The stop at the Basecamp Hotel to collect his stuff took only a few minutes, and the taxi dropped them at the airport with about half an hour in hand, which was more than either of them had expected. She had to pay a supplement because of the additional bags, and then she prepared and sent the email message that the governor had requested, giving details of the German passports the Russians were using.
Then she spent some of the last of her euros on buying herself and Mason a stiff drink each. They both felt they deserved it.
Chapter 26
Friday
RV Thomas G Thompson, at sea
To Richter, it sounded like nothing more than the usual hype.
All defectors, no matter what their motives or nationality, invariably talked up their product, the classified information they were bringing out with them as their dowry, so that their new host country would hopefully feel more inclined to provide them with the kind of standard of living and income support that they felt they deserved for betraying their homeland. It was pretty much a standard ploy, and while Richter absolutely understood exactly why they did it, that didn’t mean he had to believe it. Just occasionally, a defector did manage to produce information that more or less matched his or her claims, but it was quite rare.
And the reality of the situation was that the intelligence services of most countries didn’t particularly want defectors anyway, because their usefulness as a continuing source of information ended – by definition – the moment that they fled. And there were economic problems too: setting someone up with a new identity, providing protection for as long as it was deemed to be necessary, finding them a house and getting them a job and, if necessary, funding an income for them for life, was all very expensive. What they really wanted were agents in place, people who had access to classified information that they were prepared to pass on to another country whilst remaining in post. People like that were infinitely more valuable as an information source and, perhaps even more importantly, could be asked specific questions or be asked to covertly research certain topics to clarify matters of concern.
But what made Pavlov’s information – about which Richter knew nothing – potentially more valuable than might be expected were the facts that a three-man CIA team had been sent out into the field to bring him home; that a senior CIA officer had been tortured to death to try to make him reveal information about the defector, and that a six-man Russian recovery team had been sent after Pavlov, clearly with instructions to execute him when they found him. None of which really made much sense if the man genuinely was just a young GRU trooper, because of the low access level that he would have had.
‘That’s a hell of a claim to be making, my young Russian friend,’ Barber said, ‘so I sure hope you’ve got something to back it up.’
‘I have,’ Pavlov replied, holding up the three memory sticks he had previously shown Richter. ‘I have copied all of the recordings onto these three thumb drives, and I still have the original data cards as well.’
He passed one of the sticks to each man, but Barber shook his head.
‘No point in me having one,’ he said, ‘because I hardly speak any Russian. When we get you to the States, you’ll be properly debriefed on all the material you’ve brought out.’
Pavlov shook his head decisively.
‘That will be too late,’ he insisted. ‘If you want to stop it, you have to listen now.’
‘Stop what?’ Richter asked.
‘The plan. The cauldron.’ Pavlov was beginning to sound agitated.
‘Hang on,’ Richter raised a calming hand. ‘We know nothing about you or what material you have on these memory sticks. We’re both intelligence officers—’ he indicated Barber ‘—so before we go any further, can you just tell us what you did back in Russia, and how you obtained these recordings. Then what we hear will make a lot more sense to us.’
‘Yes,’ Pavlov said. ‘Yes, of course. First, you need to know that Russia killed my mother and father. Not directly, but through indifference and incompetence, and I knew that I had no real future there. I joined the Glavnoye Razvedyvatel’noye Upravleniye because it seemed to offer some security, and it would give me a little power. It was lucky I did. Less than a month after I’d buried my father, two local officials came to the door of my apartment, the place where I’d lived all my life, to tell me they were going to take it away from me. They said it was too big for just one person because it had a separate bedroom, and wasn’t what you would call a studio apartment. I answered the door to them in my GRU uniform. That was not what they had expected, and I did my best to look intimidating. I told them my commanding officer had approved my occupation of the apartment due to the important duties I was carrying out, and that if they wished to house a family in it they would need to obtain his written permission to evict me. All complete nonsense, of course, but the intelligence organs of Russia still have a lot of power and influence, and somehow I managed to convince them. They went away and I’ve not seen them since.’
‘What were your duties?’ Richter asked. ‘Your real duties, I mean, not whatever you told those two officials?’
‘I was a guard, that’s all. I was stationed at the entrance to various GRU buildings, or I manned a gate somewhere, or occasionally I had to accompany a senior officer in a car as a bodyguard, that kind of thing. And I know what you’re thinking. A humble guard would never be in a position to gain access to any information that would be of the slightest interest to the West.’
Barber shook his head, though that had been precisely what he had been thinking.
‘Then everything changed. I was told I was to undergo a further, deeper security check, and at first I thought somebody had informed on me, made up some story about me doing something illegal, though I knew I hadn’t. But I was wrong. The check was to ensure that I was suitable to act as a guard and a caretaker, I suppose you could call it, and become part of the rotating staff of a dacha just outside Moscow.
‘It didn’t seem like much of a big deal at first. I was teamed up with another GRU trooper, and we just had to remain at the dacha for our watch, make sure no unauthorized persons tried to get in, and then hand over to two fresh guards from the Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki.’
‘The SVR?’ Richter interrupted. ‘Are you sure?’
As soon as the words left his mouth, he realized what a stupid question it was.
Pavlov smiled slightly.
‘I do know about Russia and Russian organizations, Mr Richter,’ he said. ‘The guards were drawn from the ranks of both the SVR and the GRU because what was happening in the dacha was some kind of joint project. But for me it was just another job, easier and more comfortable than most I’d had before, and I just did what I was told to do, went home and forgot about it.’
‘I’m guessing something changed,’ Barber said.
‘Exactly. The first three or four watches I did, the only person I saw was my fellow guard, but the next time there was a meeting at the dacha while I was there. We had to do extra preparations, like organising tea and coffee and refreshments, and then carry out a scan of the meeting room – it was an old library in the middle of the house, and the door was always kept locked – to ensure there were no bugs in it, switch on and check that the metal detector was working and so on. Nothing particularly unusual, really, but what was unusual were the people who turned up for the meeting. Each one arrived in a limousine with blacked-out windows, and we had to open the outer solid metal gates to let the car through, then close them again before the men inside the car would get out. They were obviously desperate not to be seen arriving at or leaving the dacha.
‘It was their identities that really surprised me. The military people were all in uniform, and I recognized two very senior generals from the photographs shown in various GRU buildings, those kind of "know your senior officers" displays. I couldn’t recognize the two SVR officers there, obviously, but from their rank badges they were also generals, and there were also Army, Navy and Ai
r Force senior officers, and about half a dozen men wearing civilian clothes. I can’t be absolutely certain, but I think one of them was a government minister. I know I don’t have that much experience, but I’ve never heard of a meeting involving so many different people from so many different parts of the Russian military and government.
‘And that’s when I realized I might have found a way to get out of Russia for good, and make a bit of money at the same time, and I confess that at that stage I simply became a mercenary traitor, willing to sell out my country for a new life in America and some money in the bank. I approached an American in Moscow, and eventually I was given a small digital recorder and instructions, and I began taping the meetings. Before each one, we were always busy, and so I normally volunteered to run the scan in the library, because that job was boring and repetitive, and that gave me the chance to position my recorder and switch it on while my colleague prepared drinks and so on.’
‘You said you started out as a mercenary traitor,’ Richter said. ‘Did something happen to change your mind?’
Pavlov nodded vigorously.
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘I listened to the recordings, but I had no idea what they were talking about most of the time, except that it involves some kind of a new weapon, an unusual kind of delivery system, and precise targeting, because I heard discussions about these subjects at different times. I never understood what the overall plan was, what the new weapon was supposed to be targeting, until right at the end, when I found out about this so-called "cauldron" plan. And that’s when I asked the American who was dealing with me to get me out, with the information, because if what they were planning actually happened, then I knew that the world would change forever, and not for the better. The loss of life would be catastrophic. But then, when I was getting ready to tape the next meeting, which would probably have been the last one because I needed to get out of Russia with the information, my colleague spotted what I was doing, and I had no option but to kill him and run. If I hadn’t, he would have killed me. And that’s how I ended up in Longyearbyen.’
Before Richter could reply, his mobile phone rang. He glanced at the screen, but the call was dropped immediately.
‘That was Carole-Anne,’ he said, ‘but I’ve got almost no signal strength at the moment. We’re obviously almost out of range of the mobile phone mast.’
About a minute later a text arrived, and he read it quickly.
‘Good news,’ he said. ‘Carole-Anne and John have talked their way out of the mess we left, and they’ll be catching the afternoon flight to Tromsø.’
‘Excellent,’ Barber said.
Richter put the phone down on the table in front of him, but almost immediately it rang again.
‘Now it’s Simpson, my boss, and I’ve got a full strength signal. It must be going through the ship’s satellite communication system.’
‘That’ll be costing you money, then,’ Barber said.
‘Lucky I’m not paying the bill,’ Richter replied, answering the call.
‘I’ve been trying to ring you for sodding ages,’ Simpson said. ‘I haven’t got you up, have I? Not doing interesting, were you?’ Simpson added, sarcasm dripping from every syllable.
‘No, I’m awake, thank you, and at the moment on board a ship, which is probably why you couldn’t get through.’
‘What the bloody hell are you doing on board a ship? You were supposed to be observing the antics of a group of CIA agents from a distance.’
‘We’ve moved a long way on from there,’ Richter said. ‘You’ll hear about it later, but the short version is we rescued a Russian defector from the clutches of a couple of hitmen, also Russian, neither of whom survived the encounter.’
‘I did tell you not to kill anybody,’ Simpson pointed out.
‘I didn’t. That was down to the CIA, and a very professional job they made of it, too. Anyway, right now I’m sitting looking at the defector and learning a little bit more about what happened, along with one of the CIA agents.’
‘Not the totty, then?’
‘No. And I’m on a ship because that seemed to be the safest way of getting the defector away from Svalbard and the murderous attentions of four other surviving Russian hitmen. All in all, it’s been quite a busy day. Anyway, how can I help you?’
‘I’m not entirely sure that you can. Briefly, your old pal Viktor Bykov has emerged from the woodwork once again. He sent us a piece of somewhat cryptic text using your ECS, and he used the priority FRANTIC.’
‘Shit,’ Richter said. ‘I don’t like the sound of that. What does the message say?’
‘It’s really just a collection of words, not a proper message at all. Does the word kotel mean anything to you?’
‘If you’re talking about Jerusalem, of course it does. The Kotel is the Wailing Wall on the Temple Mount.’
‘We don’t think it’s anything to do with Jerusalem,’ Simpson said.
Richter suddenly became aware that Pavlov was staring at him with a curious intensity, and mouthing something.
‘Wait,’ he said into the microphone of his mobile, and leaned across towards Pavlov. ‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘You said kotel,’ Pavlov murmured. ‘That’s the Russian word for a cauldron. And it’s the name of the plan those men were discussing in the dacha. And it’s also the reason I ran to the West.’
‘Shit,’ Richter said again, turning his attention back to Simpson. ‘It looks like I’m hearing two sides of the same story here. Our tame defector has just told me that there’s some nasty little plan the Russians have cooked up, and the name they’ve given it is kotel.’
‘I don’t know how you do it, Richter. Everywhere you go, trouble seems to follow. Right, with the brief collection of hints that Bykov has sent, and with whatever goodies your defector can come up with, we need to find out exactly what this kotel thing is and what we’re going to do about it. I’ll text you Bykov’s message as soon as we’ve finished this call. Keep your phone on at all times, obviously, and you’d better give me the details of the ship you’re on just in case I can’t get through to you on your mobile.’
‘It’s an American research vessel,’ Richter said, ‘named the Thomas G Thompson.’ He glanced around the mess, looking for any further information. There was a cork board mounted on the bulkhead, and he got up and walked across to it. As he’d hoped, one of the permanent exhibits was a printed page of ship information. ‘You should also note this down,’ he said. ‘The ship’s callsign is KTDQ, that’s Kilo, Tango, Delta, Quebec.’
‘Got it. How soon can you get off it and climb into an aircraft to return to civilization?’
‘Not any time soon,’ Richter replied. ‘Going back to Svalbard is not a good idea with four armed and very angry Russian hitmen on the loose up there looking for us, and there are no other airfields within about five hundred miles. We’re heading south at the moment, and our next stop will probably have to be somewhere like Tromsø. We’ll get there in about forty-eight hours and I can fly back to Britain from there. But where I am doesn’t matter right now. Unless I’ve got it wrong, what we’re looking at at the moment are a bunch of puzzle parts, and what we have to do is assemble the complete picture. That’s going to take some time, and I can do that just as well sitting here in this ship, with my new best friend Dmitri Pavlov helping, as I can sitting in London or anywhere else.’
‘If you say so,’ Simpson sounded a long way from being convinced. ‘As I said, I’ll send you the list that Bykov produced, and you can see if you can make any sense of it, because we can’t. Keep in touch, and the moment you find out anything let me be the first to know.’
‘Got it,’ Richter said, and ended the call.
He walked back over to the table where Pavlov and Barber were still sitting and resumed his seat. He stared levelly at the Russian and nodded encouragement.
‘It could just be that you’re the right man in the right place at the right time, Dmitri,’ he said. ‘The name kotel ha
s just been flagged up for a really high priority investigation from an entirely different source, so we absolutely need every scrap of information that you can provide us about what happened in that dacha, anything else you may have heard, any remarks between any of the people involved, anything like that.
‘And most importantly of all, we need – or rather I need, because Steve doesn’t have the language – to listen to every recording you made of what went on in that closed room in the middle of the dacha.’
Chapter 27
Friday
MV Semyon Timoshenko, at sea
As well as running two exercises during daylight hours, assuming that neither other ships nor any aircraft were painting on the radar, the captain had also approved running the same exercise after dark, which had the added bonus that, because another vessel would have to get very close to the Russian ship in order to observe anything unusual on the deck among the containers, the crew were able to complete the exercise in full, including removing the locking pins, swinging the double container around so that the front of the device pointed over the side of the ship, in the correct firing position.
Almost inevitably, this threw up one or two small glitches. One of the locking pins, for example, simply refused to line up with both of the second pair of holes once the container had been rotated. Obviously something had shifted or warped somewhere, so new holes were cut for that pin and the exercise run again to ensure that this time the line-up was correct. And rotating the upper container also took more manual effort than had been anticipated, possibly because the grease-filled bearing in the centre had been exposed to the harsh weather conditions as they came around the North Cape of Norway, with waves breaking over a large part of the container load; the probability was that water had got inside the bearing, making the grease less effective as a lubricant. But it was still movable, which was all that mattered.
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