov's office less than a minute after his call.
“Yuri, we're still on the case of our missing submarine. Captain Kargin of the
Admiral Vinogradov
detected no sign that the submarine had been hit. We deduce, therefore, that it remains operational and in the hands of the enemy thieves. My own research leads me to believe that the stolen submarine is headed for Europe or the United States. I've already contacted the appropriate officers in Italy, Germany and France to be vigilant and to report to me twice a day. Where I need help, Yuri, from your signal tracking and your databases, is the US and the UK. Agent Ivanovna has not been in touch and there have been no further signals from her phone. She must be presumed MIA. We have one deep cover Illegal in a senior position in Washington but I do not think that he is in the right place to know of clandestine movements of military hardware. In the UK, I don't know what we've got. After Litvinenko, Berezovsky and agent Kushchyenko (Anna Chapman), we could not make any inroads. MI5 and MI6 have successfully blocked our efforts to establish an effective Illegals program in the UK. We are blind in that country, Yuri. Any ideas?” asked Kruglov.
Menkov absorbed all the information that he had just been given. As head of AI for the SVR with an IQ of 165, it didn't take him long.
“I know that we have two officers, albeit relatively recent placements, in the CIA and the NSA. They can be contacted with urgency and ordered to direct their attention to this issue, Deputy Director,” suggested Menkov.
“Yes, Yuri, good. At least that would be a start,” replied Kruglov, content with Menkov's suggestion but not yet getting out his cigar. “And the UK?”
“We have no one, Sir,” responded Menkov without hesitation. “You are correct in your assessment of our penetration of the British security services and the government. We have not had any useful information from Britain since early 2013.”
Igor Kruglov was not over the moon about this piece of news. While he did not really expect that the UK had anything to do with the theft of the submarine, their security services may chatter on occasion with their US and European counterparts. Also, London was mega-cosmopolitan. Every race, creed, colour and nationality floated through the capital. Gossip, whispers, drunken babbling, surely there was something.
“We do have one contact, Deputy Director, kind of,” offered Menkov, with reticence but wishing to alleviate the pained expression on his boss's face.
“What's a kind of contact, Menkov?” barked Kruglov, annoyed by Yuri's lack of precision.
“Well, we occasionally get information from him regarding vulnerable business men or financial types, sometimes government ministers. It's not been greatly useful in the past but it has allowed some of our own businesses to apply leverage to strike better deals. He is not, however, an employee of the SVR.”
“Who is it, for god's sake?” yelled Kruglov.
“Vladimir Babikov.”
“What! That old criminal douchebag! He should be in a fucking salt mine! You're not seriously suggesting that we use him, Menkov, are you?” hollered the Deputy Director.
“No, Sir, I'm not,” said Menkov meekly, “it's just, well, it's just that he is the only source in the UK that we have had a scrap of useful information from in over a year. He runs a casino in London and has at least six ex-FSB officers in his entourage. We're desperate by the sounds of it, and he's a desperado for certain, but one with an array of contacts, including inside the British government.”
Igor Kruglov had his head buried in his hands and may even have been covering his ears. Had it really come to this? He had probably lost his beautiful Anyata. The best information source replacement the SVR could come up with was a torturing murderer who was lucky to have got out of Russia in one piece. Drugs, prostitution, gambling, Babikov was like an online dictionary of all man's vices. This was not a pleasant thought. Kruglov and Babikov knew of each other. If the first Deputy Director had to ask for the dirtbag's help, then he must, but it was going to be painful.
Menkov returned to his desk and emailed Kruglov the criminal Babikov's contact details. He thought it wise not to present himself before Kruglov again so soon after the Deputy Director's outburst. He was only trying to help. After a strong cup of tea with some vodka in it, Kruglov dialled.
“Babikov,” came the reply that the SVR man did not want to hear but knew he must.
“This is Igor Kruglov of the SVR,” the Deputy Director replied, certain that the criminal would remember him.
“Igor, Igor, my friend. How nice to hear from you. Straight through to my direct line. You've not lost any of your old skills. What can I do for you?” said Babikov.
Igor Kruglov was already on edge. For a start he was no friend of Babikov. Secondly, he had a right cheek calling him or his skills old, the criminal must have been at least ten or twelve years his senior!
“We have an issue of national importance Babikov, and the nation that spawned you, nurtured you, educated you and let you live despite your several capital crimes, needs your assistance.”
Vladimir Babikov was not used to being ordered around or of having things demanded of him. He was also no fool. The Deputy Director of the SVR would not be calling him, personally, if it was not critically important. He could always tell Kruglov to âfuck off and die' but that would probably occasion a visit one dark night from a hot chick who would slip him a Mickey Finn and then slit his throat. He'd play along for now.
“Of course, Igor, what can I do?” responded Babikov.
“You understand that I cannot give you details, Babikov, but the gist of it is that we are missing a piece of Russian military hardware. It was stolen a few days ago while in the possession of one of our so-called friends. We do not know the identities of the thieves nor their nationality. We need you to keep your ear to the ground, to have your men report any gossip, loose talk, bravado that may be related to this, however tenuous that relationship may seem.”
“Certainly, Igor, I will. What's in it for me?” asked Babikov.
Deputy Director Kruglov was tempted to say âletting you live you fat cunt' but desisted on grounds of the greater good, well the greater good as it related to the task in hand.
“You will be well rewarded Babikov if you come up with anything which leads to the recovery of our nation's property,” Kruglov replied. “My information is that you have contacts within the British government, Babikov, is that correct?”
“Yes it is, Kruglov,” replied the criminal, no longer feeling it necessary to keep up the pretence of friendliness by using the Deputy Director's first name.
“How useful is your contact?” asked Kruglov.
“He is a high ranking official in the ruling party. I have not asked him or squeezed him for any information. He owes me money, which is now due.”
“Do you have enough dirt on him to do some squeezing even after he's repaid your debt?” asked Kruglov.
“Yes,” replied Babikov.
“Then do it,” demanded Kruglov.
The main course of conversation between spy and criminal was now over. After Kruglov gave Babikov details as to how to contact him, the Deputy Director of the SVR reclined in his chair and poured himself some more black tea and vodka. He had set in motion every listening post he thought viable, every reliable clandestine contact or operative that the SVR had, and now had engaged the services of a low life criminal expat Russian. There was little more that he could do in the search for the submarine, just wait and hope that some information would flow.
After Kruglov had hung up, Vladimir Babikov sprang into a different kind of action. He had an impromptu internal meeting with his ex-FSB team, all the casino staff that were trusted and on his payroll, the croupiers, the âmodels', the works. They were to report back to him on even the slightest hint of some punter's wayward babbling that mentioned any of the key words âmilitary', âhardware', âRussian', âdeal'. With that in place, he sat down and dialled.
“Neil Robson,” said the voice at the other end of the phone.
“Neil, my friend, come and see me tonight. Do not worry, it is not about the money. I know you will repay me soon. There is another matter that I wish to speak to you about. Maybe you can help me out. Perhaps we can even reduce that debt of yours a little, in exchange for some information.”
“Sure Vladimir,” replied Robson. “I'll be there by 8pm.”
* * *
After his irritable breakfast meeting with Neil Robson, JJ set about completing his tasks for the day. He had driven his Porsche C4S down to Woking to see Harold McFarlane at McLaren. The skilful engineer was delighted to see JJ and even more delighted to receive a larger âbonus' than he had expected for himself and his team.
“How did the conveyor systems do?” asked Harold, awake enough to realise that they were not packed up and residing in the small space that Porsche called a boot.
“They were great, Harold, worked a treat. Unfortunately we had to leave them behind.” Harold knew JJ well enough not to pry further. If additional details were not forthcoming, then so be it. Harold had a huge chunk of cash in his hands and he was happy.
After McLaren, JJ drove back to London. He organised a telegraphic transfer of â¬100,000 to Vincent Barakat at PLP, along with a message of gratitude. That should keep the young scientist smiling and able to embark on additional path breaking research at his skunkworks. It would also lay down a marker of trust between the two in the unlikely event that JJ needed the future services of PLP. JJ then went on to see Tom Rogers, Ethel's husband in his architect's office in Battersea. Tom had spoken to Ethel a couple of times on the phone so JJ didn't have to break the news about her having a hole in her shoulder. JJ went to see Tom as a courtesy to Ethel, to assure him that Ginger was fully on the road to recovery and to tell him that she had been a vital part in a successful operation of national importance. That was a white lie, of course, and, of course, for the greater good. Tom was decent enough given that he was face to face with the man who had been instrumental in getting his wife shot. Nevertheless, JJ was a tad relieved when he left Tom Rogers' office.
Next on the agenda was MAM. He was still head of portfolio strategy and investment at the fund, though for the past ten days or so you wouldn't have known it. David Sutherland, the head of MAM was pleasant enough, didn't moan too much and just wanted to know if his most senior employee was likely to be around for a while. JJ assured him that he was. Toby and Yves-Jacques were delighted to see their boss. Fathead dragged JJ away for a one-on-one coffee as soon as he could.