‘One question. Why are you meeting in a motorway service area?’
‘Because on a motorway you can be very sure if anyone is following you. If my man pulls in, and any of the cars he has had following him pull in as well, he’ll simply put some petrol in his car and then drive off. He’ll only meet me if there’s no indication of any pursuit. You can’t, you see,’ Richter finished, ‘front tail or double back on a motorway, not without making it quite obvious, and not without risking a motorway patrol breathing down your neck.’
Bentley looked doubtful. ‘Yes, I can see that, but what happens if he is followed, and just drives away?’
‘Then I’m back to square one,’ Richter said.
Minsk, Belorussiya (White Russia)
Nicolai Modin unlocked the door of his stateroom with relief. It had been a busy day and a long evening. He had spent the morning in a final, but inconclusive, session with Grigori Sokolov. Sokolov had been apologetic, but he had still found no positive evidence to indicate the identity of the SVR traitor. Privately, he confided to Modin, he still thought Viktor Bykov was as likely as anyone, but he had discovered absolutely nothing incriminating about him.
The afternoon flight from Moscow had been delayed nearly an hour, as far as Modin could see for no good reason, and the drive from the airport to the local SVR headquarters had seemed interminable. Bykov seemed to have taken charge of the journey, and had appeared delighted to have been seconded to Modin’s staff.
Out of courtesy, Modin had dined with the SVR senior officers, and had only retired at midnight, pleading the next day’s long drive as the excuse. Viktor Bykov, he noted to himself somewhat sourly, was still in the dining room.
American Embassy, 2 avenue Gabriel, Paris
‘I don’t believe it,’ John Westwood said into the telephone handset. ‘Surely not even the GRU could mount an operation without some sort of approval from the Kremlin?’
‘You may well be right,’ Hicks replied. ‘All I’m telling you is what the President thinks. It’s possible that Karasin is a far better actor than we’re giving him credit for, and that this is a carefully concocted operation approved of, and directed by, the Kremlin.’
‘Nothing new from RAVEN, I suppose?’ Roger Abrahams asked from London.
Hicks grunted. ‘Nope,’ he said. ‘Rigby is still making himself as visible as possible, but he’s had no further contact.’
‘So where do we go from here?’ Westwood asked.
‘We carry on,’ Hicks said. ‘We assume the threat is real and do everything we can to combat it. You keep chasing the French while Roger tries to get something out of the British intelligence services. We’re increasing satellite surveillance of the Asian landmass, but as we don’t know what the hell we’re looking for, that’s probably a complete waste of time.
‘I discussed this with the President, and his orders were quite specific. The security of the American people is paramount, so we’re going to move from DEFCON FOUR all the way up to DEFCON ONE no later than the tenth. The President will launch the bombers and support tankers that evening. They’ll fly to their Positive Control Points and hold there, awaiting a Presidential decision to either proceed and deliver their weapons or return to base.
‘The Navy will get the boomers into position no later than the morning of the ninth, and all serviceable strategic nuclear missiles will begin countdown on the tenth. The missiles will be held at five minutes’ notice to launch until the Russians implement their threat, or until the President is satisfied either that the threat doesn’t exist or that the crisis is over.
‘The President will probably remain at the White House throughout, or may decide to retreat with his family to Camp David. He wants to create as little speculation in the media as possible, and he thinks that if he remains in Washington that should help to reassure the American people. Whatever he decides, he has already ordered his principal military advisers to get airborne in the Nightwatch aircraft during the afternoon of the tenth.’
Walter Hicks paused for a moment. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘the United States military machine is assuming a full war footing, and at the slightest sign of any provocation from Russia the President intends to attack at once.’
Chapter Sixteen
Sunday
Minsk, Belorussiya (White Russia)
The civilian stewards at the SVR headquarters had set out a separate table adjacent to the windows for the visiting senior officers. When Nicolai Modin walked somewhat stiffly down the stairs just after six, he found Viktor Bykov already seated, drinking thick black coffee and reading a local paper. The two men nodded to each other, and as soon as Modin was seated, a steward hurried over to take his order. Modin looked at the plates of black bread, cheese, salami and pastries that were already arranged on the table, and just asked for coffee.
‘So, General,’ Bykov said, ‘today we begin the final phase.’
Modin nodded and reached for a pastry. ‘It will be a long and tiring journey, Viktor,’ the older man said. ‘Nilov – my aide at Yazenevo – prepared a schedule for me. He prepares,’ Modin added thoughtfully, ‘schedules for almost everything.’
Bykov nodded and smiled. ‘So I’ve heard,’ he murmured.
Modin looked at Bykov and smiled gently. ‘I would be somewhat lost without that young man,’ he said. ‘Anyway, he has calculated that we have about eighteen hundred kilometres of driving before we reach the French border, so we have little time in hand if we are to get to London on schedule. Nilov’s estimate for the French border is mid-morning on Tuesday, and London on Wednesday morning.’
‘What time have you ordered the convoy to leave?’ Bykov asked.
‘Six thirty,’ Modin replied. ‘We have two drivers for each vehicle, so we can realistically expect to be able to travel for twelve hours a day, if necessary. Nilov estimated an average speed on the road of fifty kilometres an hour, which shouldn’t be too difficult to achieve. A lot,’ he added, ‘depends upon the border crossings, but our diplomatic status should ensure we receive some priority.’
Bykov nodded. Both men ate in silence for a few minutes. Then Modin put down his coffee cup, wiped his mouth on his napkin and glanced at his watch. ‘Six twenty,’ he said. ‘We should move.’
Bykov nodded agreement and stood up. A steward walked over to the two men and handed Bykov a large brown paper bag. Modin looked at him. ‘Snacks and soft drinks,’ Bykov explained. ‘As you said, General, it will be a long drive.’
The two men walked out of the building by the back stairs and into the rear courtyard. An articulated lorry was parked adjacent to the far wall, its engine idling. Two light blue Mercedes saloons were parked nose to tail almost in the centre of the courtyard, and a black Mercedes limousine was waiting at the bottom of the steps.
As Bykov and Modin appeared, the driver of the limousine stepped out of the car, opened the rear door and saluted briskly. Modin acknowledged the salute, but did not immediately get into the car. Instead he walked over to a small group of men – all Spetsnaz troopers but wearing civilian clothes – standing next to the Mercedes saloon cars. ‘All well, Captain?’ Modin asked, as he stopped beside a tall, well-built man.
The men came smartly to attention, and the man Modin had addressed saluted, then nodded. ‘Yes, General. We are ready.’
‘Very good,’ Modin replied. He strode across to the articulated lorry, exchanged a few words with the drivers, and then walked back to the limousine. ‘Right, Viktor,’ he said, taking his seat, ‘let’s go.’
Thirty seconds later one of the blue Mercedes saloons pulled smoothly out of the courtyard, followed by the articulated lorry and then the second saloon. Bykov nodded to their driver, and the limousine joined the group at the rear. The four vehicles cleared the outskirts of Minsk at seven fifteen and headed south-west for Brest on the Polish border, some two hundred miles distant. Nilov’s schedule suggested that they should reach it at about eleven thirty. As the convoy picked up speed, Modin wondered just how
accurate his estimates were going to prove.
Anton Kirov
Colonel Petr Zavorin broke the seal on another bottle of Scotch whisky and poured healthy measures into two short glasses. ‘Your health, Captain,’ he said, and took a sip.
Valeri Bondarev obediently raised his glass and drank. He didn’t particularly enjoy the fiery amber liquor – of which Zavorin appeared to have an inexhaustible supply – and would have much preferred a decent vodka. However, Zavorin was in charge, and Bondarev saw no real harm in humouring him.
‘We have done well, Valeri,’ Zavorin said, putting his glass down on the side table. They were, as usual, sitting together in the captain’s day cabin. The message from Moscow had arrived half an hour earlier, and the anonymous sender had declared himself pleased when Zavorin – roused from sleep – had responded with the current position of the Anton Kirov.
‘No more changes of plan, Colonel?’ Bondarev asked.
Zavorin shook his head. ‘No, no more changes. We make for Gibraltar, to arrive no later than Tuesday morning. We have ample time, I think?’
Bondarev nodded agreement. ‘Yes, we have plenty of time. And what then?’
‘We wait,’ Zavorin replied. ‘We wait at Gibraltar until we are instructed to proceed.’ He took another sip of his whisky. ‘I should not really tell you this, Captain, but we have been working well together, and I think, perhaps, that you have earned the right to know.’
He paused, and Bondarev leaned forward expectantly. ‘First, one of the equipment boxes that we loaded at Varna is to be delivered to a small company in Gibraltar which is run by one of our operatives. But the real reason for visiting Gibraltar is that we are to collect a piece of American cryptographic equipment – a cipher machine – which our agents have managed to obtain. This will be delivered, probably by a small boat, whilst we are alongside. As soon as this machine has been loaded we will be able to leave Gibraltar.’
Zavorin smiled pleasantly and Bondarev nodded. It was more or less what he had expected. His ship had effectively been hijacked for use in some spy game that Moscow was playing, and there was nothing he could do about it. At least the end was in sight. Once the cipher machine had been loaded, the Anton Kirov could turn east again, and head back towards the Black Sea. Perhaps, Bondarev thought, he would suggest to Zavorin that the ship should pick up some legitimate cargo on the way. A matter of camouflage, almost. He wondered, for the first time, if the voyage might become something other than a total waste of his time. Bondarev stood up and smiled. ‘I thank you for your confidence, Colonel. Now, if you will excuse me, I have to return to the bridge.’
‘Of course.’ When the captain had closed the door behind him, Zavorin drank the last of his Scotch. He was rather pleased with his story of the cipher machine; the idea had come to him whilst re-reading one of the very first James Bond novels. Zavorin smiled to himself, then picked up the bottle and left the cabin.
Middlesex
After an early breakfast of coffee and toast, Richter made himself as presentable as possible by covering the more offensive-looking abrasions on his face with plasters which were more or less skin-coloured. His jeans were a mess and his shirt and sweater had been shoved straight into the dustbin as soon as Bentley had managed to pull them off him. Bentley rummaged around in his bedroom wardrobe and emerged carrying a white shirt and a clean pair of jeans. The jeans were a little big around the waist, but the belt ensured they’d stay up. Richter dressed in his bedroom, assisted by Bentley, and as soon as he’d pulled the jeans on he opened the haversack and extracted the shoulder holster and the Smith and Wesson.
‘Is that going to be necessary?’ Bentley asked, as Richter pulled the holster into place.
‘Christ, I hope not,’ Richter replied, loading the pistol with six shells, ‘but I’m not about to start taking any chances.’
Bentley gave him a hand with the leather jacket, which completely covered the shoulder rig, then unearthed an elderly trilby-type hat and offered it to Richter.
‘Not exactly a picture of sartorial elegance,’ Richter said, looking at his reflection in a mirror, ‘but it does cover some of the damage.’
Bentley grinned at him.
‘What?’ Richter asked.
‘Nothing,’ Bentley said. ‘Just shades of Philip Marlowe.’
‘Before we go,’ Richter said, looking straight at Bentley, ‘I’d feel happier if you were armed, just in case.’
‘Just in case what?’ Bentley demanded. ‘You told me my part of this little escapade would be completely risk-free.’
‘It should be,’ Richter said, ‘but I’d feel happier if I knew you were carrying, that’s all.’
Bentley looked at him for a long moment. ‘OK,’ he said, finally. ‘Hand it over.’
Richter delved into his haversack and pulled out the little Mauser HSc and its shoulder holster. While Bentley pulled on the holster, Richter quickly showed him how to operate the Mauser. The Navy man was used to the Browning 9mm pistol, an altogether bigger weapon, but very similar in operation. He was still somewhat apprehensive about carrying the pistol, and Simpson would throw a fit if he knew. Neither Richter nor Bentley wanted to think about Kate’s reaction if she found out.
Richter had fixed the rendezvous at the service area for ten twenty – only a fool or an amateur ever has a meet on the hour or half hour – and they drove a tortuous route out as far as Reading in Bentley’s red Saab Turbo before turning south to join the M4 at junction eleven. By that time Richter was absolutely certain that there was no one on their tail. It just remained to check that there was nobody on Simpson’s.
Richter had told Simpson to leave London in the Jaguar on the M4, losing any tails if possible, and drive out as far as junction ten, where he was to turn round and head back towards the capital, timing his arrival at junction ten at nine twenty as near as possible. Richter reckoned it was a comfortable forty-five minute drive from junction ten to the Heston service area, beyond Heathrow, which meant that Simpson should arrive there at about five past ten.
With Bentley at the wheel of the Saab – Richter wanted to devote his entire attention to watching, as if his life depended on it, which it did – they turned left onto the eastbound carriageway of the M4 at eight fifteen, and settled down to a relaxing fifty miles per hour cruise. Few cars travel at fifty on a motorway, and those that do tend to be very conspicuous.
Everything Richter spotted as possible opposition passed them, and by the time they approached junction nine he was certain that this final check was also negative. They pulled off the motorway at junction seven, and Richter told Bentley to park on the southbound flyover, above the westbound carriageway, and pretend to look at a map for a few minutes while he watched the westbound traffic.
Richter checked his watch. Eight fifty. Just about right. At five minutes to the hour he saw the dark green XJ6, a shadowy figure at the wheel. For the moment, Richter wasn’t interested in him, but he was in the cars behind him. A grey Rover was overtaking, so he discounted that, but listed seven possibles – two Ford Orions, an old Metro, a light blue Transit van (a favourite vehicle for watchers, because you can park it almost anywhere without too many questions being asked), a Renault Laguna and two BMWs – a three-series and a five-series.
Richter turned to Bentley. ‘Wagons roll, David. And could you wind it up a bit once we get on to the motorway?’
‘No problem. I hate driving at fifty.’
‘I’ve noticed that.’
They closed the gap rapidly, and by the time they reached junction nine Richter had eliminated the BMW 325, because it had overtaken the Jaguar, and the first Orion, because it had expired in a cloud of steam on the hard shoulder. At the junction, the Transit and the five-series BMW turned off, as Bentley and Richter did, and headed north towards the A4, so that just left the second Orion, the Metro and the Renault in trail behind the Jaguar.
Richter told Bentley to pull the same map-reading effort again, and they stopped on the nort
hbound flyover so that he could watch the eastbound traffic, waiting for the Jaguar to show again. It did, at twenty to ten, and Richter waited until he was sure that the three cars he had seen westbound were no longer in company before telling Bentley to start the engine.
They pulled onto the motorway and held position about a mile behind the Jaguar. Richter was still constantly checking cars, both in front of them and behind, but by the time they approached junction four, the Heathrow turn-off, he had only spotted two possibles, a Volkswagen Passat and a Renault Safrane, both of which had appeared on the motorway at junction six and had then held position in front of the Saab and behind the XJ6.
Richter’s mobile phone rang as they passed junction four. ‘Yes?’
‘Simpson. Are you in a red Saab?’
‘Yes.’
‘Right.’
The phone went dead, and Bentley looked enquiringly at Richter. ‘That was the man I’ll be meeting,’ he said. ‘He’s spotted us, but I don’t think he’s seen any other possible tails.’
The Jaguar’s left-hand indicator came on as it approached the Heston service area, and Richter watched the two cars he had been watching drive on towards London. ‘Right, David,’ he said. ‘I think we’re clear. Pull in and park where we can see the Jaguar, but where you have a clear run to the exit, just in case the opposition have been cleverer than I thought.’
They pulled up on the end of a rank of cars and Richter saw Simpson walk away from the Jaguar and head towards the cafeteria area, feeling in his pocket, presumably for some change. That was a good sign, as it indicated that he hadn’t spotted any chase cars either, apart from the red Saab he knew Richter had been using.
Richter and Bentley sat in the Saab, watching for any sign of cars that he had previously seen, but by the time Simpson emerged, Richter had still no indication of any possible watchers. At eighteen minutes past, he reached for the door handle, then turned to Bentley. ‘If there’s any sign of trouble, any sign at all, don’t hang around, just take off and get back home. And if when I get out of the Jaguar I walk towards the cafeteria, go, because that will mean I’ve spotted someone. OK?’
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