‘What do you mean?’ Sokolov said, looking up sharply.
‘I mean that since glasnost the Americans have been very reluctant to carry out any overt intelligence-gathering operations against us. They are very sensitive to world opinion, and do not wish to be seen in an aggressive light. So why would they risk flying their spy-plane across the tundra now, in broad daylight? Of course, they would have been able to detect the last weapon test, but we have been exploding devices for the past year or so.’
‘Yes, Nicolai, but they were underground tests. This was the first above-ground test.’
‘The first and the last,’ Modin said, nodding agreement. ‘It is unfortunate that we had to have an above-ground detonation at all, and it wasn’t even a test of the weapon, just a confirmation that the triggering mechanism was functioning correctly. But even so, why would the Americans risk the flight?’
Sokolov took another sip of coffee, and then looked across at Modin. ‘Do you have a theory, old friend?’ he asked, finally.
‘It seems to me,’ Modin replied, ‘that there are only two possibilities. The first is that the Americans are a lot smarter than we thought, and have deduced the nature of the weapon from the recordings of their seismographic devices.’
‘I doubt that,’ Sokolov said.
‘So do I.’
‘Of course,’ Sokolov added thoughtfully, ‘the flight could simply have been a precautionary measure. They would obviously be aware from their seismic records that the weapon does not have the usual characteristics of a strategic fission or fusion weapon, and they might have decided that the only course open to them was to use the spy-plane.’
‘Agreed,’ Modin said, ‘but in the current political climate it seems unlikely.’
‘Unlikely, but it is possible, yes?’ Modin nodded again, almost reluctantly. ‘You said there were two possibilities, Nicolai,’ Sokolov went on. ‘What is the second?’
Modin lowered his eyes. ‘I do not like this, Grigori, but I can see only one other explanation: someone told them about the project. Someone here, or in the GRU.’
‘Are you serious?’ Sokolov asked. ‘Are you really suggesting that there is a predatel – a traitor – here?’
‘Yes,’ said Modin. ‘In fact, Minister Trushenko and I have already discussed this, and we both agree that this is the most probable conclusion, based upon the available evidence.’
Sokolov looked across the table and uttered a single word. ‘Who?’
‘If I knew that, Grigori, I would sleep tonight. This has been the highest-classified project in the country for the last four years. Until a year ago, only Minister Trushenko, General Bykov and I knew all the details – the technicians have obviously known they have been working on nuclear weapons, but not how the weapons were to be used.’ He put his coffee cup down and waved his arm in sudden anger. ‘This project was so secret that it wasn’t even given a name until this year, because if you name something, you acknowledge its existence.’
‘And now, Nicolai? How many people know about it now?’
‘More than twenty. All with the highest possible security clearances, and most of them known personally to me – and to you. I cannot even begin to suspect any of them.’
Modin picked up his coffee cup, glanced into it and stood up. He looked down enquiringly at Sokolov, who shook his head. Modin walked slowly over to the coffee pot and refilled his cup, then returned to the chair, sitting with a weary sigh. ‘The trouble is that every one of them needed to know about the project, now that it is approaching completion. I personally – personally, you understand – approved each one and, naturally, I checked all their records. I even,’ he added softly, ‘checked your record, old friend.’
Sokolov nodded. ‘So you should, Nicolai, so you should. With a matter of this importance no one can be considered to be above suspicion. What now? What will you do?’
Modin sipped his coffee and put the cup on the table, then looked keenly at Sokolov. ‘Two things. first, a job for you. It will be distasteful to you, but it must be done. I want you to identify the treacherous bastard who has told the Americans what we are doing.’
‘If he exists,’ Sokolov said quietly.
‘Oh, he exists, Grigori, the traitor exists. Of that I have no doubt. No doubt at all.’
Sokolov looked up, a frown creasing his brow. ‘Are you sure I should do this, Nicolai? It is not really my field.’
Modin smiled at him. ‘I know that,’ he said, ‘but I have to have someone I can trust, trust totally, to carry out the investigation. And he has to be someone who already knows about the project. If I call in the security staff, they will have to be told at least the broad outline of Podstava, and that will multiply the number of people with knowledge of it to an unacceptable level. No, Grigori. Whoever investigates this has to be someone already indoctrinated, but whose loyalty is above suspicion. You are the best – in fact, you are the only – candidate.’
Sokolov nodded. ‘I thank you for your trust, Nicolai. And what is the second thing?’
Modin looked grave. ‘This has not been my decision – Minister Trushenko himself has directed my actions. He believes we cannot afford to wait for all the weapons to be placed piecemeal using covert means, so the last weapon is to be delivered intact, despite the risks.’
Sokolov stared at Modin. ‘How?’ he asked.
‘It will be delivered by lorry, as Diplomatic Baggage, but protected by Spetsnaz troopers.’
‘Remind me,’ Sokolov said. ‘Where is this last weapon to be positioned?’
‘London,’ Nicolai Modin said. ‘It’s going to London.’
Sheremetievo Airport, Moscow
It took them just over twenty minutes to get clear of central Moscow and head out to the north-west on the M9 motorway, but that still left plenty of time. At Sheremetievo, Richter retrieved his suitcase from the Rover’s boot, shook Erroll’s hand and walked away. Erroll looked thoughtfully at his retreating back for a moment, then turned back towards the car. ‘Insurance investigator my arse,’ he muttered. ‘OK, George, let’s go.’
The black ZIL pulled up about fifty yards behind the Embassy Rover, and the three men inside watched intently as Richter approached the terminal building. As he passed through the doors, the man in the back seat opened the car door and stepped out. He pulled his overcoat tight around him, then walked across and followed Richter. He had barely entered the terminal before he heard the voice in his earpiece. He cocked his head as if to hear the words better, then smiled slightly and quickened his pace, following Richter deeper into the building.
The British Airways’ check-in desk was already open, so Richter produced his ticket and passport and handed over his small suitcase. A professional is always aware of what’s happening around him, and Richter was nothing if not professional. As he turned away from the counter, he casually scanned the crowd, looking for anything or anyone out of place, and one pair of hard grey eyes met and held his for just a moment longer than they should have.
Richter ignored the fleeting contact and walked away towards the cafeteria. Eight minutes later, sitting at a corner table and with a coffee and a paperback novel in front of him, he spotted the same man again, standing just beyond the cafeteria. Once can be happenstance and twice may be coincidence, but in Richter’s trade coincidences didn’t often happen. Usually it meant enemy action.
He finished his coffee, put the novel in his briefcase, stood up and walked into one of the shops. He wandered the aisles and selected a small bottle of the cheapest Scotch he could find. It wasn’t a brand he recognized but that didn’t matter because he had no intention of drinking it. He put the bottle in his briefcase then left the shop and crossed to the toilets. The rest-room was deserted, and Richter acted quickly. He ran to the stall furthest from the door and placed his briefcase on the seat, then closed all the stall doors. He entered the fourth stall, pushed the door closed behind him and climbed onto the seat. Then he waited.
Seconds later, he
heard the noise of the restroom door opening, followed by heavy footsteps. The man stopped just inside the room and Richter knew he was looking at the closed stall doors, and was probably down on his knees peering underneath them. After that, the Russian had only one option, and five seconds later he took it.
Richter heard the crash as the first stall door smashed open, then the second and the third. Timing is everything. To kick down a door, the attacker must obviously be standing on only one leg, and a man on one leg is by any definition unbalanced. In the split second before the Russian’s right foot connected with the lavatory door, Richter stepped off the seat, pulled the door open and simultaneously launched himself forward, left arm reaching downwards.
The kick that hadn’t connected had spun the Russian round on his left leg. Richter’s hand hooked neatly under the Russian’s right calf and he pulled up and backwards, a basic Aikido move that used the opponent’s own momentum against him. The Russian lurched sideways, toppled against the side of the lavatory stall and then fell heavily, legs splayed wide apart. As the man hit the floor, Richter kicked sideways with his left foot, catching the Russian’s right arm at the wrist, sending the small black automatic pistol spinning under the wall of the adjacent stall. Then he smashed his fist, hard, into the left side of the Russian’s neck, and then it was all over.
Richter pulled the unconscious Russian out of the stall and propped his body against the restroom wall. He reached into the man’s inside jacket pocket and extracted a black leather wallet, which he opened. One of the items inside caused him to nod in satisfaction. He replaced the wallet, retrieved his briefcase and extracted the bottle of scotch. Richter cracked open the top, poured the liquor liberally over the front of the Russian’s jacket, then placed the bottle by the unconscious man’s right hand.
The pistol was a Russian 5.45mm PSM, light and easily concealed. Richter took a handkerchief out of his pocket, picked up the pistol and dropped it into the paper towel waste bin beside the row of sinks. He’d just picked up his briefcase when the restroom door opened and a man walked in. He looked at Richter, then at the figure slumped against the wall.
‘Another drunk,’ Richter said, in colloquial Russian, walking towards the door.
The man sniffed, then nodded. ‘Sometimes you can’t walk round Red Square without tripping over them,’ he replied.
Richter nodded agreement, opened the restroom door and headed for the departure gate.
Chapter Five
Friday
Stepney, London
The telephone woke Richter at seven forty. ‘Yes?’ he muttered.
‘Go secure, please.’
‘Right,’ Richter said, reaching for the telephone base unit and pressing the button. To anyone listening in, it would sound as if both had disconnected.
‘Thomas, Duty Officer. How did it go?’
‘Fairly well,’ Richter said. ‘The First Secretary’s a bit of a prick, but the Fourth Under-Secretary, a chap named Erroll, is pretty switched on. The car was a mess, and so was the body. The head was crushed beyond recognition, and the hands and arms were badly burnt. The Embassy identified the body by documentation only.’ Richter paused and yawned. The voice in the earpiece squawked at him. ‘What?’
‘I said, was there was any doubt about the identity of the body?’
‘No, none at all.’
‘Poor old Newman. A pretty futile way to go. He was—’
‘Not really,’ Richter interrupted. ‘You misunderstood me. The identification was conclusive, but only because the body definitely wasn’t Newman.’
‘What?’ Thomas said. ‘Are you sure?’
‘I wouldn’t say it if I wasn’t certain.’
There was a short pause, the faint sound of background voices, and then the phone crackled again. ‘Simpson wants to see you – now. I’ll send a car.’
‘Give me an hour,’ Richter replied. ‘I’m still in bed.’
‘Best you get up quickly, then,’ Thomas said, his grin apparent even on the scrambled line, ‘because the car will be outside your building in about twenty minutes. Come straight up to the Director’s office when you get here.’
Richter unscrambled, listened for the dialling tone and replaced the receiver. He glanced at his watch – almost seven fifty – then looked round the bedroom. As usual, it looked as if a bomb had hit it, the bed having apparently been the focal point of the explosion. Richter dragged the sheets and blankets into some sort of order, made a mental note to buy a duvet, and soon, and headed for the bathroom.
ulitsa Novyj Arbat, Moscow
The apartment at the western end of ulitsa Novyj Arbat was small by Western standards, with a floor area of barely one hundred square metres, but for Moscow it was considered vast, particularly for a single occupant. Most Muscovite families thought themselves lucky if they lived in three- or four-roomed flats half that size. Russians are used to cramped living conditions, parents and children routinely sharing bedrooms, bathrooms and kitchens.
Like most of the other larger properties in this district of Moscow, the apartment was owned by the Russian government and had been allocated to the Ministry of Industrial Production. The Ministry, in turn, had allocated the apartment as the Moscow residence of the Minister himself. Dmitri Stepanovich Trushenko sat comfortably in a leather armchair, his long legs stretched out towards the fireplace, where coals and logs were already arranged. His manservant would light the fire early in the evening, before preparing and serving the Minister’s dinner. Trushenko was tall and slim, with fair skin and blond hair, and a friendly and somewhat vacant smile that concealed an excellent brain. He looked much younger than his fifty-six years, and his faintly academic air sometimes misled opponents into underestimating his cunning and his keen instinct for political and personal survival.
On the low table beside Trushenko were two slim and highly classified files, neither of which had reached him in his official ministerial capacity. One was the report of the interrogation of the Englishman in the Lubyanka, including the audio transcript and the conclusions of the interrogator. This had been accompanied by an entirely unmarked video tape, which Trushenko had already watched twice with a keen personal pleasure.
The second file had originated in the Russian Ministry of Defence and contained a faxed report prepared by the colonel in charge of the Voyska IA-PVO Unit in the Arkhangel’sk Military District, which detailed the over-flight of the Confederation of Independent States by the American spy-plane the day before. The report contained comparatively brief details of the route the Blackbird had taken, but glowing accounts of the prompt and efficient actions taken by PVO officers which, the report stated, had certainly prevented the American aircraft from following its intended surveillance route.
The colonel’s report also stated that he believed the spy-plane had been damaged, possibly badly, during its encounters with the Russian interceptors, and suggested that the aircraft had probably not succeeded in reaching safety in the West. Blame for the escape of the spy-plane from Russian airspace was directed squarely at the interceptor pilots for their failure to execute the orders issued by the PVO. The report concluded with a note of the proposed disciplinary action that was to be taken against them.
It was this file which Trushenko had just finished reading, with mounting concern. As soon as he had seen the route details, he knew that the conclusions were rubbish, and that the Americans had photographed exactly what they had wanted to photograph. Privately, he was surprised that any of the interceptors had got close enough to the American aircraft to engage it, far less damage it, and he dismissed out of hand the implied suggestion that the Blackbird had crashed into the North Sea. Obviously, the Americans had found out something about the operation, and had flown their spy-plane to investigate the weapon test site.
Trushenko stood up abruptly and walked to the large lounge windows, which offered an excellent view to the south-west down a long stretch of the river Moskva, and looked out, his hands on his hips. He sto
od there for several minutes, looking at, but not seeing, the river traffic, then he turned and walked back to his armchair. He reached over and poured a glass of vodka from the bottle of Stolichnaya on the table beside him, and drank it slowly.
When he had finished, Trushenko put the glass down and got up, walked across to a framed Monet print on the wall beside the fireplace and pulled on the left side of the frame. The picture swung away from the wall to reveal the door of a very expensive and secure safe of Swiss manufacture, one of the finest that money could buy. He entered a ten-number combination into the digital keypad and pressed a button. That didn’t open the safe, merely released a section of the armoured door to reveal the keyhole.
Trushenko unfastened the top two buttons of his shirt and extracted a slim steel key on a chain that he invariably wore around his neck. He inserted the key in the lock and turned it twice, then grasped the recessed handle on the safe door and opened it. Inside were a dozen or so video tapes plus three bulky files. Trushenko removed the top file and took it back to his chair. The name on the file cover was ‘Podstava’, and Trushenko already knew the contents almost by heart.
Hammersmith, London
It was eight forty when Richter got out of the lift on the seventh floor, knocked on the dark green door with the word ‘Director’ inscribed in faded gold leaf, and walked in. Richard Simpson – the Foreign Operations Director – was waiting for him, looking pointedly at his watch. ‘You’re late,’ he said, somewhat sourly.
‘I know,’ Richter replied. ‘Traffic,’ he added. He put his briefcase on the floor and sat down in the armchair in front of the desk.
‘I didn’t say you could sit,’ Simpson snapped.
‘That’s true.’
So far, the interview was going more or less as usual. Simpson was small, about five eight, with a pink and freshly scrubbed look about him. He’d headed the Foreign Operations Executive for six years, which was four years longer than Richter had been employed there, and throughout that period he’d almost never been known to praise anyone or anything.
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