Overkill pr-1

by James Barrington

  ‘The problem they had was to make Europe give up without a fight. A Germany or France devastated by war was not what they wanted, which is why they seized on the two-pronged assault. First neutralize the USA by the potent threat of the total destruction of almost every major city in America, using weapons that were already in place, and which could not, therefore, be detected in flight, intercepted or countered. Then, with America out of the fight, threaten Europe with similar devastation, but without the fallout and radiation problems.’

  ‘Mr Beatty,’ Lacomte held up a hand, ‘I don’t know about my colleagues, but I am getting both confused and worried. I am confused because almost everything you have told us is new to me, and I freely admit that I do not understand all of it, and I do not know if I believe any of it. But I am getting worried because, if what you say is true, then this meeting should be pitched at a much higher level than a mere colonel.’ He looked at Richter keenly, then glanced at his watch. ‘As it is nearly half past one, I suggest we break now for lunch and resume this afternoon at three. I will ensure that the Minister of the Interior or the most senior available member of his staff joins us then. Would that be satisfactory?’

  ‘Perfectly,’ Richter replied. ‘Could I make two requests for you to discuss with the Minister prior to our meeting this afternoon?’ Lacomte nodded, and poised his pencil over a sheet of paper. ‘First,’ Richter said, ‘I would like the route of the road convoy carrying the weapon destined for London to be watched and its position advised to us at frequent intervals. I presume that would not be difficult?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Lacomte replied. ‘That can be done on my orders, without bothering the Minister. Can you supply details of the route and identify the vehicles?’

  ‘The route, yes, but not the vehicles, although I can make an informed guess. I can do that this afternoon.’ Richter paused. ‘The second point might prove more contentious,’ he said.

  Lacomte nodded encouragingly. ‘Go on, Mr Beatty.’

  ‘We have to stop this convoy, and detain all the personnel associated with it. I am requesting permission to utilize a unit from the British Special Air Service to help do this.’ Richter heard Tony Herron’s quick intake of breath, and Lacomte bristled visibly.

  ‘I do not think the Minister would accept that, not without very compelling reasons. Why would you wish to use the SAS?’

  The one thing Richter couldn’t tell Lacomte was that the SAS were the best in the world – French pride would never admit that any non-Frenchman was the best at anything.

  ‘Three reasons,’ Richter said. ‘First, I will have to direct at least some phases of the operation against the convoy, as I’m the only one who knows exactly what we will be looking for. I believe that the load may be booby-trapped, or worse. I don’t speak French, and I may have to give orders that will be acted on immediately and without question – the SAS would respond instinctively, and far faster, than anyone whose first language is not English.

  ‘Secondly, the SAS specializes in this kind of operation, and would be able to give valuable assistance to the men you would detail to carry out the assault. I only want a standard four-man patrol unit, comprising one officer and three troopers. I would anticipate using a group of ten to fifteen men to actually halt the convoy, so the SAS men would only be acting in an advisory or supporting role to the French assault team.’

  ‘Third, if this convoy is not stopped, the weapon will reach London and could conceivably destroy most of the population of the city. That makes it a problem for Britain, and I believe that British forces should have an active role in preventing that happening.’

  Lacomte considered this for a moment, then nodded slowly. ‘Yes, Mr Beatty, what you say does make sense. I will recommend that the Minister accedes to your request.’

  8th Arrondissement, Paris

  Richter left the Ministry with Tony Herron and John Westwood. Miles Turner had left immediately for the American Embassy to call Langley and take instructions. The three men walked along the road until they found a reasonable-looking restaurant that had a table free, then sat down and ordered lunch.

  ‘I hope you know what we’re doing,’ Herron said, as the waiter moved out of earshot.

  ‘So do I,’ Richter replied, taking a bite out of a slice of baguette.

  ‘You two know each other, I gather,’ Herron added, looking from Richter to Westwood and back again.

  ‘We got involved in a chase across France a few years ago,’ Richter said. ‘What are you doing here, John?’

  ‘I was sent over here to try to find out what the hell’s going on.’

  ‘And did you?’ Richter asked.

  ‘No, we didn’t,’ Westwood said. ‘CIA London was told about it by SIS this morning.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Back home, I’ve no idea – that’s someone else’s problem,’ Westwood said. ‘As far as I’m concerned, I was told to find out what was going on, which I suppose I’ve done, so now I’m just going to hang on for the ride. Unless Langley tells me any different, that is.’

  Richter nodded. The restaurant was busy, and they were able to talk quietly together without being overheard above the hum of conversation. ‘OK,’ Richter said. ‘Now that the pleasantries are out of the way, let’s get back to the job in hand. We’re running short of time. We have to stop that lorry tomorrow, which means we have to get the SAS team over here tonight at the latest.’

  ‘Suppose the Minister doesn’t approve their use?’ Herron asked.

  ‘Then they’ll have a very short holiday in France. We just have to assume that he will give approval. Can you get a car and one of your Friends from the Embassy to meet us here before we go back into the Ministry, to get things moving as soon as possible?’

  In the peculiar parlance of the clandestine world, a ‘Friend’ is a British Secret Intelligence Service officer, usually one based in an Embassy.

  ‘Yes,’ Herron said. ‘I’ll call now.’ He pulled out his mobile telephone, dialled a number and held a brief conversation. ‘No problem,’ he said. ‘They’ll be here at two fifteen.’

  Waidhaus, Germany

  When the convoy reached the head of the queue, the Czechoslovak Customs officers waved the vehicles through with merely a glance at the passports. The Germans were more thorough.

  ‘Why,’ the senior Customs officer asked Modin, in English, their only common language, in one of the border post interview rooms, ‘are there three vehicles escorting a lorry-load of furniture across Europe?’

  Modin shook his head. ‘This is not an escort,’ he said. ‘The lorry is making a routine delivery of furniture and fittings to our London Embassy. There have been similar deliveries recently,’ he added, ‘to Russian embassies elsewhere in Western Europe.’ He didn’t add that some of these deliveries had included one item which had not appeared on the load manifest.

  ‘Why does the London Embassy require furniture to be sent out from Russia? Are there no furniture shops in Britain?’

  Modin nodded. ‘Of course there are,’ he replied. ‘But you must appreciate the fragile nature of the Russian economy since glasnost. Our government has ordered that all embassy furniture and fittings are to be purchased in Russia, not from companies in the West.’

  The German grunted. ‘I notice that the ruling by Moscow does not extend to the vehicles you are driving.’

  ‘That is different. We are unfortunately compelled to purchase cars manufactured in the West for our European embassies. There are always delays, you understand, with obtaining spare parts for Russian-made vehicles. Our Embassies cannot take the risk of having official cars unavailable for prolonged periods. The same applies to our international lorries – we cannot afford to have broken-down vehicles waiting for days or weeks by the roadside.’

  ‘And the sixteen people?’ the German officer persisted.

  ‘Simply a coincidence,’ Modin said smoothly. ‘There is a major staff change in progress at our London Embassy.’


  ‘Why didn’t they fly into London?’

  ‘For reasons of economy,’ Modin replied. ‘The vehicles were being transported by road, and it seemed foolish to purchase airline tickets when there were empty seats in the cars.’

  The German looked steadily at Modin for a minute, then stood up. ‘Very well,’ he said, and handed back the Russian’s diplomatic passport. He had little choice in the matter, and he and Modin both knew it. ‘Proceed,’ he said.

  8th Arrondissement, Paris

  When the car arrived, the three men climbed into the back seat and Herron instructed the chauffeur just to drive around for a few minutes. As they pulled out into the traffic flow, Herron briefed the SIS officer sitting beside the driver, and then turned to Richter. ‘Right, what do you want done?’

  ‘At this stage,’ Richter said, ‘I’d just like to get the SAS moving. Can you send a signal from the Embassy to FOE London, attention Director, information SIS and Stirling Lines, requesting the immediate activation of a four-man SAS team. If he’s available, I’d like Captain Colin Dekker to lead it. Detailed tasking and briefing will be carried out in Paris, but the team should prepare weapons and equipment suitable for operations against an armed road convoy. Transport to Paris should be by road, in a civilian vehicle, and preferably a “Q” van.’

  The SAS ‘Q’ vans are disguised vehicles, usually Leyland Sherpas or Ford Transits, fitted with uprated suspension systems, highly tuned – and usually very large – engines, long-range tanks and all the rest. They also have hidden compartments for weapons and equipment, and will pass more than a cursory inspection by police or Customs officers. The disguises are many and varied, everything from a church minibus to a builder’s van.

  ‘Two questions,’ the SIS officer said. ‘What classification and precedence for the signal, and what rendezvous point do you want in Paris?’

  Richter thought for a moment. ‘The signal should be classified Secret, and the precedence Military Flash. Oh, and could you insert “Operation Overkill” in the subject field. The rendezvous, I think, should be tonight at my accommodation. Yes,’ he said, and smiled. ‘They’ll like this. The rendezvous will be at Davy Crockett Ranch at the Disneyland Paris resort. Include a statement in the signal that I will book accommodation for them there. A party of four, in the name of, oh, “Robbins”.’ Richter gave him the cabin number, on the ‘Cherokee Trail’. ‘Say that the SAS contact point is that cabin, immediately after arrival at the Ranch. Do not,’ Richter added, ‘give my name. Just state that I am their Briefing Officer.’

  Westwood smiled at Richter. ‘You’re staying at Disneyland? Now I’ve heard everything.’

  He chuckled, and Richter grinned at him. ‘If you were leading a Russian hit team, would you think of looking for me there?’

  Westwood’s smile slowly faded. ‘No,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I guess I wouldn’t.’

  Anton Kirov

  ‘Gibraltar, Gibraltar, this is the motor vessel Anton Kirov. Over.’ The Spetsnaz radio operator adjusted one of the dials on the radio and listened.

  ‘MV Anton Kirov, this is Gibraltar. Go ahead. Over.’

  The voice from the overhead speaker was tinny and slightly distorted, but perfectly understandable.

  Petr Zavorin nodded, and the operator replied. ‘Gibraltar, this is the Anton Kirov. We are out of the port of Odessa bound for Tangier with a mixed cargo. We have experienced a small fire in the engine room and we request permission to put in to Gibraltar to effect repairs. Over.’

  There was a brief silence before the Gibraltar operator replied. ‘Do you require assistance, Anton Kirov? Over.’

  ‘Negative, Gibraltar. We will have to replace one fuel pump and some fuel lines, but we do not require any form of assistance. Over.’

  ‘Wait.’

  There was a pause of perhaps two minutes. ‘Anton Kirov, this is Gibraltar. Permission granted. What is your estimate for Gibraltar? Over.’

  Zavorin looked at Bondarev.

  ‘About three hours, unless you want to increase speed.’

  Zavorin shook his head. ‘No, we will maintain this speed. Tell them three hours.’

  ‘Gibraltar, this is the Anton Kirov. We estimate about three hours. Over.’

  ‘Roger. Proceed to a position one mile west of Gibraltar, hold there and await a harbour tug. You will be berthed at the North Mole. Over.’

  ‘Thank you, Gibraltar. Out.’ The radio operator removed his headphones and nodded to Zavorin.

  ‘Excellent,’ Zavorin said. ‘We have just entered the final phase of the operation.’

  French Ministry of the Interior, rue des Saussaies, Paris

  The car dropped them at the rue des Saussaies, and they walked back to the Ministry, arriving at three. They were again escorted to the conference room, where Lacomte waited expectantly. Miles Turner and the two DST officers were already there, and a minute or so after Richter, Herron and Westwood walked in, four other men entered. Lacomte greeted them somewhat formally, and made the introductions in French and English, then turned to Richter.

  ‘The Minister is away from Paris this afternoon, but we are expecting him back early this evening. Monsieur Giraud—’ he gestured to the elderly man who had just taken a seat at the head of the table ‘—is the senior adviser to the Minister, your equivalent of a Permanent Under-Secretary of State, and I have explained the situation to him and to his aides. He has discussed the matter with the Minister on a secure telephone line. The Minister has empowered Monsieur Giraud to take decisions on his behalf, as time is short.’ Lacomte paused. ‘The Minister has not decided whether to permit the use of your Special Air Service personnel on French soil, but will leave that decision to Monsieur Giraud. Monsieur Giraud will decide after he has heard your detailed proposals.’

  ‘I see,’ Richter said, and Tony Herron looked at him. Richter wondered how much of an uphill struggle the afternoon was going to be.

  ‘Monsieur Giraud,’ Lacomte continued, ‘understands English, but because of the technical nature of this matter he has asked that I translate what you say into French, to avoid any possible misunderstandings.’

  And also, Richter thought, to emphasize that they were in France and should therefore, by any Gallic definition, be speaking French.

  ‘Before we begin,’ said Lacomte, ‘I have one or two questions I would like to ask.’ Richter nodded. ‘We understand that much of the information about this matter has reached you by indirect channels, shall we say, and some of it could be construed as circumstantial. What is the source and grade of your information about the devices on French soil?’

  Richter bet that question had come straight from Monsieur Giraud. ‘That information came directly to us from the SVR London rezident, Vladimir Orlov,’ Richter said. ‘The information is assessed in our system as Grade One – that is, one hundred per cent reliable without any possibility of error.’

  Lacomte looked at Monsieur Giraud, who nodded. ‘Are you aware that the Russians do not have any diplomatic representation in some of the cities you mentioned? In Nice, for example? Where would they position a weapon?’

  ‘With respect,’ Richter said, ‘this is just detail. Orlov didn’t know and so couldn’t tell us exactly where any of the devices were positioned, only that they were in place. I imagine that the Russians have set up a front company which has leased a warehouse or an office somewhere, and the weapon will be located in that.’

  Lacomte loaded that into French and rapid-fired it at Giraud. Giraud nodded, and replied quietly. Lacomte asked another question. ‘Have you any independent evidence that what Orlov told you is the truth?’

  Richter shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, ‘we have no independent evidence that directly corroborates what Orlov told us, but I cannot imagine him telling lies in the circumstances of his interrogation.’ Giraud grimaced slightly. ‘What I can say is that most of what Orlov told us has been indirectly corroborated by the other data we have been able to collect. I’ve already mention
ed the Blackbird over-flight, the snatching of our Moscow Head of Station and so on.’

  ‘Can I add something here?’ John Westwood asked.

  ‘Of course,’ Lacomte waved a hand.

  ‘The one thing nobody in this room knows, except for Miles Turner here,’ Westwood said, ‘is that the Company – the CIA – received advance warning of the Russian plan, some time before the Blackbird overflight.’

  There was a short and somewhat hostile silence.

  ‘Did you now?’ Richter said, quietly. ‘But you didn’t think of telling us, did you?’

  Westwood shook his head. ‘Not my decision,’ he said. ‘It was Company policy.’

  ‘What was the source of this information?’ Lacomte asked.

  ‘I can’t tell you,’ Westwood said, and held up a hand towards Richter, who had opened his mouth to speak, ‘simply because we don’t know. Our Moscow Station Chief was contacted by a walk-in who slipped a film into his jacket pocket. We’ve had further drops from this source, but we still don’t know who he is. What we do know, because of what was on the first film, is that this source is very near the top of either the GRU or the SVR.’

  ‘OK,’ Richter said. ‘We haven’t time to go into that now. What was the warning this source passed to you?’

  Westwood shook his head. ‘That was the problem,’ he replied. ‘That’s why we’ve been running round like headless chickens looking for help. The warning was non-specific. It simply said that a covert assault on the West was in progress, but gave no useful details. What it does do, though,’ he added, looking at Lacomte, ‘is corroborate what Mr Beatty has been saying.’