Arkenko was silent for a moment, then he grasped his friend’s hand tightly. ‘This will work, won’t it, Dmitri?’ he asked.
Trushenko nodded. ‘We haven’t come this far to fail. The Americans can do nothing, and once the last phase is complete we will be able to walk into Europe as if we owned it.’
Hammersmith, London
Amongst the other junk that had accumulated in the bottom non-lockable drawer of Richter’s desk was a dog-eared atlas. It was an elderly and somewhat inaccurate document when it came to statistics, populations and political systems, but it served its purpose well enough. After a brief search Richter found it and dusted off the cover. A rapid flick-through revealed the bulging mass of western Russia. Richter opened the pink file Simpson had given him, and noted down the start and stop points of the Blackbird’s surveillance run.
He scanned the north coast and soon pinpointed Vorkuta, then he found Shenkursk to the south of Arkhangel’sk. With the start and stop positions identified, Richter took a pencil and ruler and drew a straight line between the two. Then he sat and stared at the map.
After a couple of minutes, Richter realized that either he was missing something or he’d drawn the line across the wrong bit, so he re-checked the data from the file, this time using the latitude and longitude figures given. The first line had been a little out, but not enough to make any significant difference. That didn’t make sense, so he rang the Registry and got them to send up the Basic Intelligence Digest (CIS), a remarkably useful document that listed details of every known military or quasi-military installation in the Confederation of Independent States, including those under construction, with maps showing their locations.
When the courier had departed, Richter checked the list attached to the front cover, and noted that the last insertion had been made a matter of ten days previously. Then he opened it up at the map section and carefully compared it with the line he had drawn in the atlas. Then he compared it again.
Ten minutes later, Richter rang for the duty courier and returned the BID (CIS) to the Registry. He sat for a few minutes, looking through the SR–71A file, and staring at the atlas. Then he rang Simpson.
‘Yes?’
‘Richter. I’m coming up.’
‘What for? Have you found something?’
Richter paused. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said. Then he put the receiver down and headed for the stairs.
That Simpson was busy Richter inferred from the pile of pink files in front of him, obscuring his view of the cactus forest. Richter sat down and waited for him to finish the sentence he was writing. When the sentence looked like turning into a paragraph he put the atlas and file down on the floor. ‘I hope I’m not disturbing you,’ he said.
‘You’re not,’ Simpson said, continuing to write. He finished the note, closed the file, initialled the front cover and tossed it into his ‘Out’ tray. Then he looked at Richter. ‘I’m busy,’ he said, ‘so make it snappy.’
Richter moved three pink files to one side and force-marched the front rank of cacti two paces backwards. Into the space vacated he placed the atlas, open at the appropriate page.
‘This line,’ he said, ‘is the route followed by the Blackbird. According to the USAFE, anyway.’
Simpson looked up sharply. ‘Why do you say that? Do you think it isn’t?’
‘I’m not sure. I can’t think why they would try and fob us off with a false route structure – JARIC would bowl that out as soon as they got a decent look at the films. But, assuming for the moment that the route is correct, I don’t see why the Americans risked incurring the wrath of Moscow by over-flying that bit of Mother Russia.’
‘Explain.’
‘There’s nothing up there,’ Richter said. ‘It’s just hills and tundra, with a few small towns within camera range, but nothing – assuming that the Basic Intelligence Digest is more or less correct, and it usually is – that is of any military significance whatsoever. And I don’t think it’s a question of risking the wrath of the Russians. There are details in the route notes of a mid-course acceleration to dash speed, and five gets you ten they didn’t do that just to watch the numbers move on the Mach meter. They were being chased by something.’
‘Something that didn’t catch them.’
‘No, but I’m not too surprised at that. The Blackbird was not exactly notorious for hanging about, and the crews weren’t fresh out of flying school either. The only things the Russians have got that can get high enough and go fast enough to catch the ’bird are MiG–25s and MiG–31s, and neither of them can match the Blackbird for sustained high speed.’
Simpson sat silent for a few moments. ‘So?’
‘So I’m curious. As I see it, there are only two possible explanations, assuming that the USAFE Command hasn’t fallen off its collective trolley. First, the aircraft was hopelessly off-route, which I don’t believe.’ Richter paused. ‘What do you know about the Blackbird’s navigation kit?’
‘Nothing,’ Simpson replied, ‘but I assume it’s comprehensive.’
‘That’s one way of putting it. The Blackbird’s principal navigation tool is a computer that permanently tracks fifty-two stars and is accurate enough to guide the SR–71A to any target on earth with an error of under a thousand feet. The aircraft definitely wasn’t off-route.’
‘So what’s the alternative?’
‘The only other explanation is that, somewhere along that line, there’s an installation that the Americans have detected, but which in their infinite wisdom they haven’t seen fit to tell us about.’
Port of Odessa, Chernoye More (Black Sea)
The ten-thousand-ton coaster Anton Kirov had been built twenty years ago to run general cargo through the Mediterranean, and time did not seem to have been kind to her. The ship’s sides were streaked with rust, the superstructure was pitted and discoloured, and she wore an indefinable air of neglect. In most respects, the appearance of the Anton Kirov was an accurate reflection of her condition and usage. The exterior of the ship had been neglected – quite deliberately, because what the ship looked like had no effect upon the vessel’s efficiency. But the engines and equipment were a different matter.
The main engines and generators were serviced and overhauled frequently – usually well before the runtime interval specified by their manufacturers – and all the deck machinery, the winches, windlasses and cranes, were in proper working order. The rationale was simple. Efficient engines minimized the length of time the vessel was at sea and made for efficient passages, while the cranes and winches speeded the loading and unloading of cargo, resulting in a shorter turn-round time in port. That made the Anton Kirov more efficient, and hence more profitable to operate, than most of her contemporaries.
Unusually, the ship was still secured to a loading berth in Odessa’s outer harbour, although the stowage of all her manifested cargo had been completed that morning. All the crew were aboard, but their kitbags and suitcases were stacked neatly on the jetty, and the master, Captain Valeri Nikolaevich Bondarev of the Russian Merchant Marine, a short, stout man with a face reddened by years at sea, was irritably pacing the bridge, waiting.
It was nearly six in the evening before he sighted the grey coach approaching the outer harbour, and he immediately called the engine room and told the chief engineer to prepare to leave harbour. Then he descended to the deck, walked across to the harbour-side guard-rail and watched as the coach drew to a halt beside the ship.
The front and side doors of the vehicle opened and men began to file out. In front of him, his entire crew, with the exception of his chief engineer and the navigator, started walking down the gangway and on to the jetty. They picked up their bags and formed a line near the coach. This was one voyage they were not going to make.
A tall, thin-faced man with short-cropped black hair had been the first to get out of the coach, and stood watching the new arrivals preparing to board. He was wearing a grey civilian overcoat, but there was no mistaking his military bearing.
He noticed Bondarev on deck and strode briskly over to the ship, climbed the gangway and walked over to the captain. ‘Captain Bondarev?’ he asked, politely.
‘Yes,’ Bondarev snapped. ‘Who are you?’
The man noted the angry edge to Bondarev’s voice. ‘My name is not important, Captain,’ he said soothingly. ‘I’m very sorry for having to inconvenience you like this, but I have orders from the highest authority.’
Bondarev nodded. ‘Yes, yes, so have I. Just tell me one thing. Have any of your men actually sailed on a working vessel before?’
The tall man nodded. ‘Of course, captain. They are all experienced seamen – that’s why they were chosen for this mission. You will not have any crew problems on this voyage.’
‘I hope not,’ Bondarev snapped. ‘This will not be a pleasure cruise. I expect to be able to sail within the hour, so I suggest you get your men aboard as quickly as possible.’
Seven minutes later, the engine of the grey coach started and a few seconds afterwards the vehicle began moving slowly away from the Anton Kirov’s berth. On board, the new arrivals moved with practised economy and little conversation, rapidly stowing their personal gear and then moving to their assigned positions for leaving harbour.
Thirty-eight minutes after the coach had departed, the Anton Kirov slipped away from her berth and headed slowly due east out of Odessa harbour. Once clear of the coast, the ship began picking up speed as she turned south towards Istanbul and the Bosphorus.
Kutuzovskij prospekt, Moscow
Genady Arkenko was sitting at the dining table eating a simple evening meal of black bread and sausage when the alarm sounded on the short-wave radio receiver. He put down the bread, hurried into the small back room, turned off the alarm and put on the headphones.
Two minutes later he removed the headphones, re-set the alarm and walked back into the living room. He walked over to the telephone, consulted a typed list, pressed a speed-dial key combination and waited for the telephone to be answered.
‘Phase One is under way,’ Arkenko said simply, and then replaced the receiver.
In his apartment a little under a mile away, Dmitri Trushenko put down his telephone handset with a smile of satisfaction. Operation Podstava was running to plan. He walked across to the desk in the corner of the room, sat down, opened his laptop computer and switched it on.
Half an hour later he pressed the ‘Send’ button on his email client software, and despatched one line of encrypted text embedded in a three-page advertising message with an addressee list of almost one hundred. The message would apparently originate in Germany, and because of the six redirection sites it was programmed to visit would take several minutes to reach the only address that actually mattered – Hassan Abbas’ mailbox at ‘wanadoo.fr’.
Chapter Eight
Tuesday
Joint Air Reconnaissance Intelligence Centre, RAF Brampton, Huntingdon, Cambridgeshire
RAF Brampton is near Huntingdon and usually about an hour and a half from London. It took Richter over two and a half, due to the three sets of traffic-light-controlled roadworks he had to negotiate, and a major accident which had blocked the A1 completely and forced him to take a diversion. At least the time passed pleasantly enough in the Ford Granada Ghia that was all that had been left in the Pool when Richter had appeared at the Transport Officer’s door clutching his authorization chit. He had been expecting one of the usual small – and invariably old – Fords and Rovers which made up the bulk of the Pool vehicles, and which were used by the department because, as Simpson explained to anyone who would listen, they were cheap, reliable and invisible.
The Joint Air Reconnaissance Intelligence Centre is a long, low building of one and occasionally two storeys, designed with that singular lack of aesthetic appreciation that characterizes the work of the architects employed by the armed forces. At the main gate Richter was stopped by an armed sentry at the counter-weighted barrier, but a brief enquiry and a perusal of the Royal Navy officer’s identity card supplied by the Documents Section produced directions to the Number 2 Officers’ Mess Car Park.
Richter parked the Granada in the only vacant slot he could see, put the pass he had been given by the Main Guardroom on the dashboard, locked the car and walked through the picket gate set in the rusty black barbed-wire fence and into the JARIC Guardroom. Inside, a number of elderly and battered chairs were lined up against the left- and right-hand walls, with a small and equally decrepit coffee table covered in old magazines in the middle of the room. In the centre of the wall opposite the outside door was what looked like a steel door without a handle, and to the left of that was a board bearing the word ‘Reception’.
Under the sign was an armoured-glass panel fitted with speak slots and a small opening at the base. Behind the glass sat a bulky man wearing sergeant’s stripes and the distinctive shoulder flashes of the RAF Regiment. Richter walked over to the panel. The sergeant gave him a neutral stare, and eyed his civilian clothes with a certain amount of dissatisfaction. ‘Can I help you? Sir.’ The last word was an obvious afterthought.
Richter passed the ID card through the opening. ‘Lieutenant Commander Richter. I believe I’m expected.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ The sergeant looked carefully at the card, and slightly disbelievingly at the photograph. ‘What’s your Service Number, sir?’
‘C021426K,’ Richter said.
‘Thank you. Please take a seat.’ The sergeant passed the card back through the slot and indicated the ancient chairs. Richter picked the cleanest looking and sat down, as the sergeant picked up a telephone. Richter found an antique copy of Punch on the coffee table, and was working his way through ‘Let’s parlez Franglais’ when the steel door opened.
The man who entered was a squadron leader, wearing a working-dress pullover. Dark haired and stocky, and with a cheerful and slightly chubby face which suggested a constant diet to keep his waistline under control, he was about Richter’s height.
‘Commander Richter? I’m Squadron Leader Kemp. Follow me, please.’ The steel door swung open, and Richter followed Kemp across an open compound and into the main JARIC building. On the wall inside the door was a notice in bleak official terminology: ‘This is a restricted area. All visitors must be accompanied at all times.’ They walked down a long corridor before Kemp stopped and opened a grey-painted door bearing the cryptic message ‘SSyO’ above the slightly more informative statement ‘Squadron Leader J D Kemp’.
Richter preceded him into the office. It was about fifteen feet square with pale blue walls, an assortment of filing cabinets in contrasting shades of brown and grey, and a large grey metal desk behind which was a wood and black vinyl chair, showing signs of age.
‘Right,’ Kemp said. ‘The telephone call I received from a Mr, er…’ He paused and glanced at a notebook on his desk. ‘Here we are. From Mr Simpson yesterday said that you wanted to see the films taken by the American SR–71A that landed at Lossiemouth last week.’ Richter nodded. ‘May I ask what your interest is in these films?’ Kemp asked.
‘Certainly,’ Richter replied. ‘Curiosity.’ Kemp looked at him expectantly, so Richter elaborated. ‘I’m curious to know why the Americans risked a major diplomatic row, not to mention a very expensive and highly classified aircraft and crew which was, incidentally, supposed to have been withdrawn from active service some years ago, to get detailed photographs of seven hundred miles of Russian tundra, and why they’re so damn coy about whatever it is they think is up there.’
Kemp nodded. ‘Yes, that puzzled us too. As far as we can tell from the initial analysis, there’s no evidence of any new buildings or other structures that might be of any military significance. In fact, it’s an extremely boring bit of Mother Russia all round.’
‘I’m running a little late,’ Richter said, glancing at his watch and then rising to his feet, ‘so could I see the films now?’
‘Of course. Come with me.’
Heathrow Airport, London
John Westwood walked out into the Arrivals Hall at Heathrow Airport and looked around. After a few moments, a large black man wearing a dark suit detached himself from the wall and walked across to him. ‘John Westwood?’
Westwood nodded. ‘Yes. And you are?’
‘Richard Barron, sir. From the Company. We have a car outside.’ Without apparent effort Barron plucked Westwood’s heavy suitcase from the trolley and led the way towards the doors. Westwood followed, carrying his briefcase. Outside, two black American Fords carrying ‘CD’ plates waited at the kerb, engines idling and drivers standing beside them. Barron put the suitcase in the boot of the first car, then opened the rear door for Westwood.
‘Hullo, John,’ said the man in the back seat. Westwood sat down and looked at him blankly. The thick black hair, deeply lined face, dark blue – almost black – eyes and over-large nose were familiar, but it took Westwood a few seconds to place him. Then he smiled and extended his hand. ‘Sorry, Roger,’ he said. ‘It must be the jet lag, or just a bad memory for faces. It must be – what – seven years?’
Roger Abrahams shook his head. ‘Eight,’ he replied. ‘Bonn. You were Chief of Station, and I was your deputy for the last six months or so before you went back across the pond and moved up in the world.’ Abrahams looked towards the front seat of the car. ‘OK, Richard,’ he said. ‘Let’s move.’
Barron nodded to the driver, and the car eased away from the kerb and into the mid-morning traffic. Behind, the second car moved out and kept pace about fifty metres back.
‘I saw the name of the London COS back at Langley,’ Westwood said, ‘but I didn’t realize it was you. You’ve done well.’
‘Thanks,’ Abrahams muttered. ‘You gave me a good write-up in Germany, and that helped. Now, what’s the problem? What brings the Company Head of Foreign Intelligence all the way to London?’
Westwood took a moment before replying. ‘No offence, Roger,’ he said. ‘I’d rather wait until we’re in a secure location. For the moment, let’s just say it’s a liaison visit.’
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