Hammersmith, London
That afternoon Richter found the first faint evidence of a link. It wasn’t much, and he didn’t know its significance, but he thought it was worth taking to Simpson. Before ringing him, Richter checked the Basic Intelligence Digest (CIS) and found exactly what he had expected, and a personnel file which only served to confuse him. Then he called Simpson on the direct line and told him he needed five minutes of his valuable time.
‘What have you got?’ Simpson didn’t look up as he spoke, but continued writing notes on the minute sheet of an open Secret file. His desk was covered in pink files, several of them open, and he seemed more preoccupied than usual.
‘Not a lot,’ Richter replied, ‘but I can place Newman’s number two in an area virtually in the centre of the Blackbird’s flight path, about five days before the aircraft flew.’
Simpson stopped writing, looked up and put down his pen. ‘Where, when, and what was he doing?’
Richter sat down in front of the desk and glanced down at the Moscow Station Activities file he had brought up with him. ‘The place was Sosnogorsk, and according to SIS he went there as a translator for two days last month.’
‘Who was Newman’s deputy?’
‘Andrew Payne. He’s alive and well and currently running Moscow Station pending the appointment of a new head.’
Simpson digested this for a moment or two. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Tell me about Sosnogorsk, starting with wherever the hell it is.’
‘It’s a small Russian town in the Komi region, next to a slightly bigger town called Ukhta. It’s about four hundred miles almost due east of Arkhangel’sk. It lies to the west of the Severnyy Urals, close to the main railway line from Konosha up to—’
‘I’m not going there for a bloody holiday, Richter. Get to the point.’
‘You asked. It’s nowhere. It gets a nil return in the BID (CIS), and as far as we know it has no intelligence significance whatsoever.’
‘Then what was Payne doing there?’
Richter shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘The only installation of interest in that general area is the Large Phased-Array Radar at Pechora, but that’s about a hundred and fifty miles to the north-east. He wouldn’t have been able to leave Sosnogorsk and get up there without attracting attention.’
Simpson picked up his pen and carefully screwed the top back on. Then he unscrewed it and aimed the nib at Richter. ‘Perhaps he did.’
‘Did what?’ Richter asked.
‘Attract attention. Perhaps that’s why they snatched Newman.’
‘You’ve never been in the field, have you?’ Richter asked. In fact, Simpson wasn’t an intelligence professional at all. Prior to his appointment to head the Foreign Operations Executive, he had been a mandarin, a Civil Service high-flyer. Initially, his lack of a ‘proper’ intelligence background had caused some resentment in both FOE and SIS, but his obvious competence, and completely ruthless approach to his work, had quickly silenced his detractors.
‘When I said Payne wouldn’t be able to leave Sosnogorsk without attracting attention,’ Richter continued, ‘what I meant was that he wouldn’t have been able to leave Sosnogorsk at all. He would have had one or more minders assigned to him to ensure that he only saw what the Russians wanted him to see – no more and no less. He wouldn’t even have been able to leave his hotel room without the dezhurnaya reporting it. You can forget about glasnost when it comes to foreigners wandering about in Russia, and especially anywhere out in the bundu. The locals are universally suspicious. Take my word for it, Payne didn’t leave Sosnogorsk.’
‘So what’s your suggestion?’ Simpson asked, looking irritated.
Richter shook his head again. ‘I haven’t really got one, but I do think the visit was significant, and I don’t think it had anything to do with Pechora. The other thing that bothers me is what he was actually doing, as opposed to what he was supposed to be doing. According to the Moscow Station reports, he went there as a translator to some European businessmen.’
‘So?’
‘Payne speaks passable Russian. The businessmen were principally British, but there were two Frenchmen and one German in the party. According to his file, Payne doesn’t speak French or German to anything like the level he would have needed to translate for them.’
Simpson played with his pen for a minute or so, then spoke. ‘I agree. I don’t buy Payne going out as a translator. As Deputy Head of Station he shouldn’t even have left Moscow. Get on to SIS and find out what he was really up to.’
Anton Kirov
Once again, Captain Bondarev had had to concede that Zavorin’s men certainly knew their trade. The entry to Varna had been as smooth and professional as his own crew could have achieved, and the loading of the cargo had been accomplished in a much shorter time than he had expected. The Anton Kirov had two holds; a large one aft, designed for bulk or loose cargo, and a smaller, secure, stowage forward. The special cargo – just one large and heavy box – fitted without difficulty into the forward hold. Bondarev noted that Zavorin had remained on the foredeck throughout loading and had personally supervised the entire operation. Once the cargo hatches had been secured, Zavorin had telephoned the bridge, ordered Bondarev to put to sea immediately, and had then disappeared for over an hour. Bondarev supposed, correctly, that he had been inspecting the new cargo.
With the Anton Kirov heading south again, and Varna becoming only a smudge on the coastline, Zavorin knocked on the captain’s door and entered without waiting for an answer. He carried two glasses and a bottle of single malt Scotch whisky. Bondarev looked somewhat quizzically at the bottle.
‘I drink vodka,’ Zavorin said, with a smile, ‘but not from choice. Now this—’ he raised the bottle to the light ‘—is a real drink.’ He put down the glasses, poured two large measures and handed one to Bondarev. ‘As the British say, “Cheers”,’ Zavorin said, and took a sip.
Bondarev sipped, nodded appreciatively, then put his glass down and looked over at the Spetsnaz colonel. ‘So, you have your special equipment. Now where are we going?’
‘As planned, Captain,’ Zavorin replied, ‘we will route through the Bosphorus and probably call at Piraeus. I am not sure we will have time to make Tunis, but we will see. A lot depends upon our departure date from Greek waters.’
He paused and looked thoughtfully at his glass. ‘The deadline is our arrival date at Gibraltar, and I am waiting to have that signalled to me. My guess is we will be instructed to arrive there in about a week.’ Bondarev nodded, mentally calculating times and speeds. He picked up his glass again and sipped.
In the forward hold, one of the Spetsnaz officers, who held a degree in electronic engineering from a West German university, checked that the coaxial cable from the satellite dish on the bridge roof was securely attached to the high-frequency DBS-band receiver. The dish had been aligned and a test message received from the satellite within fifteen minutes of the Anton Kirov’s arrival alongside the loading jetty.
The officer made a final check of all the connections, then snapped shut his precision toolkit and nodded to two troopers standing beside him. They picked up and replaced the side panel of the large crate and then dropped the lid back into position. The device was functioning normally, and could be safely left unattended until it reached its final destination.
London
The Foreign Operations Executive officially didn’t exist, and was officially nothing to do with SIS, although in reality its sole function was to carry out deniable operations on its behalf. The Secret Intelligence Service, popularly and incorrectly known as MI6 – also didn’t officially exist, which meant that Richter worked for a non-existent organization which worked for another non-existent organization. It was no wonder the manager looked at him quizzically every time he walked into the bank.
MI6 was effectively created in July 1909 on the recommendation of a sub-committee of Haldane’s Committee of Imperial Defence. The intention had been to set up a singl
e Secret Service Bureau, but this proved unworkable, and by 1910 the present division into MI5 and SIS was already well established. MI5, more properly known as the Security Service, was charged with counter-espionage within the United Kingdom, while SIS was responsible for running espionage operations abroad.
Since 1910, both organizations have evidenced a marked lack of co-operation with each other, which has on occasion degenerated into open hostility. It was this hostility which was responsible – at least in part – for the creation of FOE, as a separate and secret executive arm of SIS. Giving FOE the dirty jobs enabled SIS to deny its involvement if an operation turned sour, and didn’t give MI5 anything to get its teeth into.
In 1994, SIS moved from Century House, an anonymous twenty-three-storey block near the Lambeth North underground station and known to almost everyone as ‘Spook House’, into a new building on the Thames at Vauxhall Cross, the avant-garde design of which has prompted some unkind nicknames – ‘The Aztec Palace’ is perhaps the least offensive. Like FOE, entry is strictly controlled at Vauxhall Cross, and a similar clear desks policy is applied. SIS also operates a ‘no talking in the lift’ rule, just in case the man in the corner with the bucket and wash-leather is a Russian Cultural Attaché on assignment, and not Bob the window cleaner.
And like Bob the window cleaner, Richter couldn’t just walk into Vauxhall Cross. The Russian Embassy maintains a watch group whose sole function is to photograph everyone who enters or leaves the building. They have another group watching the US Embassy in Grosvenor Square, another across the road from Thames House, a substantial stone-built 1930s block north of Lambeth Bridge and the headquarters since the mid 1990s of MI5, others in South Audley Street, Grosvenor Street and Gower Street, where MI5 maintains offices. Further groups watch some of the covert addresses used by SIS elsewhere in London, and a large team monitors the SIS training establishment at Fort Monkton, near Gosport in Hampshire.
To return the favour, as it were, SIS has permanent watch teams in place outside the Russian Embassy at 13 Kensington Palace Gardens, the consular and trade section at 33 Highgate West Hill, and others covering the rest of the foreign Embassies in London.
The principal beneficiary of all this activity is of course Kodak, but it means that FOE operatives are forbidden to enter Vauxhall Cross, all other MI5 and SIS buildings, and the American Embassy, to prevent their pictures from appearing at SVR headquarters in Moscow. That in turn meant that any meetings between FOE operatives and SIS, MI5 or CIA officers had to take place elsewhere.
And that was why at three ten in the afternoon Richter was sitting in the lounge of the Sherlock Holmes Hotel in Baker Street, looking over a coffee pot, milk jug, sugar bowl, two cups and a small plate of assorted biscuits at the slightly vacant expression on Piers Taylor’s face. Richter had known Taylor for about eighteen months, and he knew that his expression was wholly deceiving. Taylor possessed one of the sharpest brains in SIS which was why, at only thirty-eight, he was the Deputy Head of Section Nine, responsible for Russian affairs.
Taylor absent-mindedly plucked a thread from the sleeve of his jacket, glanced round the lounge, which was empty apart from a group of American tourists loudly discussing their theatre-going of the previous evening, and leaned forward. ‘It was just routine,’ he said, softly.
‘Come on, Piers,’ Richter replied, just as quietly. ‘Deputy Head of Station Moscow doesn’t just wander off halfway across Russia with a bunch of European businessmen on a whim. He had a reason for going there.’
Taylor shook his head. ‘No, we know why he went there – Newman told him to – but he wasn’t tasked with anything very exciting. I had Payne flown back to London on Monday to introduce him to his new head and to give him a current briefing. He told me then about the trip to Sosnogorsk.’
‘What did he tell you? I mean, Newman must have given him some indication of what he expected him to do there.’
Taylor nodded. ‘Yes, he did. Newman told him that if anyone approached him and introduced himself as Karelin, Nicolai Karelin, Payne was to give him a one-word message and note the reply, which should also be a single word.’
Richter waited. Extracting information from Piers was sometimes a long and tiring process. ‘Is there any reason I shouldn’t know what Payne’s message was?’
‘No, no reason. It was Schtchit.’ Taylor looked at him. ‘Do you know what it means?’
‘Of course I know what it means,’ Richter said. ‘It’s Russian for “shield”, and it also means the type of double-exposure film sometimes used by GRU operatives.’ He took a sip of coffee and pondered for a moment. Taylor looked at him in silence.
‘Newman didn’t tell Payne what other action he should take if this Karelin turned up – or even if he didn’t turn up?’
‘No. Just the message he was to pass, and to note the reply. Nothing else.’
‘And did Karelin contact Payne?’
‘Yes.’
Blood out of a stone. ‘And?’ Richter said.
‘And what?’
‘And what was the message this Nicolai Karelin passed?’
‘Not one word, as Newman had briefed him to expect, but two – Stukach and Chernozhopy.’
Richter thought for a moment. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Do they mean anything to you, because they certainly don’t to me?’
‘Your Russian getting a little rusty, is it?’ Taylor asked, smiling.
‘Piers,’ Richter said, ‘I can read it and translate it, and speak it well enough to get by, but I’m not fluent, and probably never will be.’
‘Stukach is Russian slang for “secret informant” or “stool pigeon”, and Chernozhopy translates as “black-arses”. That’s a derogatory term applied to coloured people of all nationalities. About the only interesting thing about it is that the term is most often used by officers of the GRU.’
Richter opened his mouth, but Taylor held up a hand. ‘Before you ask, yes, we have checked them. We ran both words through the computers here. Stukach wasn’t listed and the only code-word Chernozhopy we found was the title of an aborted operation run by the Red Army as the Germans approached the gates of Moscow in the Second World War. We’re quite satisfied that the word was chosen precisely because it was effectively meaningless, but sufficiently unusual not to be mistaken for anything else.’
Piers sat back, as if satisfied. Richter wasn’t. ‘And when Payne got back to Moscow?’
‘Nothing. By the time Payne returned to the Embassy, Newman was already dead.’
‘What conclusion did you and your analysts draw from all this?’
Piers shrugged his shoulders. ‘Most of it was obvious. Payne was tasked with checking all Newman’s files and documents when he got back to Moscow, for obvious reasons. He found nothing significant, by the way. According to notes in Newman’s work diary and from the station files, Nicolai Karelin is the name of an established British source in the Sosnogorsk area. He’s a computer operator who used to work at the Pechora LPAR site and passed us some useful low-grade intelligence in the past. According to Newman’s notes, he’s now working on another project in the area, but we don’t yet know what.’
‘And the code-words?’ Richter asked.
‘That was simple enough as well, because it was in Newman’s work diary. Schtchit was Payne’s recognition signal to Karelin, and the response Stukach meant that Karelin had succeeded in identifying another potential source at Pechora, something Newman had asked him to do. Payne was just being used as a messenger boy.’ Taylor leaned back.
‘And Chernozhopy?’ Richter asked.
‘That,’ Taylor admitted, ‘is what we don’t know. Payne couldn’t find a reference to the word anywhere in Newman’s files or records. Our best guess is that the word was intended to be used as a recognition signal for the new agent Karelin was trying to recruit.’
‘OK, I’ll buy that,’ Richter said, after a moment. ‘One other question. According to Payne’s file, his French and German are nowhere near flue
nt, so how did he manage to translate for the group of businessmen he was with?’
‘No problems,’ Taylor replied. ‘Apparently the Frenchmen and the German understood English well enough to cope.’ Richter reached for the coffee pot and poured two more cups. ‘By the way,’ Taylor asked, his voice even quieter, ‘why are you tooled up?’
Richter’s jacket had swung open to reveal the substantial butt of the Smith and Wesson, and he hastily concealed it. ‘I’m having trouble with the bailiffs,’ he said.
Taylor grinned at him. ‘These would be Russian bailiffs, perhaps?’
‘Perhaps,’ Richter agreed. Taylor frowned slightly, and Richter leaned forward. ‘Yes?’ he said, encouragingly.
‘I’m not sure that it’s relevant,’ Taylor said, ‘but some of our Cousins were scrabbling around looking for favours this morning.’
‘The Company?’ Richter was surprised. ‘I thought it was usually the other way round. What were they after?’
‘Mainly,’ Taylor said, ‘access to a high-level source in Moscow.’
Richter’s eyes widened. ‘They don’t want much, do they? They don’t want the keys to the Kremlin as well?’ Richter glanced round the lounge. ‘Have you such a source?’ he asked.
Piers Taylor shook his head. ‘You know I can’t tell you,’ he murmured. ‘Need to know, and all that. However,’ he went on, ‘I think you can assume that if we had such a source we would not willingly risk compromising him without very good reason.’
Richter nodded. ‘And the Company couldn’t come up with a good reason?’
‘Not good enough,’ Taylor replied. ‘Just a lot of unsubstantiated stuff about a covert assault on the West.’
Richter sat straighter. ‘Covert assault? That’s sounds serious enough to me. What data did they supply?’
‘That’s the problem. They supplied almost nothing. They claim to have cultivated a high-level source of their own in Moscow, and that source started the hare running. The whole thing is subject to a NOFORN caveat, and they can’t, or won’t, be specific about any of it.’
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