About the Author
Michael Jenkins MBE served for twenty-eight years in the British Army, rising through the ranks to complete his service as a major. He served across the globe on numerous military operations as an intelligence officer within Defence Intelligence, and as an explosive ordnance disposal officer and military surveyor within the Corps of Royal Engineers.
His experiences within the services involved extensive travel and adventure whilst on operations, and also on many major mountaineering and exploration expeditions that he led or was involved in. He was awarded the Geographic Medal by the Royal Geographical Society for mountain exploration and served on the screening committee of the Mount Everest Foundation charity. He was awarded the MBE on leaving the armed forces in 2007 for his services to counter-terrorism.
The Failsafe Query is Michael’s first novel. He has started work on his second spy thriller, The Kompromat Kill, and hopes to publish it early in 2019.
The Failsafe Query
Michael Jenkins
Unbound Digital
This edition first published in 2018
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All rights reserved
© Michael Jenkins, 2018
The right of Michael Jenkins to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
ISBN (eBook): 978-1-912618-29-3
ISBN (Paperback): 978-1-912618-28-6
Design by Mecob
Cover images:
© iStockphoto.com
© Shutterstock.com
Printed in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, St Ives Plc
To my wife, Rebecca,
and my children Matthew, Holly and Ramina
And in dedication to the close family of British army bomb-disposal teams and high-risk searchers of the Corps of Royal Engineers; and bomb-disposal teams of the Royal Logistics Corps
Dear Reader,
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Special Acknowledgements
With special thanks to the following supporters who went a long way to make this novel come to fruition:
Rebecca Jenkins
Ian Trayling
Martin Foster
Mark Weatherley
Russell Vincett
Matthew Brodrick
John Malcolm
Mark Verard
Justin Lewis
Dean Davison
Nick Atkinson
Super Patrons
John A
Geoff Adams
Nick Atkinson
Matthew Avery
Mic Badger
Jason Ballinger
Katie Barber
Brian Barkworth
Stuart Batey
John Bebbington
Alissa Bell
Jim Blackburn
Lance Bradwell
Matthew Brodrick
Andrew Brooker
Joseph Burne
Ali Burns
Dave Campey
Trev Canner
Dean Carrick
Andrew Clarke
Lucas Cohen
Rebecca Cole
Chris Conneally
Simon Cosh
Jason Creswell
Dale Creswell
Malcolm Davies
Dean Davison
Shane Deakin
Christian Donelan
Neil Drew
Steve Duff-Godfrey
Mariana Dumitrascu
Stuart Fairnington
Mark Foskett
Martin Foster
Joan Frazer
Simon Gately
Alisa Gill
Peter Goodwin
Alice Gould
Shane Greene
James Gregory
Jo Hall
Glyn Hannah
Ben Hawkins
Chris Hawthorne
Greg Henson
David Hirst
Jim Holl
Guy Horne
Tom Hughes
David Humphrey MBE
Mark Jackson
Sarah Jane Duff-Godfrey
P.I. Jenkins
Luke Jenkins
Ramina Jenkins
Matthew Jenkins
Rebecca Jenkins
Dan Kieran
Vincent King
Joe King
Richard Knowles
Chris Lambert
Jon Leighton
Justin Lewis
John Malcolm
Major Mark Simpson RE
Peter Markham
Guy Marshlain
Gary Merritt
Bryan Miller
Jason Miller
John Mitchinson
Mark Molyneaux
Nicholas Mould
Carlo Navato
Mark O’Neill
Gary O’Shea
Bryan Osborne
Sean Owen
Phil Paul
Justin Pollard
Paul (Ginge) Potter
Ray Powell
Dave Robson
Steve Shores
Toni Smerdon
Bruce Springett
Nina Stutler
Phil Sullivan
Mark Swindells
Graham Symes
Martin Thomson
Gary Toombs
Spike Townsend
Ian Trayling
Will Turner
Terry Vass
Mark Vent
Mark Verard
Russell Vincett
Paul Wakefield
Mark Weatherley on behalf of Avigilon UK
Matt Williams
Andy Wood
Jeremy Wray
Darren Young
We take the
long, lonely walk together, watched over by our brave friends in a special Valhalla
(The term ‘The Long Walk’ or ‘The Lonely Walk’, is used by bomb disposal operators to reflect on how a short distance can seem a very long way when you’re walking alone towards a suspect explosive device.)
Contents
About the Author
Dedication
Dear Reader Letter
Special Acknowledgements
Super Patrons
Epigraph
Prologue Moscow 2005
PART ONE LEGACY
Chapter 1 Central Asia, 2001
Chapter 2 Almaty, Kazakhstan, 2001
Chapter 3 Uzbekistan, 2002
Chapter 4 Karakum Desert, Bokhara, Uzbekistan, 2002
Chapter 5 Two Years Later
Central London, 12 October 2004
Chapter 6 Central London, 13 October 2004
PART TWO CONSPIRACY
Chapter 7 Eleven Years Later
Canary Wharf, London, 2 March 2016
Chapter 8 Kabul, Afghanistan, 4 April 2016
Chapter 9 Outskirts of Kabul, 8 April 2016
Chapter 10 The Compound, Bagram Airbase, 8 April 2016
Chapter 11 Bagram Airport, 9 April 2016
Chapter 12 West End Hotel, London, 10 April 2016
Chapter 13 Baker Street, London, 12 April 2016
Chapter 14 Enfield, London, 12 April 2016
Chapter 15 Safe House, Suffolk, 12 April 2016
Chapter 16 Collioure, France, 15 April 2016
Chapter 17 Côte Vermeille, 15 April 2016
Chapter 18 London, 17 April 2016
Chapter 19 Côte Vermeille, 17 April 2016
Chapter 21 Côte Vermeille, 18 April 2016
Chapter 22 Côte Vermeille, 18 April 2016
Chapter 23 Whitehall, London, 19 April 2016
Chapter 24 Côte Vermeille, 19 April 2016
Chapter 25 Côte Vermeille, 20 April 2016
Chapter 26 Languedoc-Roussillon, 20 April 2016
Chapter 27 The Pyrenees, 21 April 2016
Chapter 28 The Pyrenees, 22 April 2016
Chapter 29 Porte Vendres, 22 April 2016
Chapter 30 Porte Vendres, 23 April 2016
Chapter 31 Pall Mall, London, 23 April 2016
Chapter 32 Porte Vendres, 23 April 2016
Chapter 33 London and Cheltenham, 23 April 2016
Chapter 34 The Pyrenees, 23 April 2016
PART THREE REPRISAL
Chapter 35 The Pyrenees, 23 April 2016
Chapter 36 Languedoc-Roussillon, 24 April 2016
Chapter 37 Languedoc-Roussillon, 25 April 2016
Chapter 38 Languedoc-Roussillon, 25 April 2016
Chapter 39 The ‘Bolt-hole’, Languedoc-Roussillon, 25 April 2016
Chapter 40 London, 26 April 2016
Chapter 41 Languedoc-Roussillon, 26 April 2016
Chapter 42 The ‘Bolt-Hole’, Languedoc-Roussillon, 27 April 2016
Chapter 43 Languedoc-Roussillon, 28 April 2016
Chapter 44 Port-Vendre, France, 28 April 2016
Chapter 45 Languedoc-Roussillon, 28 April 2016
Chapter 46 Languedoc-Roussillon , 28 April 2016
Chapter 47 Languedoc-Roussillon, 28 April 2016
Chapter 48 Perpignan, 28 April 2016
Chapter 49 Knightsbridge, London, 1 May 2016
Chapter 50 London, 2 May 2016
Chapter 51 London, 4 May 2016
Chapter 52 Tuscany, 7 May 2016
Chapter 53 London, 12 May 2016
Epilogue London, 15 July 2016
Glossary
Acknowledgements
Patrons
Prologue
Moscow 2005
The team commander sat in his parked car, watching intently for any unexpected movement along the road. After all this time, he didn’t want anything to blow the operation apart. His nervousness was palpable, his mission almost complete and his team going through the final stages of a thoroughly rehearsed plan. He sat and waited, fidgeting with his lighter, poised to spring into action when needed but gently confident that his team, who were a short distance ahead of him, would see this mission through to success. To be caught now would be a travesty. But who might be watching this final act, he cautiously wondered? He stepped out of the car and walked slowly towards the shadows of the figures ahead.
The moon was absent. It was hidden behind the tall skyscrapers, providing ample darkness over the banks of the river in which his team could operate. It was chilly, a slight breeze in the air, and the ambient illumination of the street lights was enough to allow the team to see what they were doing, yet remain disguised from any peering eyes on a midsummer’s night.
The ripples of the river could be heard below as the water broke and swirled around the shallow, dilapidated pier, crashing past the bridge stanchions and providing enough noise to quietly subsume any splash into the river from above.
He walked past his team, looking around again to make sure no one was walking along the embankment late at night, and casually handed over a rusty container to another man stepping out of a car that had slowly approached and turned off its headlights. Another man remained in the passenger seat, looking on. No words were exchanged, but a mutual nod concluded their roles. The list of moles was safe.
Meanwhile, the other members of the team opened the back doors of their small van and carried a number of dark sacks, with some difficulty, over the six or seven paces to the walls of the river.
Anyone looking across the road from the adjacent park would have seen the glistening river as it bent towards the city, with a foreground of the dark shadows of the four men under the trees, before watching them ease the sacks gently over the walls of the river, the splash of the drop being masked by the rustling wind in the trees and the calming sounds of the river in full swell.
With the lights of the city in the background, the men turned and slowly got into the van before driving off into the night.
Their mission complete, a civil servant signed a red-coloured file in London some days later. He tied a grey ribbon around the three-inch file, and placed a large white sticker onto the cover stating ‘Placed in suspended animation.’
PART ONE
LEGACY
Chapter 1
Central Asia, 2001
Sean Richardson had a sense of impending fear as he stood in the shadows of a tattered, poverty-stricken housing estate. Sometimes he knew danger was lurking. The unfamiliar environment gave him a strange feeling of isolation as he smoked a cigarette in the dimly lit open courtyard that accessed each block of solid-grey apartments. He noticed the knee-length wooden fences and the sporadic but quite colourful blooms amongst the tufts of sun-seared grass.
The realisation of what he was embarking on dawned on him and the consequences of being caught there gave him a deep, stomach-churning feeling. The fear crept back…
A mixture of old people, young kids and streetwise teenagers meandered past in the ghostly darkness. Only the pale images of pruned apple trees, curiously marked with white paint at their bases, broke up the dour landscape.
‘Dobra vecher,’ uttered a fierce-looking, middle-aged man who crouched and squeezed past Sean with the grim look endemic to those trying desperately to survive the hardships of making a living in a city full of poverty.
‘Dobra vecher,’ Sean replied, observing his movements carefully. The man limped on and turned as he processed Sean’s stubbly chin, slightly hesitant Russian and curious Western manner. He looked him up and down in a slightly hunched but muscular fashion and uttered a barrage of strong, guttural Russian, at the same time indicating that Sean should offer him a cigarette. Sean winced at the waft of rancid vodka – a consequence of the man’s evening foray with a few other like-minded Russian pals. A gruff retort swirled in the air as Sean offered him the packet, which was eagerly snatched before the man shuffled away up the stairs of a ur
ine-spattered block of flats. Sean watched with curiosity the way of life of these people in a land that was completely unfamiliar to him.
It was late 2001 and he was stranded in the middle of Central Asia, a region of the globe both mysterious and harsh in equal measure, and he told himself on many occasions that it would take him more time to become accustomed to it. But he knew that he was well up to it.
Sean imagined looking at himself with the eyes of others who were around him that night and wondered what they might see and think. He did not speak the language too well, and his body language, gait and aura differed hugely from those of the people he was surrounded by. And he knew he had to work harder to remain inconspicuous. He also knew the Russian Mafia ruled the roost, that corruption was rife, both serious and petty crime were endemic and the people led horrific, poverty-stricken lives. Yet this was a place of great mystery that intrigued him.
Despite the year, he felt and imagined it to be the early or mid-1970s deep in the communist Soviet Union. Nothing had really changed here. It was exactly how he imagined it would have been when he had been fighting the cold war as one of Her Majesty’s intelligence officers. The huge Russian symbols of communist life were here right in front of his eyes. Sprawling cold facades of government buildings, the pitiful Lada cars with their frost-damaged, shattered windows, the wide, straight boulevards with cavalcades of government black cars with blue lights on top whizzing by, sirens on, past the oppressed people – the greyness of the light and the wafts of smoky air and putrid industrial smells. He wondered why it was so bleak and barren. He could see the Kazakhs were a very proud people, most of whom were descended from the Genghis Khan hordes of earlier centuries, and it was a nation of immense strategic importance to the West. And of course there was oil. Lots of it…