‘OK,’ Hicks growled. ‘Get to it.’
Office of Commander-In-Chief Fleet (CINCFLEET), Northwood, Middlesex
Flag Officer Submarines (FOSM) is the head of the Submarine Branch of the Royal Navy and exercises operational control of some twenty-five nuclear- and conventionally-powered submarines, and is responsible for training and maintenance aspects of the Trident missile-carrying nuclear submarines. Operational control of the Trident boats, however, is vested in Commander-in-Chief Fleet (CINCFLEET), which is why the Top Secret, Military Flash signal from the Chief of the Defence Staff (CDS) was sent to CINCFLEET as the Action Addressee, and was copied to FOSM for information.
Communication with submarines is difficult, because water acts as a barrier. The greater the depth of water above the boat, the more difficult it is to communicate with it. Standard procedure is for all patrolling nuclear submarines to trail a short aerial which is designed to receive Extremely-Low Frequency (ELF) signals at the vessel’s normal operating depth. The disadvantage of ELF is that it is very slow, and only a limited number of characters can be sent in a given time period – normally about one letter character every fifteen to thirty seconds. This is not enough to pass a complete operational message, but what ELF can do is transmit a warning message to one or more submarines in coded form.
These warning messages are usually repeated sequences of just a few characters. The decoded text will tell the captain that his operating authority has a message to pass to him, what time the message will be sent, and how the message will be transmitted. At the appropriate time, the submarine will reduce its depth in preparation. Depending upon the transmission method selected, either the submarine will trail a long aerial which will float immediately below the surface of the sea, or the boat will extend an aerial above the surface from the top of the sail. The former method is the more secure, but reception is slow, while the latter allows high-speed transmissions to be received, albeit at the risk of the aerial being detected by radar from a hostile vessel or aircraft, or even visually in calm seas. Under no circumstances will the captain acknowledge any message – submarine communications are strictly oneway, to avoid compromising the vessel’s position.
Forty-five minutes after CINCFLEET received the signal from the CDS, a Group Warning Signal was transmitted via the ELF radio relay station just outside Rugby in Warwickshire. Thirty and thirty-five minutes after that, two Military Flash Operational Tasking Signals were sent via a communications satellite to HMS Vanguard and HMS Victorious, the two Trident boats on patrol. Fifteen minutes after receiving the signals, the two boats, in their widely separated patrol areas, were back at their normal operating depth and moving at increased speed on new headings.
Marne-la-Vallée
Disneyland Paris is difficult to miss. Quite apart from the Mickey Mouse symbols and road signs advising travellers of their proximity to the Magic Kingdom, the unlikely towers of Sleeping Beauty’s Castle can be seen from a considerable distance on the autoroute. Davy Crockett Ranch lies to the south of the A4, the opposite side to Disneyland itself. The approach is down a private road, under an arch proclaiming the identity of the place, and into a car park outside the reception area. Inside, they spoke good English, which was just as well because Richter had left his French behind at school. He was given keys to his cabin, a number code to open the barrier which protected the camp from unauthorized visitors, or at least from those arriving in cars, a map of the place, and a three-day Disneyland passport. Richter doubted that he would be making much use of the last item, but he thanked them anyway, climbed back into the Granada, and drove on into the heavily wooded site.
The cabin, when Richter found it, was surprisingly comfortable and well equipped. He visited the general store, called the Trading Post, and bought coffee, tea, milk and biscuits, then returned to the cabin. He locked the door, drew the curtains and unpacked his suitcase, then reviewed his plans while the kettle boiled. The schedule drawn up by the FOE planners was simple but comprehensive. They had organized a meeting with the Ambassador in Paris at nine fifteen the following morning, and immediately afterwards a discussion with the SIS Head of Station. By the time that had been completed, the Embassy should have sorted out an appointment for Richter with the French authorities, which was crucial. If he encountered difficulties with that, he had real problems.
Richter opened the sealed envelopes containing the operation file, and read it. It was a new file that had been compiled from the separate FOE packs containing details of the Blackbird flight, Newman’s death and the other related matters. Simpson had obviously had a hand in the compilation of the last few entries, as it contained a detailed statement of the information Richter had obtained from Orlov, and notes on the plan of action they had decided upon. Richter noticed that the new file had been given the code-name ‘Overkill’.
Direction Générale de Sécurité Extérieure Headquarters, boulevard Mortier, Paris
The boulevard Mortier runs almost parallel with the north-eastern Péréphérique – the Paris inner ring road – between the Porte de Bagnolet and the Porte des Lilas. The headquarters of the DGSE is located in a disused barracks near the junction of the boulevard with the rue des Tourelles, close to a large municipal swimming pool. This juxtaposition has not escaped the notice of the other French security forces, and the DGSE has acquired the slightly pejorative nickname ‘piscine’ as a result.
The journey from the Embassy at avenue Gabriel took nearly an hour because of the increasingly heavy Paris afternoon traffic, and it was nine minutes past three when John Westwood and Miles Turner climbed out of the Embassy Lincoln and looked at the unprepossessing building before them. ‘Are you sure this is it?’ Westwood asked, a puzzled frown on his face.
‘Yup,’ Turner replied. ‘The DGSE likes to keep a low profile.’
‘Much lower than this,’ Westwood said, ‘and they’ll be completely submerged.’
Anton Kirov
Captain Valeri Bondarev knocked on the second mate’s cabin door and waited. The second mate, of course, was somewhere in Odessa, Bondarev knew, probably having a much better time than if he had still been on the Anton Kirov. The door slid open smoothly and Colonel Petr Zavorin looked out enquiringly.
‘You asked to be informed, Colonel, when we were one hundred and twenty miles out of Gibraltar,’ Bondarev said. ‘We’ve just reached that point.’
‘Good.’ Zavorin nodded in satisfaction. ‘Reduce speed to eight knots, Captain,’ he said. ‘We don’t want to arrive too early.’ Bondarev nodded obediently and turned away.
‘Captain,’ Zavorin called after him, ‘I know you haven’t much enjoyed this voyage, but you should remember that we are all acting on specific instructions from Moscow, and your role is vital to the success of this mission. Take heart also, Captain,’ Zavorin added, ‘that we will soon be returning home, and you can then resume your normal life.’
Bondarev nodded. Now that, he thought, was much more important to him than any of Moscow’s spy games.
Direction Générale de Sécurité Extérieure Headquarters, boulevard Mortier, Paris
Westwood shifted uncomfortably in the upright chair and wondered again whether they were just wasting their time. The colonel who had been appointed to meet with them had not arrived until almost three thirty, and had pointedly failed to apologize for keeping them waiting. This, Westwood thought, was almost certainly because he and Miles Turner had been slightly late themselves. Turner had addressed the colonel – his nametag said ‘Grenelle’, but he had not formally introduced himself – in workable, though not fluent, French. Grenelle had affected incomprehension, and there had been a further delay whilst a bilingual DGSE officer was located. When Westwood had finally been able to state the purpose of their visit, Grenelle had insisted upon delivery and translation one sentence at a time. It had been a long, slow process.
‘So, Monsieur Westwood,’ the translator said, ‘you want to know if we have any high-level agents who can verify the
information your Central Intelligence Agency has received?’
‘Yes,’ Westwood replied. ‘Or any indication from any source of any unusual activity in Russia, or any abnormal movements of men or equipment from Russia into any Western country. Or anything else that seems in any way odd,’ he finished, rather lamely.
Grenelle spoke briefly to the translator, reinforcing Westwood’s belief that the former at least understood English. ‘The colonel wishes to inform you that he is unable to divulge any information about French operatives.’
Westwood shook his head in exasperation, but kept his voice low and reasonable. ‘I thought I’d made it clear that I’m not asking for information about operatives. I don’t care if the DGSE has bugged the Russian President’s crapper and has every Kremlin valet on its payroll. All I’m interested in is whether the DGSE has received any relevant information.’
The translator paused slightly before reverting to French, but Grenelle interrupted him almost immediately. ‘The colonel wants to know why you need to know.’
‘Because,’ Westwood said, with as much patience as he could muster, ‘we believe that the Russians may be planning an attack of some sort on the West, and that it will probably involve France as well as every other country in Western Europe.’
The translator relayed this to the colonel, who paused thoughtfully before speaking. The translator looked slightly happier when he addressed the two Americans. ‘Colonel Grenelle says that the DGSE has no information about any such Russian plan, and that we have no operatives who would be able to assist. However, he has heard that there have been some slightly unusual movements of equipment from the former Soviet Union into and through France during the last year.’
Westwood glanced across at Miles Turner. ‘What movements?’ he asked.
The translator smiled across the table. ‘That, Monsieur Westwood, we cannot say. The function of the DGSE is limited to operations outside the borders of the hexagon.’
‘The hexagon?’ Westwood muttered. ‘What the hell’s the hexagon?’
‘France,’ Turner replied. ‘It’s a colloquial name for France.’
‘OK,’ Westwood said. ‘So who do we talk to now?’
Grenelle smiled a small, tight smile and spoke in English for the first time. ‘The Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire, Monsieur Westwood. The DST – that’s who you talk to now.’
Office of the Director of Operations (Clandestine Services), Central Intelligence Agency Headquarters, Langley, Virginia
‘What progress?’ Walter Hicks asked, rubbing his hand across his tired eyes. He had been at Langley all day, and he had an evening meeting scheduled with the President in a little under two hours.
‘Not a great deal, Director,’ Ronald Hughes replied.
‘That isn’t what I wanted to hear, Ron,’ Hicks growled. ‘I have to see the man this evening and I have to tell him something, like whether we punch the bombers into the air in two days’ time and point them at Moscow. “Not a great deal” is not the kind of thing I need to hear right now.’
Hughes shifted slightly in his seat. He, too, hadn’t left the building in some twenty hours. ‘Specifically,’ Hughes said, ‘Roger Abrahams in London has got nowhere with SIS, but he thinks this is simply because they don’t know anything, not that they won’t tell. The only significant piece of data he did manage to obtain is that one section of SIS is actively investigating an incident which may be related.’
‘What incident?’ Hicks asked, looking interested.
Hughes shrugged. ‘I’m not convinced there’s any connection, but the SIS Head of Station in Moscow was reported to have died in a road accident last week. SIS sent someone to investigate it and the word is that the body the Russians handed over definitely wasn’t the SIS man. The suggestion is that he was snatched by the SVR and pumped dry.’
Hicks looked at him over the desk. ‘That’s unusual, to say the least. Are they certain?’
Hughes nodded. ‘The identification of the body was positive – positive, that is, that it wasn’t their man. Some kind of distinguishing mark wasn’t present, I think.’
‘OK,’ Hicks muttered, ‘we have to accept that SIS will know their own man, so if they say the stiff wasn’t him, it wasn’t. What I don’t see is any connection with RAVEN.’
‘Nor do I,’ Hughes agreed, ‘but I’ve told Abrahams to keep us in the loop just in case there does turn out to be a link.’
‘What about France?’ Hicks asked.
‘You know what the French are like,’ Hughes said. ‘John had a meeting with the DGSE – that’s the foreign espionage section of the French security forces – this afternoon. It didn’t go well. They were a few minutes late arriving, and John said the French colonel apparently took umbrage. The only thing the French admitted was that there had been some non-typical movements from the CIS into and through France.’ Hicks opened his mouth but Hughes forestalled his question. ‘The DGSE wouldn’t tell him. Any operational matter within France, they said, was the concern of the DST and nothing to do with them.’
Hicks grunted. ‘All assistance short of actual help, by the sound of it.’
Hughes nodded. ‘Anyway, he’s on it, but I’m still not sure if he’s just wasting his time. Non-typical movements might just mean that the Russian Embassy in Paris is having new crappers fitted.’
Pilsen, Czechoslovakia
The convoy stopped for the night at a small hotel just outside Pilsen. As usual, one Spetsnaz trooper stayed in each vehicle, sleeping as best they could.
‘Not a good day,’ Modin remarked, as he and Bykov sat together in a deserted corner of the lounge after dinner.
Bykov shook his head. ‘We seem to have spent all day on the road and got nowhere,’ he replied.
‘It could be worse,’ Modin said. ‘We are now only about sixty kilometres from the German border at Waidhaus so, unless we have a repeat of today’s performance, we should be inside Germany by mid-morning tomorrow.’
‘I hope so,’ Bykov replied. ‘The weapon must arrive in London on schedule.’
Chapter Eighteen
Tuesday
American Embassy, 2 avenue Gabriel, Paris
John Westwood woke just before seven, dressed and walked down to the Embassy commissary for breakfast. Over coffee, ham, eggs and hash browns, he and Miles Turner reviewed the situation. ‘We have to talk to the DST today,’ Westwood said. ‘Why that DGSE colonel played so hard to get I don’t know. I just hope the DST people have more sense.’
‘I’ll ring at nine – that’s the earliest there’s likely to be anyone there apart from the night duty staff – and set up a meeting this morning,’ Turner said. ‘There haven’t been any overnight developments at this end, but it’s buzzing like a hornets’ nest in the States. Walter Hicks has arranged another conference call for three this afternoon, our time, to up-date us on what’s happening Stateside, and to receive progress reports from us.’
Westwood grunted. ‘Well, I’d be happy to be able to report some progress, but on past form it isn’t likely.’
Marne-la-Vallée and Paris
Richter’s alarm went off at seven, and he was driving into the Disneyland resort before eight. He had managed to shave for the first time since his visit to Orlov, and looked fairly presentable. Disneyland was quiet – the doors weren’t open to the public that early – and Richter parked close to the main entrance, then walked in and down to the RER station.
He reached the centre of Paris at eight forty, and climbed up into Châtelet-Les Halles and into the sunshine. The station is only a few metres from the eastern end of the rue St Honoré, and Richter walked northwest along it until he reached the crossing of the rue Royale, which runs from place de la Concorde to Sainte Marie Madeleine. On the far side of the rue Royale the rue St Honoré becomes the rue du Faubourg St Honoré, and the British Embassy is at number 35, on the south side of the road.
Entry was painless, due to the persuasion afforded by both the diplomatic pass
port and Richter’s appointment – as ‘Mr Beatty’ – with the Ambassador. They showed him into a comfortably furnished waiting room and he sat there clutching his briefcase until ten past nine, when a junior staff member appeared and said that the Ambassador would see him. Richter followed her down a corridor and into a large, high-ceilinged room with tall, elegant windows looking south, towards the Seine. A small man with silver hair, immaculately dressed in a charcoal grey suit, was seated behind a large, and obviously antique, rosewood desk. He rose and extended a hand as Richter was ushered in, but he didn’t smile. He didn’t, Richter thought, look particularly pleased to see him. ‘Mr Beatty?’ His hand was cool and somewhat limp.
Richter nodded and sat down in the chair the Ambassador indicated in front of his desk. ‘I have been advised – perhaps instructed is a better word – to afford you all the assistance you require,’ Sir James Auden began, speaking clearly and somewhat pedantically. ‘What the Foreign and Commonwealth Office has declined to do, for reasons which may become clear later, is to tell me why. Perhaps you can enlighten me.’ Before Richter could speak, the Ambassador added apologetically. ‘I am sure that your credentials have already been checked by my staff downstairs, but I would like to see your identification, if you wouldn’t mind.’
‘Not at all,’ Richter said, and handed over the Beatty diplomatic passport.
The Ambassador opened the passport and inspected the contents, glancing over at Richter to ensure that his face bore at least some resemblance to the photograph in it. Then he closed the passport and passed it over the desk to Richter. ‘That seems to be in order, Mr Beatty,’ he said, ‘though I must say that you certainly don’t look like a diplomat.’ Richter took that as a compliment. ‘In fact, I would have been somewhat surprised if you did,’ Auden continued. ‘I am aware that you have an appointment to see Mr Herron this morning, and I am sure that it is no coincidence that he is the senior Secret Intelligence Service officer here – what you would probably term the Head of Station.’ Sir James Auden was obviously no fool. ‘I presume, therefore, that this matter involves some form of covert action.’
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