Kompromat

‘Do you get my point?’ Brown pushed the machine to one side. ‘We believe Craig may still be carrying, somewhere on his body, a miniature transmitter. The guys who examined him in Walter Reed did a lousy job.’

‘That could be a phone-tap, not a transmission surely.’

‘Yes, it could be, but it isn’t. After that call with Jack Varese, Craig goes to the toilet. Bigly. Do you want to hear that too?’

Wilbur Brown had the video ready. As Barnard watched the clips, it all came back to him. There was Popov with the dart gun, with Craig behind him; there he (Barnard) was, followed by Rosie, and there, for Christ’s sake, was the tiger! Huge, beautiful, brilliant – and snarling with fury.

The images which followed were blurred and confused until the focus shifted to show a picture of Ronald Craig on the ground with a hypodermic dart embedded in his backside.

‘Hold it there!’ Barnard instructed. ‘Now run it again. Look! See that ranger, kneeling beside Craig. Popov is standing next to him. The ranger says to Popov, “Mr President, give me the yellow vial”, or something like that. Then he rolls back Craig’s sleeve.’

The next clip was of Popov helping Craig to his feet.

Barnard continued to provide a running commentary. ‘Craig is holding his right upper arm where the ranger injected the Tolazoline. My guess is that if you’re looking for a secret mini-transmitter, forget about Craig’s buttocks. Go for the right upper arm. And check out that ranger. Maybe he’s on the books of the FSB.’

‘You could be right. You could just possibly be right!’ Wilbur Brown said. ‘We should have thought of that and we didn’t.’

‘What are you going to do now?’ Barnard asked. ‘Ask Craig to report to Walter Reed again?’

Wilbur Brown shook his head. ‘I don’t think the Republican presidential candidate would take kindly to that that. He already thinks we’re bugging his phone. Are we Five Eyes still?’

‘Roger that!’ Barnard replied. ‘Five Eyes all the way!’

The director of the FBI tapped the side of his nose meaningfully. ‘We might just do nothing,’ he said. ‘For the time being at least.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Joshan Gupta, Head of MI5’s technical support services, reckoned that he had spent at least one hundred hours on that bloody film.

At first he had assumed that the images of the man on the bed in St Petersburg’s Kempinski Hotel, whoever he was, had been simply pixelated and that with persistence it might be possible to de-pixelate them. He had worked evenings and weekends, but still he had made no progress. He finally realized that the images were not only heavily pixelated; they were encrypted as well. If you couldn’t crack the code, you couldn’t see the images.

Of course, MI5 had its own military-grade versions of most of the photo-encryption and decryption programmes available on the internet. But you were always playing catch-up. Nowadays the most innocuous messages could be sent in code. More than one billion people in 180 countries used end-to-end encryption for everyday communications. Only you and the person you were communicating with knew the content of the message.

In the end, Gupta was forced to report to his superiors in MI5 that he had drawn a blank as far as establishing the identity of the mystery man was concerned.

There the matter rested until one evening, out of the blue, a pop-up message appeared on his screen:

‘5 Star Kempinski Hotel, Moika 22, Moscow. No booking fees. Late Check-out until 4p.m. Early Check-in from 11a.m. Free Underground Parking. Free Wifi, Turn down Service, Room Comfort Menu including Golden Shower, Garage Parking, Kids’ Club etc.’

He almost missed it. Golden Shower!

Gupta picked up the phone to talk to his supervisor. ‘Mohammed,’ he said, ‘I think we’ve got a breakthrough. We’re going to need the Director to come down here pretty quickly.’

Mohammed Abbas, the ranking officer in Gupta’s section, went to fetch the MI5 director and escorted her to Joshan Gupta’s desk.

Dame Jane Porter was not herself a technical expert, but she was a quick study and ready to grapple with the jargon of cyber warfare, even if she didn’t fully understand it.

‘This could be a trap, couldn’t it?’ she asked. ‘If you click on this “Golden Shower” link, couldn’t you be compromising the integrity of our whole system? Opening the link might allow them to launch a Trojan Horse, a worm or a virus, or some other malware, which could literally close us down.’

Mohammed Abbas wasn’t so sure. ‘I don’t think that’s what they’re after. I think they’re trying to tell us something.’