Countermeasures

Countermeasures

– BARRY HUNT –

Countermeasures

Copyright © Barry Hunt 2018

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Prologue

Gerry Netto felt something was wrong the moment he turned the corner. An instinct developed from years of experience as an MI6 agent had stirred the hairs on the nape of his neck and he had learned to trust such warnings. Stopping at the corner, he paused to look behind at the market-square he had just left and wondered whether to turn back. But this meeting was important: a man’s life might depend on it. And there was a lot more at stake than that. Reaching into his pocket, Gerry took out a pack of Marlboro and a lighter. He needed a moment to recognise what his instinct was telling him; to assess the risk. He took his time easing out a cigarette and gripped it firmly between his lips. Tilting his head to one side as he brought the lighter up, he glanced along the street. And then he knew what was wrong.

The street was just one of several leading off a bustling market-square in the heart of one of the gecekondus, the impoverished squatter settlements of Istanbul that had sprung up after the Second World War. The market was spread out as a grid, the covered stalls forming narrow aisles over the cracked flagstones, and the whole area was crowded with locals. There was the usual assortment of people: clusters of women in black burkas clasped their large wicker bags close as they shopped in the late afternoon; small children darted in and out between their gossiping mothers and a scattering of men sat at the tables spilling over the pavement outside the cafés lining the square. But, as he lit his cigarette, Gerry had caught sight of three men in the street who looked out of place. They were standing opposite the spice shop where he was to meet his contact. They were obviously together but weren’t talking to each other. They weren’t even looking at each other. Instead, they kept glancing up and down the street. Gerry could sense they were nervous; he had learnt to recognise such things and immediately knew they were waiting for him.

He returned the lighter to his pocket and quickly walked back into the market-square. The meeting was off. His contact was now going to be in great danger. But so was he. Although he was sure the men must have seen him, he didn’t hurry. He sauntered slowly for about thirty yards under an aisle of stretched awnings and then stopped to examine some pots at one of the stalls. He waited for ten seconds before crossing over to the other side of the square and began to walk back the way he had come. One of the men was now standing at the corner of the street he had just left but the other two had followed him into the market. He saw them stop abruptly and turn away as he passed on the other side of the square. No further confirmation was needed: they had been waiting for him.

These men were not properly trained operatives. That much was obvious. But neither were they complete amateurs. One of them had hung behind just in case he doubled back and now the man was waiting for Gerry to come to him. Unexpectedly, this man made no attempt to look away; he stared directly at Gerry and took out his phone to make a call. Gerry quickened his pace and the man, still holding the phone to his ear, fell into step about fifteen yards behind. Gerry turned round and saw the other two men hurrying to catch up with their companion. They were now making no attempt to blend in and Gerry turned off the square into the next side-street. Pushing his way against the stream of people heading for the market-place, he began to walk away as swiftly as he could.

Istanbul’s population had increased tenfold since the Second World War and the number of gecekondus had proliferated to accommodate the surge of migrant workers flooding in from the east. Over the years these small ethnic communities had become self-contained townships within the city and lived by their own laws. Crime was rampant but the Turkish police rarely ventured in. They were cramped, crowded and dirty, and tourists are sensibly advised to avoid them. But Gerry knew his way around like a native.

He had spent several years living in Istanbul after finishing university in London, actually staying in this particular gecekondu whilst he worked as an interpreter. He was familiar with every twist and turn of its narrow streets and had prepared an escape route for just such an occasion as this. He had been confident he could lose a tail if necessary but this was turning into something different. These men were no longer following him covertly to find out where he was going. They had another purpose in mind and didn’t care if they were spotted. He glanced behind and saw the men turn the corner. They were staring straight at him and Gerry quickened his pace. This had now become a chase!

Regretting his lack of fitness and a smoking habit of over thirty years, Gerry pushed his way through the milling throng as he elbowed his way down the narrow street and took the first turning he reached. The crowd was thinner here and he could move more quickly but he still knew it would only be a matter of minutes before his pursuers caught up. He realised he was not going to lose them and, on the spur of the moment, decided to confront them. They would not be expecting that and it was still possible he might be able to talk his way out. However, this was not the place for it: once he was surrounded, they could easily hustle him into one of the many narrow alleyways leading off the street. Even if he cried out, no one on this busy thoroughfare would interfere: the gecekondu was not a place where one went to the help of strangers, especially foreigners. If he was to stand any chance of surviving unscathed, he needed to be in a large, open area where they could not get him alone and that meant returning to the market-square.

He knew the next turning at the crossroad ahead would take him back and was now faced with a choice. There was a complicated network of alleyways between the houses on his right that was a shorter route to the square but, once he took it, there would be no other way out and he could be trapped. He wasn’t exactly sure how many he was up against. One of the men had been on the phone so there was at least one other person he hadn’t seen, someone who could be waiting in the narrow passageways between the houses. Realising he wasn’t able to keep up his present pace, Gerry knew he had to take the risk. He darted into an alleyway on his right and the sounds of the busy street he had left behind were suddenly muffled by the surrounding buildings.

It was a mistake. He realised that before he gone twenty yards. The alleyway twisted this way and that and, although he was now out of sight of the men, he could hear the sound of their feet pounding against the flagstones behind as they ran to catch up. There were several turnings off the alleyway but Gerry knew most of them were dead-ends, no more than pathways leading to the back courtyards of houses. And now he could also hear footsteps approaching quickly from around a bend ahead. He couldn’t yet see who it was; it might be a local resident or it could be the person on the other end of the phone. Gerry had no alternative but to keep to the track he had chosen. Then the man in front suddenly appeared, running quickly round the bend with a phone pressed against his ear. It was not a resident. Gerry saw the triumphant look on the man’s face and knew he had gambled and lost. He stopped running and leant his back against the wall.

The man immediately slowed to a walk, put the phone away and then stood still, ten paces in front, waiting for his companions to catch them up. Gerry was sweating. It wasn’t just the sudden exertion, he was scared. His breath came in halting gasps and he rested his hands on his knees as he bent over. He wanted to give the impression he was more exhausted than he was. If necessary he might be able to surprise them and fight his way free. But now there were four of them and he knew the best option was still to try and talk his way out.

What’s this all about, fellas? he asked in English as the three men following him arrived from behind and stopped a few yards away, blocking the alley and any possible retreat.

Gerry forced a smile and looked up.

I don’t think I owe anyone money, he said.

The man in front unhurriedly began to walk toward him and said nothing.

Come on, Gerry said, continuing to smile at him in as friendly a way as he could. Let me go and you can have my wallet. Just leave the passport. Look, you can have my watch as well.

Keeping his eyes fixed on those of the approaching man, he started to slide the expanding metal strap of the watch over his hand, stopping when it reached his knuckles. He clenched his fist. It wasn’t much but would add some force to any punch if it came to a fight.

What do you say? he continued, still smiling as the men remained silent. It’s a good watch. Expensive. Have we a deal?

The man said nothing but nodded slowly at the men behind. He was obviously the one in charge.

Okay, Gerry said as he slowly straightened up, raising his arms as if in surrender, okay, you can have the passport too.

The alleyway was narrow; there was just enough room for two people to walk abreast. Still keeping his eyes fixed on the man in front, Gerry sensed rather than saw the men behind him surge forward. He turned quickly and swung his fist blindly. It connected and the first man staggered back into the other two. Gerry raised his fist again but before he could strike he felt a heavy blow from behind and arched his back in pain. He twisted round and saw the leader of the men holding a knife; the six inch blade was smeared with blood. His blood. The man took a sudden step forward and grasped Gerry’s shoulder, pulling him down sharply as he plunged the knife deep into Gerry’s midriff and turned it. Gerry gasped and clawed at the man’s hand, scratching the skin deeply as he fell to his knees. The knife came down again, sinking to the hilt between neck and shoulder. Gerry tumbled to the ground and rolled onto his back. The man who had stabbed him knelt down quickly and with almost surgical precision made a single deep cut across Gerry’s throat.

Lifting a corner of Gerry’s jacket, the man carefully wiped the blade clean before removing Gerry’s wallet and dragging the watch from his hand. He stood up and nodded silently at his companions. They had not exchanged a single word since the attack began. Carefully stepping over the blood which was puddling across the flagstones, the man led his companions back the way they had come. He had left the passport untouched. That was what he had been told to do and Akram Abulafia always followed instructions. As he walked away, he angrily rubbed the scratches on the back of his hand. It did not even occur to him he might have left his DNA under Gerry’s fingernails.

Chapter One

MI6 headquarters, or River-House as it is known by those who work there, is situated at 85 Albert Embankment, next to Vauxhall Bridge on the south bank of the Thames. It is a relatively modern building by London’s standards, erected in 1995 by John Laing to a design by Sir Terry Farrell and cost over 150 million pounds. With its extensive computer suites, emergency back-up systems and continuously updated safeguards against electronic eavesdropping, it is unlike any other office building. MI6 knew what they might be up against and the construction had taken this into account. Their precautions were proved to be justified when, five years after its completion, the Real IRA launched a Russian built RPG-22 anti-tank rocket at the eighth floor. The missile caused only minor superficial damage and not one of the three thousand people who worked there was injured. The most senior officers are based in rooms on the top floor, overlooking the river with unimpeded views of the city, and it is from here they direct the operations of that part of the Secret Service responsible for foreign intelligence.

Sir Andrew Littleton, Director of MI6, stood at the window of his office, looking at the boats passing along the muddy river below. As he listened without interruption to John Penrose’s account of Gerry Netto’s death, he was thinking what a mess-up it had become. He had already read the official report, of course, but he liked to get an explanation from the author when it was important. There were nuances of tone, emphasis and an ordering of the events in an oral report which could tell him more than words on a page. By their nature, written reports were expressed in a bureaucratic style that might disguise what the person who wrote it was actually thinking and Sir Andrew wanted to know what his Head of Counter-Terrorism really thought. He let Penrose finish before turning round and going back to his seat behind the desk.

Is that it? he asked. Everything you have?

Yes, sir. Those are all the facts.

It looks like a straightforward robbery, then.

Yes, sir. That’s what it looks like.

But you don’t think so, do you?

He made it sound more like a statement than a question and Penrose was not surprised by Sir Andrew’s acuity. He knew of his boss’s reputation for taking nothing at face value and understood exactly why he had been asked to attend this interview. If Sir Andrew hadn’t given him the opening, he would have raised the matter himself before he left.

No, sir, I don’t, he said. It doesn’t quite add up.

Explain.

There’s nothing I could actually put in the official report, Penrose began, more of a feeling on my part, but there are things which I can’t easily explain. For example, what was Gerry doing in that alleyway in the first place? He was on his way to a meet and it’s nowhere near the route he should have taken.

A short-cut, perhaps?

It’s longer, and anyway, he would have been coming from a different direction. Then there’s the fact they left his passport behind. That was probably more valuable on the black market than anything else he had on him.

Yes, Sir Andrew agreed, I thought so too.

Sir Andrew was approaching sixty and had been in his present position for twelve years. He had been one of the youngest heads of MI6 when appointed and since then had acquired a reputation for thoroughness. As well as possessing an uncanny knack for analysis, he had an understanding of international politics that was almost unequalled in the Service. However, although respected by his staff, he was not a popular chief. No one doubted his abilities but he was not an approachable figure. Some called him unpredictable but that was only because he seldom shared his own thoughts. As the Director of MI6 he didn’t think it necessary to provide the reasons behind his decisions: like an old-style general, he believed in blind obedience without the need for understanding. It was not in line with modern ideas of leadership but, as long as he got results, none of those he was answerable to in government questioned his methods.

Penrose expected Sir Andrew to say something more but his boss remained silent. He realised Sir Andrew was waiting for him to continue.

Leaving his passport could mean they wanted Gerry to be identified quickly, he said. It’s like they were sending us a message.

What sort of message?

Well, first off that this wasn’t just a simple robbery.

And secondly?

That they knew who Gerry was and for us to leave them alone.

A warning?

Yes. I think it might be.

Sir Andrew paused. He knew Penrose had an instinct for sensing this sort of thing; it was one of the reasons he had been appointed to his present position.

Who was he going to see? he asked.

I’m afraid we still don’t know that, Penrose replied. Like I said in the report, we think this was to be their first meet. Gerry’s last communication before he died said he had arranged a time and place to make contact but, if Gerry knew the man’s name, he didn’t say. We don’t even know if he was a walk-in or whether Gerry had recruited him. All we have is the codename – Wolf.

Do you think Gerry was set up?

Could be. Who knows? My feeling is that Wolf is genuine. Gerry was an experienced agent and he obviously thought so. Anyway, if all they wanted to do was kill him, there are a hundred better ways of accomplishing that. I think they wanted Wolf as well and were waiting for Gerry to make the contact to identify him. Then they could have taken them both out. I think Gerry probably spotted them and abandoned the meet. That’s when he was killed; making his getaway.

Sounds a possible scenario, Sir Andrew nodded in agreement, though, of course, it’s equally possible Gerry made the meet and was killed on his way back. What about Wolf? Any other suspicious murders that day? Could they have got him as well?

Nothing’s been reported but in Istanbul that doesn’t mean much. It’s possible but without knowing his name I’m afraid we’ve nothing much to go on. He paused a moment before continuing. I would still like to follow this up, though. I don’t like loose ends and I think Gerry was onto something important.

Sir Andrew got up from his desk and walked over to the window again. It was where he liked to think. He looked across at the skyline without really seeing it and lightly drummed his fingers on the glass. He remained still for a few minutes before turning round.

Keep on it, he said. I want to know what happened to Wolf. Find him. If Gerry thought it important they meet, I want to understand why. He might have valuable information and, if so, I want to know what it is. Drop whatever you’re doing and make a start now. Gerry gave his life for this and I wouldn’t like to think his death was in vain.

Penrose knew Sir Andrew couldn’t care less about Gerry Netto. He hadn’t known the man and had never before shown any interest in the agents who gathered the information fed into River-house on a daily basis. To Sir Andrew they were simply a means to an end. He might be aware of the dangers they faced but, to him, that was just part of the job; they knew the risks when they signed up. It was only the information he cared about. That was all.

Very well, sir, Penrose said as he stood up to leave.

Just one more thing, Sir Andrew said, I’m giving this priority. I’d like a running commentary. Daily report, of course, but if anything crops up let me know as soon as it happens. I’ve got a feeling about this one.

Will do.

Penrose left and Sir Andrew turned back to stare out the window. Although there was nothing in his demeanour to show it, he was worried.

*

At forty-three years old, John Penrose was the youngest of the section heads in MI6. He had only held the post of Head of Counter-Terrorism for nine months having previously been Deputy. Before that he had managed the station in Syria for six years where he had proved himself reliable in many ways, especially for getting results quickly. It had been a rapid promotion by MI6 standards and, although they now had a reasonable working relationship, he knew Sir Andrew had opposed his present appointment when the post became vacant. They had fallen out after his first major operation when, still Deputy, he and Daniel Rankin had ignored Sir Andrew’s instructions and carried out a covert action of their own. Sir Andrew expected personal loyalty and had an unforgiving nature. It was only because of the Home Secretary’s personal intervention that Penrose had eventually been promoted to his present position.

Penrose and Gerry Netto had been friends. They had first met when he was working in Syria and struck up an immediate rapport. They had both shared the same quirky sense of humour, both had a passion for everything about the Middle East and, despite their different talents, each recognised and respected the skills of the other. Whilst Penrose was a clear-thinker with extraordinary powers of analysis, Gerry had a knack for getting information. He had been the sort of man people liked instinctively and they warmed to his generous and apparently open nature. But he had always been careful, biding his time whilst he built up mutual trust with the contacts he was going to run before revealing their identities to those in London. No one at River-house knew Wolf’s real name nor how to contact him. As far as Penrose was aware, if Gerry knew it, he had kept that information to himself and never discussed it with anyone. To uncover the man’s identity, Penrose realised he could do with some help and decided to drop in on Daniel Rankin.

Taking the lift down after leaving Sir Andrew’s office, he stopped at the floor where Daniel was based and made his way along the corridor, pausing a moment outside the door before knocking lightly and going in. Daniel was at his desk, surrounded by folders and trying to keep his mind focussed on the open file before him. He looked up as Penrose came in and gave him a welcoming smile, pleased to have an excuse to put the paperwork aside. Before his appointment as Head of Counter-espionage and Director of Operations for MI6, Daniel had spent many years in the field as an agent. Now in his mid-fifties and mainly deskbound, he kept himself fit by regular visits to the gym and jogging along the streets around his Hammersmith flat. Although most of his work now confined him to an office, Daniel sometimes ventured back into the field when he thought it necessary. That was how he and Penrose had first got to know each other better. The unsanctioned operation they had conducted in Belgium the year before had earned them both Sir Andrew’s displeasure and being out of favour together had formed a bond between them. Since then, a genuine friendship had grown.

Hi John, he said, business or social?

Business, said Penrose. Am I interrupting?

Good Heavens no. This is just internal stuff. Glad of a break. What’s up?

Daniel pointed to the chair opposite the desk and Penrose sat down.

I’ve just come from Sir Andrew. He’s asked me to follow up this business with Gerry Netto and I was hoping to pick your brain if that’s alright.

Sure. What’s the problem?

They had discussed the circumstances surrounding Netto’s death when Penrose was preparing the official report so Daniel was already familiar with the facts, including the possibility that the agent had been killed because his cover was blown. There was no need to go over that ground again so Penrose got straight to the point.

Sir Andrew agrees Gerry probably wasn’t killed as part of a robbery, he said. He wants me to find Wolf if he’s still alive and get the information he was going to pass on. And he wants it done asap.

I see, Daniel said. What’s the problem?

I’m not quite sure of the best place to start. Gerry was meticulous but ultra-careful. He was old-school. Until he knew for sure he was going to use someone, he just used code-names; he never actually identified his sources to us. There’s no previous history to look at so I think this was probably going to be their first proper meeting. Unfortunately, if this man was a walk-in, I can’t even be sure whether Gerry himself had actually confirmed his real identity. To stand any chance of finding him I need something to go on but there’s nothing.

There’s always something, Daniel said thoughtfully, it’s just a matter of looking in the right place. Even if this man was a walk-in, I think we can take it for granted Gerry must still have known certain things about him. From what you’ve told me, Gerry was careful and would never have gone to the meet without being sure it wasn’t a trap. He would have dug around beforehand, checked up on Wolf and found out enough, at any rate, to know it was safe and worth his while.

How could he run a check without knowing his name?

Perhaps he did. You say he only used the codename in his communications with us. That doesn’t mean he didn’t know the man’s name himself.

Okay, let’s say he did. That still doesn’t help. Gerry’s not around to tell us.

No, but we have his log, don’t we? Everything an agent does has to be noted. Contacts, dates, places; Gerry should have recorded everything. Even if he didn’t actually use the man’s name, if he checked him out, there will be a note of what he did. All you need to do is follow in Gerry’s footsteps.

Penrose immediately brightened a little.

You’re right, he said. I didn’t think of that.

Where’s his log? Daniel asked. Anything he did to find out more on Wolf should be in that. If he was recruiting him there will be a record of it somewhere; if he was a walk-in, find out who Gerry got in touch with to check him out. The log is your best starting point.

Thanks Daniel, Penrose said with a grateful grin, that’s very helpful. Apart from the personal stuff which must have gone to his parents, everything to do with Gerry’s work would have been sent back here. It must be in storage somewhere. I’ll go have a look now. He paused and stood up before adding, If you’re not too busy, fancy coming along?

Daniel looked at the paperwork spilling over his desk. There was nothing of importance there and he had already spent a couple of hours going through files. He was due a break and, besides, he was now interested himself.

I’ve got some time and know where they keep these things, he said, getting up from his desk. I’ll come down with you now. It’ll be quicker and easier with two of us on it.

Although it is often rumoured there is a secret tunnel in the depths of River-house leading directly to Whitehall, in fact the basement is just a vast storage area. Most recent information is now stored digitally but the records go back to the start of the twentieth century when MI6 first began and much of it is still on paper waiting to be digitalised. Deep underground in River-house are rooms filled with shelves stacked with boxes of files. Nothing is destroyed. From secrets learned by agents working undercover during the Russian Revolution to sensitive correspondence between various governments of the day, everything is contained in those files. They are the Holy Grail for any historian or journalist and, as such, are kept securely under lock and key. Access is only granted to a few. Information is categorised according to its sensitivity but, being senior officers with the highest clearance, Daniel and Penrose had no difficulty in locating Gerry Netto’s computer along with a number of flash-drives. Penrose took everything to one of the cubicles where they could be examined.

Having only arrived a few days before, the computer’s data had not yet been transferred ready for filing. The technicians had already been at work on it and made some headway but it was a long process. All the information on the laptop and the drives was encrypted and needed particular passwords to gain access; different passwords for the different files. Outside of River-house, these passwords were known only to the user but a copy was held securely in the storage facilities of MI6 headquarters and Daniel had obtained it from the technician when he collected the computer. Although it was not supposed to happen, Daniel knew agents sometimes created their own new passwords for particularly sensitive files they were working on before transferring the data to an MI6 folder when they had finished. The practice was frowned upon precisely because of events such as the present one but Daniel had done it himself in the past and suspected someone as careful as Gerry Netto would have done so too. He was right. They had to try several drives, some of whose passwords were frustratingly not on the official list, before they found the one they were looking for. This drive was labelled ‘Admin’ and Daniel was relieved to see one of the files it held was the log. Penrose opened it and listed among the documents was one called Wolf which had already been decrypted by the technicians. Penrose quickly opened it. There was just one dated document and it contained just one sentence: ‘Meet confirmed with Wolf for 5.30pm tomorrow at the spice shop.’

Penrose looked disappointed.

This is the message Gerry sent us the day before he died, he said. "I’ve already seen it