by Mark Leggatt
Arkangel drained his glass. “You begrudge a man the opportunity to make some money? I swear to you, once I had the funds, I would have handed everything over.”
Kutuzov shook his head. “You’re a bad liar, Arkangel. And now your friends in the Middle East are asking why their top man is in an MI5 cell. That’s not going to go down well. They think you set them up. And they are not known for their forgiveness.”
“No money changed hands. They...”
“They are your problem. Not mine. If I were you, I wouldn’t waste money on a pension. You’re unlikely to see it. However, if you work for me, I can offer you some protection.”
“I have spent years working on this. I can’t just hand everything over to Moscow!”
Kutuzov stood up. “Sure. You have a choice. Work for me, or be pursued across the globe by fanatics for the rest of your life. You know who they are, don’t you? The kind of people that would send a child as a suicide bomber to kill you. I’d give it a month at most before they found you. If you’re lucky, you’ll get an orange jumpsuit and a video on YouTube. If not, well, I wouldn’t like to think about it.”
Arkangel stared at his empty glass.
Kutuzov walked over and stood directly in from of him. “That’s unless I find you a threat to my operation and shoot you first. So, join the team. Work for Mother Russia once more.”
A young man with a laptop appeared in the doorway. “We have the second password.”
“Excellent work!” Kutuzov strode over and thumped him on the shoulder so hard the young man nearly dropped the laptop. “What is it?”
“Wildcat. The word ‘PICHAQ’ which was written on the body. Once we researched Pilgrim’s history and his Scottish connections, we ran it through the language databases. It’s phonetic, but translates as ‘cat’. Then we found a specific Scottish reference to an indigenous species. But there is something else.”
“Go on,” said Kutuzov.
“Someone else is connected to the Red Star. They also have the first password. And it’s the first time in over thirty years according to the log.”
“Block them,” said Kutuzov. “We can’t allow...”
“No,” said Arkangel. “The second password only allows normal maintenance access. Red Star needs a third password before it can be activated.”
“Another password?” Kutuzov’s face tightened.
Arkangel cleared his throat. “That’s what I was trying to tell you. The third sequence of words written on Pilgrim’s arm seems to be nonsense. We’ve run it through all the systems in Moscow. And that’s what the Middle East were getting for fifty million dollars. Nonsense. We need to crack the third password before whoever else is logged on.”
“It must be the Americans or the British,” said Kutuzov. “Only they have knowledge of the Red Star.”
“No,” said Arkangel. “It’s obvious that the CIA pretended for over thirty years that they had access, but they did not. Why would they log on now? There has been a leak. And you tell me, Kutuzov, that these are your men?”
“Arkangel, don’t fuck with me.”
“Don’t block the other sign-on. If they have the first password, they’ll soon be looking for the second. Track them. Find out what they know.”
Kutuzov clicked his fingers. The young man turned and ran down a corridor.
*
Madame Raymonde sat calmly in a wingback chair and sipped her sherry, then placed the glass down onto a polished slate table, the sound tinkling in the cavernous room. She looked over to Elizabeth Purley, gazing out over the Thames. No sound penetrated the thick security glass and the traffic across Lambeth Bridge moved silently. She saw that Purley’s broad shoulders had become more stooped as the years had passed. The tailored dark suit now hung awkwardly on her shoulders. Madame Raymonde had never seen her wear anything else, nor any make-up. Only the Gucci purse gave a clue as to her gender. “I never thought I would see this in my lifetime.”
Purley turned away from the window. “The Norway operation?”
Madame Raymonde nodded and lifted her sherry glass once more. “So, he died on the glacier?”
“It seems so.”
“And Jack Pilgrim?”
Purley looked across the Thames to the railway arches, leading to Waterloo. “He’ll live, with treatment. I’m keeping him close.”
“What do the CIA know?”
Purley walked slowly across the room and sat behind her desk, glancing at her laptop. “I’m getting updates from my teams, but all we know is that the policeman who was killed in Soho found a body in a glacier, not far from a Norwegian village close to the Russian border.”
“We have to be very careful, my dear,” said Madame Raymonde, then swallowed the sherry in one mouthful. “There’s so much to lose.”
Purley said nothing. She opened up her purse and took out a faded and cracked photo. The photo was so worn that only she could identify the face. “There is everything to lose.”
“I only heard the Soviet side of the story before I left Moscow.” Madame Raymonde settled back into her chair. “And how they lost the codes. I did what I could. If Michael Pilgrim had not been successful in his mission then the US would have attacked the USSR. The threat was simply too great. And he died on the glacier.”
“And then the stalemate began. The Soviets warned the US that if the Red Star was ever activated it would be seen as an immediate act of war. But without the codes the Soviets knew the game was up. It was only a matter of time. The US would never have allowed another Red Star in the sky and the Soviets knew it. The death of Pilgrim was the best possible outcome. And then began a game of poker that has been going on for over thirty years. No one willing to show their hand. Until this happened.”
Madame Raymonde saw the lines on Purley’s face. They had deepened as the responsibility of running MI5 and the passing years had taken their toll. “Did the Soviets ever know for sure that Michael Pilgrim handed over the codes before he died?”
“No, they were never sure. The Americans pretended they had the codes all along and could use the Red Star at any time. By the time the Soviets had worked out the bluff and realized Reagan’s SDI Star Wars was also a bluff, the Red Star was obsolete.”
“But not anymore.”
“No, now the skies are full of satellites. And the Red Star means complete military dominance for any side that gains control.”
“They will do everything in their power to get it.”
Purley shook her head. “The Russians are no longer the Soviets. Making money is the new God in Moscow. They may want the Red Star for prestige, but they would never activate it. Such a thing would be bad for business. But with the Americans, anything is possible.” A phone beeped on Purley’s desk. “He’s here. Wait next door.” She got up from behind the desk and nodded towards a small door in the wall, then returned to her desk and pushed a button.
*
Kane strode across the room. “I’m not gonna bullshit you, ‘cos I really don’t have time for that. I need full cooperation from your team. This is our operation and I know you have it from your Prime Minister that your people will do whatever they are damn well told.”
Purley sat down, slipped the faded photo into her purse and placed it under the desk. “As the head of MI5, I’m sure my team will give you all the cooperation you require.”
Kane stood at the edge of the desk, leaning over. “Yeah? What about that club in Soho? Were you keeping that to yourself?”
Purley shrugged. “We all have our little secrets. I understand you found nothing in the club. A dead end. It is merely a place for retired gentleman and of absolutely no interest to your operation. As I’m sure you discovered.”
“Yeah, that place, I’ll deal with it later. Rooms full of freaks and fruitcakes.”
“And what of the rest of the operation? I understand MI5 an
d the Metropolitan Police have supplied you with the required manpower?”
“Oh, yeah, like your asshole geek who forgets to track the only interesting signal in London. And while all that shit was going on, Montrose got out of Soho. But we’ll find him.”
Purley leaned back in her chair. “What is it you are looking for, Mr. Kane? Apart from Montrose? We may be of more assistance if we knew.”
“No way. This is a US affair. We just need your monkeys to do the legwork. The less we tell you, the better. Your whole system leaks like a sieve.”
“Does it?” She let her elbows rest on the edge of the chair and brought her hands together as if in prayer. “Like a sieve, you say? Remind me, Mr. Kane, for whom did Edward Snowden work? And Bradley Manning?”
Kane jabbed a finger at her. “I don’t have to take that shit. London is a holiday destination for every major terrorist and crook on the planet. There are enemy spooks everywhere.”
Purley curled her lips into a thin smile. “Well, you know what they say, keep your friends close and your enemies closer. By the way, it’s relatively nice to see you again, Cousin.”
Kane stepped back and blew out a breath. “Look, Elizabeth...” He shrugged. “Our countries go back a long way. I can’t stress how important this is to the security of the United States. We need the UK to step up to the plate. We’re the Cousins, right? You’re our oldest ally.”
“Are we? What a short memory the Americans have. I think you’ll find the French are your oldest ally, historically speaking.”
“Whatever. Look…”
“In fact, only five years before we fought the Nazis, your country had an approved and detailed plan to invade Canada, then declare war on Great Britain and destroy our Empire. Of course, you didn’t go through with it because the Royal Navy would have shelled New York into rubble, burned down the White House for a second time and then kicked your Yankee arse across the high seas. Operation War Plan Red, wasn’t it? Is that the kind of oldest ally we’re talking about?”
“Hey, don’t get clever with me, lady. If it wasn’t for us, Hitler would have kicked your ass.”
Purley leaned over the desk. “We stopped Hitler at the Battle of Britain without your help. And if it wasn’t for the Russian front, the Allied armies in Normandy would have been fighting over two hundred Nazi Divisions, not fifty. Do you consider the Russians to be old allies?”
“Bullshit. We saved your country from starving and supplied your army. I don’t need a history lesson.”
“Oh, I think you do. It took us sixty years to pay you for all the tanks and ships. You gave us nothing and we owe you nothing, so you listen to me.” She got up from her chair and leaned forward, her fingertips pressing down hard on the desk. “For the moment, as promised, we will help you in searching for whatever it is you’re looking for. However, if I discover that MI5 is involved in any activity which undermines the security of the United Kingdom, I will ensure that you and your army of sunglasses-wearing arseholes are chased off the White Cliffs of Dover and into the bloody sea. Is that clear?”
“I’ve had enough of your attitude, I am…”
She ignored him and walked out from behind the desk towards the door. “You will have full cooperation, Mr. Kane. But do not underestimate me. My only concern is the security of this country. If our interests align with yours and they usually do, then we will work together as we have done for many years. But if I find one of your men accessing an MI5 computer and pushing my operative aside at his own desk, I will personally cut his fucking hands off. Do I make myself absolutely clear?”
“Yeah, yeah, just… Trust us. We need you on this.”
“Then we shall do our best.” She held open the door.
Kane made to reply, then marched out of the room.
A moment later, Madame Raymonde approached her desk. “What a detestable man. I do hope something very unpleasant happens to him. Be very careful, my dear.”
Purley dropped down in the chair and covered her face with her hands.
Chapter 8
Shoppers weaved around them as Kirsty stood close to Montrose and pulled the phone from her bag. “It’s Zac.” She plugged in the earphones and handed him an earpiece.
Her hair brushed his cheek as she leaned in. He felt his own phone buzz in his pocket. Static came through the earphone and Kirsty checked the encryption setting on her iPhone. He slipped out his phone and glanced at the text message.
Montrose, we need to talk – Kane.
How did he…? Hey, they have rooms of computers and control of the whole comms network in London. It was only a matter of time. Yeah and easy if your phone is switched on. I might as well be carrying a tracking device. He turned it off.
Zac’s voice came over the earpiece. “We need to talk to Pilgrim. This shit just got real.”
Kirsty leaned in closer. “What is it? Tell me, the line is secure.”
“Kirsty, the freaking satellite is Soviet military issue. It’s Cold War. And it’s crammed with bombs.”
What the fuck?
“Bombs?” Kirsty looked up at Montrose and her cheek brushed his chin.
“Yeah,” said Zac, “I can’t work it all out, but I can see the technical plans and the outside of the sat is loaded with explosive devices, with their own trajectory motors. But it doesn’t make sense. They could never be used to attack targets on the ground. It’s three hundred miles up in the air. Anything it launched to earth would burn up on re-entry.”
Montrose tried to picture it in his head. “What about fast jets? Or spy planes?”
“Not unless they were old SR-1 Bluebirds. And they took one of those down with a surface to air missile. They didn’t need a satellite for that. No, it’s totally weird. Bluebirds never flew that high. Oh, fuck. I can see it. I know what this is. Man, if you could have a steampunk satellite, this crazy shit is it.”
“What do you see?”
“The Red Star. Oh, man, I can’t believe this actually exists. This is totally legendary. This is like the holy grail of satellite geeks.”
Montrose leaned in closer. “Zac, what the hell is the Red Star?”
“It’s an MKV. A Multiple Kill Vehicle.”
“A what? It’s a thousand miles up in the air.”
“This is ASAT. Anti Satellite Weapons. This is the space race no-one talks about. Couple of years ago an old US military satellite blew itself to bits. The Pentagon made some excuse about a mystery temperature spike and that it was old kit. But what they really thought was that the Russians had got another Red Star. Things have been pretty nervous since then.”
“You reckon it was the Russians?”
“It’s possible. Or the Chinese. They took out one of their own satellites with a missile. Totally stupid idea which covered the place in space junk. The Space Station spends half its time dodging all the crap flying around up there. And when the US found out what the Chinese were doing they built a top secret Satellite Warfare center in Dahlgren, Virginia. Let’s just say I’ve got some old friends there.”
“The Chinese ain’t that crazy, they’re too busy making money.”
“Maybe, but the Red Star isn’t the Ruskies’ first attempt. They’ve been trying to design an attack satellite since Sputnik. They built a primitive version of Red Star in the seventies, called ISTRIBETEL, shooting out bombs all over the place. But it had one fatal flaw.”
“What?”
“It was shit. They cancelled the program in 1982. So that’s why they designed the Red Star. But since three years ago they’ve got a new system and a whole new military division called KRET. The Radio-Technology Group. They’ve stopped trying to blow things up, now they’re just going to take them out by jamming all the systems using radio.”
“Would that work?”
“Yeah, maybe. The word is they’re ready to test it, but they’ve been saying t
hat for a while. I mean, someone starts that kinda shit and it’s war.”
“You reckon they’ll do it?”
“Man, knowing the Russians, if they say they’re ready to test, that means it doesn’t work and it’s a total bluff. I mean if it did, they’d keep it secret, right? They can’t even build a cruise missile without it going walkabout in someone else’s country.”
“Maybe,” said Kirsty, “but that’s Crazy Ivan. You never know with those guys.”
Montrose gripped the iPhone in his pocket. Yeah and you never know with our guys.
“Hey, Kirsty,” said Zac, “we really need to talk to Mr. Pilgrim. I got a feeling the shit is about to hit the fan.”
Kirsty checked the iPhone. “I’ll try to patch him in.”
Montrose could hear beeping on the line as Kirsty tapped the screen. “Zac?” he said.
“Hey, how you doing?”
“What do you know about Madame Raymonde? The old French lady in Soho?”
“Huh. I checked. She’s some dude.”
Probably the first time she’s been called a dude. “Yeah? I need to know if we can trust her. Tell me what you’ve got.”
“Born in Normandy, France, year unknown. Ex-Special Operations Executive during World War II. She was sixteen years old when she gained a reputation for guerrilla warfare and assassination. She was captured and tortured by the Gestapo but escaped. And she was also nearly killed by MI6 in Normandy over a turf war with SOE. They say Churchill saved her. And she was awarded the Soviet Bronze Star. Nobody knows why. The rest, well, I reckon that’s still buried.”
And if the CIA get their hands on her and Pilgrim, they’ll be through both of them and his BlackBerry in minutes.
“There’s no answer from Pilgrim,” said Kirsty.
