‘Through there,’ Yakutina said waving towards an archway.
‘Thanks,’ said Gerry.
She went through, took a much needed pee, washed her hands and then from her handbag she took out her Glock automatic, gave it a quick once over and then did the same with her Taser. Then she walked quietly back in with her hand inside her bag clutching the Glock. She relaxed when she saw Laurence slumped in an armchair and Yakutina bringing in a tray with three cups, a jug and a sugar bowl on it.
‘I’m making us all some coffee,’ she said with a big smile for Gerry. ‘Laurence could certainly use one anyway.’
‘Me too,’ Gerry agreed enthusiastically. ‘So Sandy, what brings you out to Kuwait?’
‘I work for Bombardier, the Canadian aerospace company. We’re hoping to supply new training aircraft to the Air Force here. How about you?’
‘I’m in foreign aid,’ Gerry replied.
‘Huh? You’re not telling me the Brits are giving the Kuwaitis financial aid are you?’
‘No, I’m trying to persuade them to give it to African countries,’ Gerry replied, ‘then we won’t have to.’
‘Ah, I get it,’ she nodded.
‘So you’re in the same line as Laurence. He’s the commercial guy helping British Aerospace out here.’
‘Yes that’s right,’ Yakutina replied. ‘I expect the coffee’s ready.’ She returned to the kitchen.
Gerry turned to Laurence. ‘How are you feeling?’ she asked.
He stared past her with a look of amazement. ‘Fucking hell!’ he said.
This non sequitur aroused sudden suspicion. Gerry whirled round and was shocked to see Yakutina walk back in with a Russian P96 pistol aimed at her. The Russian was obviously expecting Gerry to cower at the sight of it, but instead she threw herself behind the sofa. She heard the sharp crack as Yakutina fired the pistol. Shit, was the woman really trying to kill her? She was just an industrial espionage agent wasn’t she? Gerry took her Glock out her handbag and rolled sideways and fired two quick shots at the Russian’s feet. One at least hit her because there was a spray of blood and she screamed, then she dropped her gun and collapsed to the floor clutching at her foot.
Gerry stood up and pulled the cloth off a small table. ‘Apply pressure with that.’ She ordered. The woman sat up, grabbed the cloth and pressed it to her ankle moaning in pain. She looked up with hatred at Gerry and muttered something in Russian.
‘You should be grateful,’ Gerry stated. ‘Seems you’ve had a flesh wound rather than a broken ankle joint.’
‘What the hell is happening here?’ demanded Baxter who had jumped to his feet and was sobering up with the assistance of a rush of adrenaline.
‘Your girlfriend is Lyudmila Yakutina of the Russian Federal Security Service. You’ve been passing her secrets for the last six months.’
‘What? She works for Bombardier, the Canadian company,’ Baxter insisted, astounded.’
‘So why did she try to shoot me just now, you bone-headed moron,’ said Gerry. ‘Yakutina is an industrial spy. At first we thought that perhaps the two of you were up to something more serious, but my investigation just showed that you were some poor fool who wanted to get his leg over and this woman was prepared to put up with you to further her own career.’
Baxter stared at Yakutina, then back at Gerry and swallowed. ‘So what happens now?’
‘I’m going to call the Embassy, get you out under diplomatic immunity. Then I expect you’ll be flown home and unceremoniously booted out from the FCO without references. I doubt you’ll be prosecuted.’
‘What about her?’ He turned a hate filled gaze on the Russian woman.
‘I’ll call the Kuwaiti police.’ She spoke to Yakutina in Russian. ‘You don’t have diplomatic immunity, do you Lyudmila?’
‘You bloody bitch,’ Baxter shouted at Yakutina. ‘You’ve ruined my career!’ His voice shook with drunken anger.
‘Shut up you idiot!’ said Gerry. ‘I saw a first aid kit in the bathroom. Go and get it.’ Gerry knelt down beside the Russian women. ‘Take the cloth away; let me see how bad it is.’
The Russian suddenly looked past her and screamed just as a shot hit her in the chest and knocked her backwards. Gerry whirled round awkwardly and saw Baxter’s unsteady hand now trying to aim Yakutina’s P96 towards her. She tried to shoot him in the shoulder but in her hurry she missed her aim. He fell back with his arms flung wide, the front of his chest turning red and she guessed she had hit his heart. She slowly lowered her Glock and stared at the carnage around her.
‘Oh shit have I fucked up,’ she muttered to herself. She felt unsuccessfully for a neck pulse in the Russian women, and caught a strong smell of spirits; perhaps the woman had been drunk, which might explain her aggression. Gerry sat down on a chair and stared at the two corpses and mulled over the possibilities. She wiped her fingerprints from the Glock and placed it in the dead Russian’s hand. Then she gazed round the apartment thinking where she might have left any other signs of her presence. Three cups on the tray; she put one back in the kitchen. She returned to the bathroom and carefully wiped anything she might have touched with a small hand towel which she then stuffed in her bag. She found another towel in the cupboard and placed it on the rail, gazed around once more then shook her head and left.
Eight hours later back at the Embassy she filed an inaccurate report that described how Laurence Baxter and Lyudmila Yakutina had shot each other in a drunken encounter after Gerry had revealed to Baxter that his girlfriend was a Russian agent and that he would be sent back home in disgrace. She had left out the fact that she was present at the incident, but said that she had attended the scene at the request of the Kuwaiti police as Baxter was an accredited diplomat. She emphasised how her knowledge of Arabic had helped to keep the situation under wraps and that the Russian official who was also invited to the scene seemed happy with the explanation of events and she was hopeful that it would be kept quiet.
Half an hour later she received an order to return to London to file a further report in person. She booked a seat on the following evening’s British Airways flight and decided to drive back to her hotel. As she entered the lobby she saw a man get up from an armchair and walk quickly towards her. She decided he was unlikely to be a threat because nobody menacing her would step forward in plain view and she doubted that she would encounter a Russian heavy bent on revenge in a Kuwait city hotel with video surveillance of the public areas.
As he drew close she realised he was an Arab. He was wearing grey trousers, a white shirt and a black leather jacket. He was middle aged, at least fifty years old and comfortably overweight without being excessively fat; clearly not physically trained. He had short wavy hair and a big untrimmed moustache. ‘Good evening Miss Geraldine Tate,’ the man spoke quietly in Arabic. ‘I wonder if I might speak with you. My name is Hakim Mansour.’ Gerry was amazed that the man knew her name and she stopped and stared at him; she was formulating a response in Arabic when the man made a further request.
‘I wonder if you could arrange to take me for me a most urgent meeting with Sir Hugh Fielding.’
Gerry’s stare turned to an expression of bewilderment. Fielding was the director of executive operations in the UK intelligence service and her ultimate boss, and now this unknown Iraqi was requesting an appointment as if he was an old acquaintance.
Forty eight hours later Gerry Tate and Hakim Mansour were sitting in a BAe 125 executive jet operated by the Royal Air Force for the UK government as it approached the runway at Frankfurt airport. A third person had joined them whom Mansour had introduced as Ali Hamsin. ‘He is my translator and an old friend,’ Mansour explained. ‘My English is not so good so I bring him along just to be sure we all understand each other.’