Chapters (58)
- Cover
- Also by Oliver Harris
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- FORTY-FIVE
- FORTY-SIX
- FORTY-SEVEN
- FORTY-EIGHT
- FORTY-NINE
- FIFTY
- FIFTY-ONE
- FIFTY-TWO
- FIFTY-THREE
- FIFTY-FOUR
- FIFTY-FIVE
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Yussopova’s phone rang before she could tell me that the internet was ushering in democracy. She took the call in the kitchen. I made a physical search for the listening device: bookshelves were good cover, a lot of visual information to lose a bug in; light fittings work, and mean you can mask the electronic emanations. Finally I knelt, felt under the table and found it. A disc the size of a ten-pence piece, attached magnetically. Inside was a voice-activated micro-transmitter. You wouldn’t know what it was unless you’d planted a few yourself. I considered removing it, then heard Yussopova returning and straightened.
‘Did Vanessa ever come here?’ I asked.
‘Vanessa? Yes, several times.’
‘Did she help you with equipment?’
‘She gave us laptops, phones. All more secure than the ones we had. She recommended software, VPNs.’
‘Flash Free?’
‘Yes.’
Nice to see Joanna had kept her styles. Flash Free was known among intelligence operatives as inherently compromised software, which meant whichever crew she was spying for would have access to all the activists’ computers. I suspected Yussopova’s concern was overgenerous.
‘Vanessa has been so helpful for us,’ Yussopova said. ‘She is a brave woman.’
‘She certainly is.’ I took a final look through the anti-Saracen literature. ‘Have you had any direct contact with this company?’
‘Only petitions.’
We swapped numbers.
‘What are you going to do?’ Yussopova asked.
‘I’m not sure. Please, please let me know if you hear the slightest thing.’
‘I will.’
The black Renault followed me when I left.
SIXTEEN
The driver was European-looking. Tall in his seat, a touch of flab around the face, something very English in a former-military way. He kept close behind me. It was conspicuous: either a rushed job, a lack of training or meant to intimidate. I drove to Khan Shatyr and parked. I went into the mall, to the food court, got a coffee and browsed on my phone while my man sat on a bench on the other side of the court. I looked at what I could find on Saracen. They were headquartered in London, interests in Vietnam, Congo, Angola, Mexico. Evidently they found the Middle East too squeaky clean. Robert Carter had bought the company for £12.5 billion and the inflow of fresh capital had funded its Kazakh forays.
London would be waking up around now. I gave Olivia Gresham a call.
‘Saracen Oil and Gas. Any feelings about them?’
‘Saracen? Jesus, what are you doing with them? Is that why you’re in Kazakhstan?’
‘Possibly. What are they up to?’
‘They think there’s untapped fields still to be discovered under Kazakhstan. The Kazakh government took a lot of money off them for the honour of taking a look.’
‘Have they been facing trouble over their activity here?’
‘It’s oil and gas – what do you think? Trouble from good people, trouble from bad people.’
‘Who are the bad people?’
‘Rival energy companies, I imagine.’