Richard Shirreff - War with Russia

Morland was humbled into silence as he realized that as a Brit, he could not begin to understand what the Latvians had been through in the not-so-distant past.

She paused to reflect. “You’ll never have a better friend than a Russian. And I have a number. They’ll give you their last kopek if you need it. They’ll laugh with you, cry with you and drink with you to the end of time. But as a nation… as a neighbor… they’re horrible.”

They drove into Ādaži. Morland pointed her to the training wing where the Mercian team had been given an office. As they walked in, Wild looked up from the laptop on which he was recording that day’s training data. “Hi, Sir. How was Riga? Pick up any useful info?”

The three other team members looked up at Krauja as she entered. She, in turn, appraised them coolly.

“Guys, we’ve got a new task. Meet Marina Krauja, our Latvian security service LO.” Morland was relaxed, inclusive and very much part of the team. But he was also determined to keep this focused and professional.

He updated them while the INMARSAT secure VTC was removed from its case and set up. The team signaler Corporal Steve Bradley, a giant New Zealander with a Maori mother, who had traveled across the world to join the British Army, adjusted the frequency and the Ops Room at the Permanent Joint Headquarters in Northwood appeared on the screen. Wild and the other two team members, Corporals Paddy Archer and Jezza Watson, sat at the back to listen in.

“You’re on, Sir,” said Bradley and Morland took a seat in front of the 6.4 inch color screen. “Evening, Jerry,” he said as Major Jerry Dingley, the PJHQ desk officer responsible for supporting training teams in the Baltic states, sat down in front of the camera and asked Morland to start.

Morland told him the team training was going well and the Special Tasks Unit was making good progress with their hostage rescue skills. Next week the focus was to shift to long-range reconnaissance and patrol work, but given the innate toughness of the Latvians and their familiarity with their specific forest environment, Morland didn’t think they could add much to improve their capability. In fact, he thought the Latvians could teach his team a trick or three to bring back home. Then he backbriefed Dingley on Bērziņš’s request.

“On the face of it the murders were carried out by Latvian nationalists. But the view here is that it is too clinical for them; they’re pretty crude at the best of times and this isn’t their style. The carving of Latvian Legion insignia and cleanly snapped necks all point to the guys who do these things best, the Russians; FSB or Spetsnaz. The Latvian security service has some leads but needs support in pinning down the network. We’re also concerned about threats to a big pro-Russia demonstration planned for tomorrow. We think Latvian nationalists may attempt to disrupt it. It’s politically difficult for the Latvians to follow up on their own people. Doing so may cause further tensions. They’ve asked if we can do it for them.”

“Roger, Tom,” came Dingley’s reply. “We’ve been warned off about this from J2 Intelligence here at PJHQ. I’ve got our GCHQ liaison officer with me. She’ll brief you on what the Government Communications Headquarters can do.”

And then on the small screen came a face Morland once knew better than his own. He hadn’t seen Nicola Allenby since leaving Oxford. Brilliant—she’d left Oxford with the best First in Computer Science and Philosophy of her year—intriguing, funny and with the sporty good looks you’d expect from a former head girl of Cheltenham Ladies College, she was also a talented linguist; fluent in Russian, Polish and German from her upbringing as a diplomat’s daughter. One of the many girls attracted by the physical challenge of the Oxford University Officer Training Corps, she had fallen for the rough diamond from the West Midlands. Inevitably, and as their relationship deepened, she had started smoothing off his many rough edges and in no time he was utterly devoted to her and she, it seemed, to him.

Then, at a May Ball, Morland had done something he had instantly regretted. He had thumped the brother of one of Allenby’s friends; a chinless land agent from Cirencester, up for the party, who’d all too easily wound up Morland with disparaging remarks about “chavs” from the Midlands. The fact that the guy had clearly fancied Nicola had a lot to do with his reaction, but something had changed in her in the instant that he had stepped in to protect her. For the next few days she was unusually unavailable. Then she had texted and asked to meet him for coffee in Brown’s. She had not even started to drink the cappuccino he had just bought her before she had announced that they had no future together and walked out of the café.

“Meet our new GCHQ liaison officer, Tom,” said Dingley on the VTC. “Over to you, Nicky.”

“We’ve met before… at Oxford. Good to see you again, Tom. Although the VTC picture is a bit hazy.”

Morland could hear the cool professionalism in her voice. “I’ve got a clear enough picture of you from here. All that matters is that we can hear each other. Can you help us?” Morland was brisk and giving away nothing.

“Give me as much detail as you can and we’ll start tracking down the network.”

Morland handed over to Krauja who briefed in detail on the extent of Russian infiltration of the Latvian Russian Union, together with what was known about plans for the next day’s pro-Russian speakers demonstration. She also highlighted Latvian concerns about a counter-demonstration by Latvian nationalists. “We think the Russians are winding each side up to cause civil disturbances and give them an excuse to intervene to protect their own people. Just as they did in Crimea and now in eastern Ukraine.”

“I understand.” Allenby was matter of fact and was clearly not going to give anything away about the British position on Latvia’s concerns. “I’ll talk to my team at GCHQ and ensure my senior people are fully in the picture.”

“We’ll also ask the guys at Vauxhall Cross, Tom,” added Dingley, referring to the British Secret Intelligence Service, MI6, headquarters, based on the south side of the River Thames in Vauxhall. “See if they’re picking anything up. We’ve agreed the Latvian request for you and the team to get into a position to observe the demonstration and relay back what is happening.”

“The demo is due to kick off at midday tomorrow,” Morland replied. “Let me know if you find out anything before then. We’re heading into Riga tonight to recce the demo route and find OPs to monitor events.”

The update finished and the faces in Northwood disappeared as the screen went blank.

“So, Tom, as we’re going to be working together pretty closely… You don’t mind me calling you Tom?” asked Krauja.

“As long as I can call you Marina,” Morland answered, flattered that she had been the one to relax the formality.

“Of course.” She smiled. “You know that girl?”

“I used to… but we’ve got work to do, Marina.”

Morland looked her in the eye, but he sensed that she already knew; beautiful and intuitive.

Morland turned to his team. “Time to get into Riga and find out where we can best see things tomorrow. Without being seen.”

“I’ll show you. Come,” said Krauja.

THAT WEDNESDAY DAWNED brighter. The gray clouds and cold northerly wind had disappeared and the day promised to be fine. Despite that, there was a sense of foreboding in Riga, a feeling entirely foreign to the city. News of the murders of Petrov and Zadonov, the Russian Latvian Union leaders, had spread quickly through the large Russian population and their sense of shock and outrage was everywhere.