Invisible Enemy in Kazakhstan

Steiner held the Russian’s gaze, the ghost of a smile playing over his lips. ‘When do we leave?’ he asked.

4

London – January 1993

Lieutenant-Colonel Barney Davies glanced around the Foreign Office conference room with a slight sense of surprise. He had not been expecting such a high-powered meeting. Nothing in the message he had received had given any indication that this was to be any more than a briefing session. Now, noting the sheer number of personnel already assembled, and the prominence of some of them, Davies could tell that this was to be no mere briefing. It looked more like a full-blown security conference.

He reviewed the cluster of faces hovering around the large, oval-shaped table. Nobody seemed prepared to sit down yet; they were all still waiting for the guest of honour to arrive. It had to be pretty high brass, Davies figured to himself, for he recognized at least two Foreign Office ministers, either of whom could quite comfortably head up any meeting up to and perhaps including Cabinet level. He teased his brain, trying to put names to the faces.

He identified Clive Murchison almost immediately. He had had some dealings with the man during the Gulf War, the successful conclusion of which probably had something to do with Murchison’s obvious and rapid climb up the bureaucratic ladder. Tending towards the curt, but irritatingly efficient, Murchison was of the old school, the ‘send a gunboat’ brigade. His presence alone reinforced Davies’s feeling that this meeting was serious stuff.

Naming Murchison’s colleague proved a little trickier. Windley? Windsor? Neither name seemed quite right. It fell into place, eventually. A double-barrelled name. Wynne-Tilsley, that was it. Michael Wynne-Tilsley. Still technically a junior minister but well connected, tipped for higher things. Word was that he had the PM’s ear, or maybe knew a few things he should not. In political circles, Davies reflected, that was the equivalent of a ticket to the front of the queue.

There were half a dozen other people who meant nothing whatsoever to Davies. Whether they were civil servants or civilian advisers, he had no idea, although there was probably the odd man from MI6 or the ‘green slime’ in there somewhere.

There was, however, one more face that he definitely did recognize. Davies’s face broke into a friendly grin as he strolled across to the slightly hunched figure in the electric wheelchair. Reaching down, he gave the man’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze.

‘Well, you old bastard, what are you doing here? Thought you’d retired.’

Piggy Baker looked up, grinning back. ‘I had…have. They dug me up again to bring me in as a special adviser on this one.’ The man extended his hand. ‘Barney, good to see you.’

The two men shook hands warmly. Finally, Davies drew back slightly, appraising his old comrade. He noted that Piggy no longer bothered to wear his artificial leg.

‘So what happened to the pogo stick? Thought they would have rebuilt you as the six billion dollar man by now. All this new technology, prosthetics and stuff.’

Piggy shrugged carelessly. ‘They did offer, a couple of years back. But what the hell? I’m too old to go around all tarted up like Robocop.’ He broke off, nodding down at the wheelchair. ‘These days, I’m happy enough to ponce around in this most of the time.’

Davies nodded, his face suddenly becoming serious. ‘So, what’s all this about? Looks like high-powered stuff.’

Baker’s face was apologetic. ‘Sorry, Barney, but I can’t tell you a thing until the briefing. OSA and all that, you know.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Davies had not really expected much else. He knew all about the Official Secrets Act, and official protocol. He had come up against it himself enough times.

There was a sudden stir of movement in the room. The babble of voices hushed abruptly. Glancing towards the large double doors, Davies was not really surprised to see the Foreign Secretary enter the room. He had not been expecting anyone less.

The Foreign Secretary headed straight for one end of the oval table and sat down. ‘Well, gentlemen, shall we get down to business?’ he said crisply. He glanced across at Wynne-Tilsley as everyone took their chairs. ‘Perhaps you would be so good as to introduce everybody before we begin the briefing.’

Wynne-Tilsley went round the table in an anticlockwise direction. Just as Davies had supposed, most of the personnel were civilian advisers or from the green slime, the Intelligence Corps.

The introductions over, the Foreign Secretary took over once more. ‘Gentlemen, we have a problem,’ he announced flatly. ‘The purpose of this meeting is to determine what we do about it. Let me say at this juncture that it is not so much a question of should we get involved as can we get involved. Which is why I have invited Lieutenant-Colonel Davies, of 22 SAS, here today.’ He paused briefly to nod towards Davies in acknowledgement, before turning to Murchison. ‘Perhaps you would outline the situation for us.’

Murchison rose to his feet, riffling through the sheaf of papers and notes in front of him. He spoke in a clear, confident tone – the voice of a man well used to public speaking and being listened to.

‘Essentially, we’ve been asked by the Chinese to infiltrate former Soviet territory,’ he announced, pausing for a few moments to let the shock sink in. He waited until the brief buzz of startled exclamations and hastily exchanged words were over. ‘Which, as you might gather, gentlemen, makes this a very sticky problem indeed.’ Murchison then turned to face Davies directly. ‘The general feeling was that this is an operation which could only be tackled by the SAS if it could be tackled at all – although the complexities and nature of the specific problem could prove even beyond their capabilities.’

It seemed like a challenge which demanded a response. Davies rose to his feet slowly, addressing the Foreign Secretary directly.

‘You used the word “infiltrate”,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘An ambiguous word at the best of times. Some clarification would be appreciated.’

The Foreign Secretary nodded. ‘I appreciate your concern, Lieutenant-Colonel, and I understand your reserve. Just let me assure you that we are not talking about an invasion force here, nor would we go in with any hostile intent. However, it is possible that your men would encounter hostile forces.’

Not much wiser, Davies sank back into his chair. ‘Perhaps I’d better hear the rest of the briefing,’ he muttered.

Murchison rose to his feet again. ‘I think the background to the problem will be best explained by Captain Baker,’ he said. I know Lieutenant-Colonel Davies is well aware of his colleague’s position, but for the rest of you I had better explain that Captain Baker was for many years with SAS Operations Planning and Intelligence. He has been called here today because he has been close to this particular story for a long time.’

With a curt nod in Piggy’s direction, he yielded the table and sat down again.

‘You’ll excuse me if I don’t stand, gentlemen,’ Piggy began, a wry grin on his face. He paused for a while, marshalling his thoughts. Finally, he took a deep breath and launched into his rehearsed brief.

‘Just after the Second World War, it became apparent that the Russians were gathering together scientists, doctors and medical staff from all over Europe for some sort of secret project,’ he announced. Turning towards Davies, he added a piece of more personal and intimate information. ‘As it happens, I had a personal encounter at the time, and there are three plaques mounted outside the Regimental Chapel at Stirling Lines because of it. So you might say that I have always had a deep and personal interest in the ongoing story.’

So, Davies thought, it was personal – to them both. Family business. An old score that needed settling. But why now? Why the Chinese involvement? He listened intently as his old friend went on, now with a deeper sense of commitment.

‘Suffice it to say that when I moved to OPI I initiated a monitoring operation on this project, which has been kept up to the present day,’ Piggy continued. ‘And although there has been no official liaison with our own Intelligence Corps, I believe that they too have been keeping an eye open, as, indeed, have our American counterparts.’

Davies broke off briefly to cast a questioning glance towards Grieves, the officer from the green slime. The man nodded his head wordlessly, confirming Piggy’s suspicions.

‘We know that the original project was code-named Phoenix by the Russians,’ Piggy went on. ‘Everything suggests that it was never officially embraced by the Soviet government, but placed largely under the control of the KGB, and kept under tight security wraps. For that reason, our intelligence is patchy, to say the least, and we have had to surmise quite a lot of what we were unable to know for fact. What we do know, however, is that in 1947 a secret research facility was set up in a fairly remote and mountainous region of Kazakhstan, fairly close to the Mongolian border. While we still do not know the exact purpose of this original facility, we have always assumed it to be a biological research project of some kind. It is also logical to assume that the underlying concept of this research facility was in military application, although there may have been some spin-offs into mainstream science. It is more than possible, for instance, that the dominance of Soviet and Eastern Bloc athletes during the fifties and sixties was directly due to steroids and other performance-enhancing drugs which were developed in the Kazakhstan facility.’

The Foreign Secretary had been busy making notes. He looked up now, tapping his pen on the table to draw Piggy’s attention.

‘So what you are saying, in effect, is that this project has never actually offered any direct, or perceived, threat to the Western powers, or us in particular? At worst, in fact, it might have cost us a few gold medals in the Olympics?’

Piggy nodded, conceding the point. ‘Up to now, yes. But recent developments have given us cause to think again.’

The Foreign Secretary chewed his bottom lip thoughtfully. ‘And what are these new developments?’

‘With respect, sir, I believe I can best answer that,’ Grieves said, rising to his feet and waving a buff-coloured dossier in one hand. Satisfied that he had the floor, he cleared his throat with a slight cough and carried on. ‘About three months ago, GCHQ monitored what appeared to be some kind of distress signal sent out from the Kazakhstan facility to the old KGB HQ in Moscow. From this, we must deduce two things – A, that some sort of accident or emergency situation had occurred within the complex, and B, the personnel inside are seemingly unaware that the KGB has been virtually broken up and disbanded over the past year or so. This further suggests that they might be completely out of touch with what has been going on inside the Soviet Union and the world at large.’

‘But how can that be?’ the Foreign Secretary wanted to know. ‘Surely they must have regular contact with the outside world – supplies, that sort of thing.’

Grieves shook his head. ‘Not necessarily, sir. Our intelligence has always suggested that the facility was designed to be virtually self-sustaining. As long ago as 1969 an American spy satellite carrying out routine surveillance of the Soviet nuclear weapons testing facility at Semipalatinsk happened to overfly the base and monitor an internal nuclear power source. This suggests that it has its own closed power source, and it is probable that they also have their own hydroponic food-production facility along with a pretty sophisticated recycling system. The very nature of the complex has always been secretive, even autonomous. It is more than likely that it even has its own security system – a private army, in effect.’

‘Just what are we actually talking about here?’ Lieutenant-Colonel Davies interrupted. ‘A scientific research facility or a bloody garrison? Just how big is this damned place, anyway?’

If the Foreign Secretary found Davies’s language at all offensive, he gave no sign. ‘A good question,’ he muttered, glancing questioningly at Grieves.

The Intelligence officer shrugged faintly. ‘Again, inconclusive evidence,’ he said. ‘Satellite observation suggests that much of the complex is built underground, but we don’t know how many subterranean levels there might be. Basically, we have no way of knowing the actual size and personnel strength of the establishment. It might house a few dozen scientists and support staff. Or it could be an autonomous, full-scale community, of several hundred people living in a miniature city. Don’t forget that this place has been established for nearly fifty years now. There’s no guessing how it has developed.’

Grieves fell silent for several seconds. When he spoke again, his face was grim and his tone sombre. ‘Of course, personnel numbers could well be a purely academic point. They may, in fact, all be dead anyway. Which, incidentally, is where the Chinese come in. They’re afraid that some sort of chemical or biological contamination may have escaped from within the complex, and may already have crossed the Mongolian border.’ He paused again, longer this time, to allow the full significance of his words to register.

Finally, Davies attempted a brief recap. ‘So what you’re suggesting is that this place may have been engaged in chemical or bacteriological warfare research, and something nasty might have got loose?’

Grieves nodded. ‘In essence, yes.’

‘Have the Chinese any direct evidence for this?’ Davies asked. ‘Have there been any actual deaths?’

Grieves consulted his notes briefly. ‘It’s difficult to be absolutely sure,’ he replied. ‘You have to understand the unique background and make-up of Kazakhstan itself. It’s vast – almost unbelievably so. You could fit Britain, France, Germany, Spain, Finland and Sweden into it quite comfortably. Yet it only has a total population of some seventeen million – an improbable mix of races and cultures including native Kazakhs, Tartars, Uzbeks and Uigurs along with emigrant Russians, Germans and others. In Stalin’s heyday, Kazakhstan was Gulag territory. When the concentration camps were disbanded, many of the inmates settled in the area. Stalin also used the region as a dumping ground for vast numbers of people he considered “political undesirables” – Volga Germans, Meskhetian Turks, Crimean Tartars and Karachais to name but a few. So we’re talking about millions of square miles still sparsely populated by people of widely differing religions, cultures and languages. And we are also dealing with a particularly remote region, in mountainous terrain not far from Mount Belushka. Because of the nature of this terrain, and the scattered, semi-nomadic distribution of the peasant population, there is no direct communications network. Any information which comes out of the area is essentially rumour, or word-of-mouth reports which might have been passed through several dozen very simple people before reaching the ears of the authorities. However, there are enough reports of dead and missing goatherds, peasant farmers and the like filtering through to give these Chinese fears some credibility.’

‘So why can’t they go in and sort it out for themselves?’ Davies asked. ‘After all, they’re right there on the spot.’

Grieves did not attempt to answer. Instead, he glanced towards the Foreign Secretary.

‘With respect, Lieutenant-Colonel,’ said the latter, addressing Davies directly, ‘you’re looking at this through the eyes of a military man, without taking into account the highly complex and sensitive political issues involved here. This whole region is a territorial minefield. There have been border clashes between the Chinese and Russians for the last three decades, and stability balances on a knife-edge. The Chinese don’t dare to make a serious incursion into Russian territory for fear of sparking off a major incident.’

‘Then it’s up to the Russians to sort it out for themselves, surely?’ Davies suggested.

The Foreign Secretary smiled thinly. ‘Perhaps you’re forgetting that there is virtually no longer any centralized decision-making inside former Soviet territory,’ he pointed out. ‘Every region, every state is in turmoil – fragmented and politically unstable if not actively in the throes of civil war. The Kazakhstan region is no exception. There are perhaps up to half a dozen different guerrilla groups and political and religious factions already fighting for territory virtually on a village by village, valley by valley basis. You only have to look to Georgia, just across the Caspian, to get an idea of what’s going on there.’

Davies nodded thoughtfully. Grieves coughed faintly again, drawing attention back to himself.

‘Actually, to answer Lieutenant-Colonel Davies’s last question, I ought to point out that we believe the Russians did manage to send in at least one military team to investigate,’ he volunteered. ‘Our intelligence suggests that they disappeared without trace, with absolutely no clues as to what happened to them. We have no way of knowing if they even managed to get anywhere near the research facility.’

‘But I still fail to understand how the Chinese reckon to get us involved in all this,’ Davies said, becoming increasingly bogged down in the political intricacy of the entire affair.

The Foreign Secretary treated him to another thin, almost cynical smile. ‘Politics sometimes makes for strange bedfellows,’ he said. ‘The Chinese are desperate for Western acceptance after the Tiananmen Square massacre. They are equally desperate for access to European trade markets, and, rightly or wrongly, they seem to believe that Britain could be holding the top cards in the Euro-deck right now. And, as we are already involved in close association over the Hong Kong business, they feel they have an ace of their own to play.’

Davies started to understand at last. ‘So it’s a threat, basically?’ he said. ‘Unless we play ball with them, they’ll make the Hong Kong negotiations more difficult?’

The Foreign Secretary smiled openly now. ‘I see you’re beginning to get a grasp of modern-day diplomacy,’ he murmured, without obvious sarcasm. He paused to take a slow, deep breath. ‘So, Lieutenant-Colonel Davies, that’s it, in a nutshell. We appear to be stuck with the problem, and the SAS would appear to be our only hope.’

‘To do what, exactly?’ Davies demanded. He was still not quite sure what was actually being asked of him.

The Foreign Secretary stared him directly in the eye. ‘To get in there, monitor the situation and neutralize it if possible. Of course, you understand that we are talking about some of the most difficult and inhospitable terrain in the world, under the most extreme climatic conditions. As I understand it, the difference between daytime and night-time temperatures can be as much as 20°C. Once you’re up into the mountains, you can expect extremes as low as minus thirty – plus fierce and bitter northerly winds straight down from Siberia.’

Davies nodded thoughtfully. ‘Not exactly the Brecon Beacons,’ he muttered. The reference to the SAS testing and training grounds went over the top of the Foreign Secretary’s head.

‘You would, of course, be given the full support of the Intelligence Corps and access to all the relevant files,’ the latter went on. ‘You would be expected to liaise with Captain Baker about the finer points of the operation, including more detailed briefing about the geography of the region. All I require from you at this stage is a gut assessment as to the feasibility of the operation. In short, could your men get a small team of scientists into that complex with a reasonable hope of success?’

The last sentence was a sudden and totally unexpected sting in the tail. Davies jumped to his feet angrily, quite forgetting the company he was in as he banged his fist down on the table. ‘No bloody way,’ he shouted, vehemently.

The Foreign Secretary kept his cool admirably, merely raising one eyebrow quizzically.

‘Come now, Lieutenant-Colonel. I would have thought this was right up your street.’

‘No bloody civilians, no bloody way,’ Davies repeated, virtually ignoring him. ‘The SAS isn’t a babysitting service for a bunch of boffins who probably couldn’t even step over a puddle without getting their feet wet. If we go in at all, we go in alone. And if we need any specialist know-how, we’ll take it in our heads.’

The Foreign Secretary seemed unperturbed. ‘Yes, Captain Baker more or less warned me that that would be your reaction,’ he observed philosophically. He thought for a few moments. ‘Well, as I can’t order you, we shall have to resort to Plan B. Your men will secure the area and neutralize any obvious threat to an Anglo-Chinese team of scientific experts who will be airlifted in behind you. Can you do that much?’

Davies simmered down. ‘We can have a damned good try,’ he said emphatically. ‘What about insertion into the area?’

‘That’s one of the matters we’re going to have to discuss,’ Piggy put in. ‘But basically you’d probably have to assemble somewhere neutral like Hong Kong. You’d go in as civilians, of course – either as tourists or visiting businessmen. From there you would be contacted by the Chinese and transferred to a military base on the mainland. We would expect the Chinese to put you over the border somewhere just inside Sinkiang Province, probably 100 miles north-east of Tacheng. You would then be facing a foot trek of around 350 miles. It’s going to give you supply problems, but there’s a possibility the Chinks would be willing to risk a brief air incursion into Soviet territory to drop you one advance cache. Certainly no more, since the official Kazakhstan government is extremely well armed with the latest high-tech kit. The republic has even managed to retain nearly fifteen per cent of the former Soviet total nuclear arsenal, much to the Kremlin’s annoyance.’

‘In that sort of mountainous terrain?’ Davies shook his head. ‘No, we’d probably never find it. And if we put it in with a homing beacon there’s every chance someone else would get to it before we did. No, we’d have to go in on a self-sustaining basis. What’s the local wildlife situation?’

Piggy shrugged. ‘Sparse – particularly at this time of year. Probably a few rabbits or even wild deer in the foothills, but not much else. Your best bet would probably be airborne. Carrion crow, the odd golden eagle – probably not much different to turkey if you eat ’em with your eyes shut.’

‘Sorry, but you two gentlemen seem to have lost me,’ the Foreign Secretary put in. ‘I thought we were discussing a military operation, not a gourmet’s picnic’

The politician went up an immediate notch in Davies’s estimation. The man had a sense of humour.

‘It’s a question of weight and distance ratio,’ Davies hastened to explain. ‘With a round trip of 700 miles, my men are going to be limited in the amount of food and supplies they can carry in their bergens. They’re already going to have to be wearing heavy thermal protection gear and, from the sound of it, Noddy suits as well.’

‘Noddy suits?’ the Foreign Secretary queried.

The SAS man smiled. ‘Sorry, sir. I mean nuclear, chemical and biological warfare protection. Cumbersome, uncomfortable, and all additional weight. Quite simply, it’s going to be physically impossible to carry all the gear they will need for an operation of this size and complexity. So we cut non-essential supplies such as food. Troopers are trained to live off the land where necessary.’

‘They could, of course, take in a couple of goats with them,’ Piggy suggested. It was not intended to be a facetious remark, but Davies glared at him all the same.

‘I’m concerned about keeping them alive – not their bloody sex lives,’ he said dismissively. ‘And in that respect, where do we get kitted up, if we’re going in as civvies?’

‘No problem,’ Piggy assured him. ‘We can arrange for anything you ask for to be ready and waiting for you when you arrive at your Chinese base.’

The Foreign Secretary was standing up and gathering his papers together. ‘So I can leave you two to sort out the details?’ he asked, beginning to feel slightly uncomfortable and superfluous. ‘How soon do you think you might be able to come up with a reasonable plan of operations?’