Baker looked disappointed. ‘I would have expected more than that,’ he said. ‘Still, let’s have a look inside.’ He selected Weapon Maintenance and Richter watched as a new screen of options was displayed. He ran down the list for Baker, translating each heading. Baker slumped low in the chair and shook his head. ‘These are all low-grade functions – there’s nothing here we can use to access the weapon control program. It looks as if Karelin is just a local operator, and he’s locked out of all the other options.’
‘Can you by-pass the security controls and access the weapon control functions?’
Baker considered this for a moment. ‘Possibly,’ he said, ‘but it would take a hell of a long time – days, maybe. This system’s been designed by someone who knew what they were doing, and I’d need to do a lot of playing around with it to get anywhere.’
‘The clock’s running,’ Richter reminded him.
‘I know,’ Baker said, and looked across at him. ‘I think we’re up shit creek. Unless we can find another password – a password for the system administrator or some high-level user – I don’t think we’re going to crack this.’
Kherson, Prichernomorskaya Nizmennost’ District, Ukraine
Captain Valentin Ivanovich Kabanov was a Ukrainian peasant by birth, and had spent all his working life in the SVR, most of it in and around Odessa. He had begun as a clerk, but his active brain and keen powers of observation had quickly elevated him, despite his lack of higher-level education, to field status.
When the alert message about Trushenko had arrived from Yazenevo, Kabanov had been directing a surveillance operation on the outskirts of Kherson, where the Dnieper drains into the Black Sea. The Odessa SVR operations room controller had called Kabanov on his mobile phone as a matter of course, but as the search for Trushenko was centred on the Crimea, there had been no obvious action for him and his team of five officers to undertake. At least, there had been no formal orders given, but Kabanov had not reached his present station in life waiting around for orders to be given.
He made two telephone calls to pull three of his team off the surveillance operation, then reached for a map of the Crimea and the Prichernomorskaya Nizmennost’ District and studied it carefully. The alert message from Yazenevo had not been very specific, but as Kabanov looked at the map, the more sure he became that the roadblocks were in the wrong place. If he had been looking for a place to hide, the island that was the Crimea would have been a long way down on his list. Unless, of course, the rebel minister had another way out.
Fifteen minutes later, Kabanov was briefing the Odessa SVR duty officer on his mobile phone as his two-car convoy sped south-east through Tsyurupinsk on the main road from Kherson to Kalanchak and Port-Khorly.
Hammersmith, London
‘I have a feeling,’ Richter said, ‘that I’m missing something here.’
‘Apart from the system manager’s password, you mean?’ Baker said.
Something was bothering Richter. Something somebody had said, or hadn’t said. Like a half-remembered dream, it was lurking at the very edge of his memory. He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, willing his mind to go blank, to become as receptive as possible.
Baker looked at him curiously. He had heard a lot about Richter – staff gossip was just as prevalent at FOE as in any other close-knit organization – and Richter’s name had figured prominently in many of the stories he had heard or half-heard. Usually, the stories had involved violence of one sort or another; a mystic Richter was something altogether new.
Suddenly, Richter sat forward, his blue eyes snapping open. ‘The phone,’ he said. ‘Give me the phone.’
Port-Khorly, Prichernomorskaya Nizmennost’ District, Ukraine
Dmitri Trushenko nosed the powerboat slowly through the port entrance and eased it gently alongside the jetty. It was a big boat for one man to control when mooring, but Trushenko was an accomplished boat-handler and had no difficulty. The jetty was deserted, apart from one elderly man slumped against a bollard with a fishing rod across his lap. When Trushenko looked closely at him, he realized that his eyes were closed.
Trushenko had parked the car as close as he could to the jetty, but it was still ten minutes before he unlocked the door and slid behind the wheel. The engine fired at the first turn of the key; he slid the car into gear and headed towards the centre of Port-Khorly.
On the jetty, the elderly man put down the fishing rod, sat upright and looked round cautiously as soon as he heard the sound of Trushenko’s receding footsteps. Then he climbed to his feet and walked towards the centre of the port, feeling in his pocket for some kopecks to make a local phone call. Like the KGB which preceded it, the SVR had eyes everywhere.
Hammersmith, London
‘Good afternoon. American Embassy. How may I help you?’
‘Roger Abrahams, please,’ Richter said.
There was a brief pause, then the switchboard operator replied. ‘I’m not sure we have anyone here of that name.’ Standard procedure. None of the names of the CIA officers were a matter of public record, and the switchboard had standing orders to reject any caller who asked for a CIA officer by name.
‘Lady,’ Richter said slowly, ‘this is an open line, which I know you’re recording. I know Roger Abrahams personally. He’s your Agency Chief of Station, and I need to speak to him immediately. If he’s available, I would also like to speak to John Westwood, and you certainly don’t want me to tell you who he is on this line.’
There was a short silence, and then a male voice spoke. ‘Who is this?’
‘Richter. Is that you, Roger?’
‘Yup. What gives?’
Richter paused, choosing his words with some care. ‘It’s about that matter in France that John and I were involved in,’ he said. ‘We’re trying to bring it to a final conclusion, and we need some help, right now. Our colleague from the east said something that we think might be important. He said,’ Richter continued, ‘that your Company and mine had to work very closely together, so I’m wondering if you’ve received something that we haven’t.’
‘Like what?’ Abrahams asked.
‘A word, a number, a name. Anything like that. We need it for access to the project we’ve been working on, if you see what I mean.’
‘Stand by,’ the American replied. ‘I’ll check.’
Port-Khorly, Prichernomorskaya Nizmennost’ District, Ukraine
The other reason Trushenko had chosen Port-Khorly was because there were several small hotels and guesthouses there, catering to the crews of the ships which docked in the harbour. Trushenko parked the car in a side street and walked the final few hundred yards to his destination. As a government minister, Trushenko had no need of travel passes or any other documentation, and he checked into the principal hotel without problems. He specified the largest room available, and insisted on a direct telephone line being provided through the hotel’s switchboard.
Twenty minutes after he had walked away from his boat, he was ready to log on again.
Hammersmith, London
‘You still there?’
‘Yes,’ said Richter.
‘The only thing that we’ve received that might fit is a single word,’ Abrahams said. ‘It doesn’t mean anything to us, but it might to you.’
‘What is it?’ Richter asked, picking up a pencil.
‘The word is Pripiska,’ Abrahams said, and spelt it.
‘Thanks. Can you tell me where it came from?’ Richter asked.
‘From our source in the east. It came in a message, but without any explanation.’
‘That’s pretty much what I hoped you’d say. I’ll get back to you, Roger,’ Richter said, and put down the phone. Richter looked across at Baker. ‘Here,’ he said, sliding the paper across the desk. ‘Try “Modin” again, then this.’
Prichernomorskaya Nizmennost’ District, Ukraine
Valentin Kabanov knew Port-Khorly well. As a young man he had enjoyed sitting in the port, watching the ships
arriving and departing and wondering to what exotic destinations they were bound. He also knew the local chief of police as a personal friend, and had telephoned him as soon as he had ended the call to Odessa. ‘Any stranger – that means anyone not known personally to one of your officers or to a prominent local citizen – who has arrived in the town today by boat or car is to be apprehended,’ Kabanov instructed.
‘Why are you so sure he’s here?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Kabanov replied. ‘But I’m assuming this man is not so stupid as to allow himself to be bottled up in the Crimea. That means he had to have an escape route planned, and the only sensible escape method would be by boat. We know he was staying on the north-west side of the Crimea – somewhere in the vicinity of Razdolnoye or Krasnoperekopsk – so if he had a boat, Port-Khorly would be his most likely destination.’
‘That makes sense,’ the police chief responded, ‘but finding him could take hours.’
‘We don’t have hours,’ Kabanov said. The alert message had stressed the urgency of the situation. ‘Use all available resources. Pull in all your off-duty officers, and call all your informers and agents. Call all the hotels and check all new registrations. Finding this man has the highest possible priority, and that instruction comes straight from Moscow.’ The leading car made the right turn off the main road at Kalanchak as Kabanov terminated the call.
Hammersmith, London
Baker typed in ‘Modin’ at the prompt, and then ‘Pripiska’, and immediately accessed the system. As with Karelin’s log on, a welcome message was displayed at the top, but with a much larger options menu below it.
‘That’s different,’ Richter said.
‘Damn right it is,’ Baker replied. He pointed at the screen. ‘What’s that say?’
Richter looked at the welcome message. ‘It says “Welcome, General Modin”,’ he said. ‘And the line below that translates as “Status – Principal User”.’
Baker actually clapped his hands. ‘Brilliant,’ he said. ‘This General Modin has high-level access – he’s a principal user. We’ve really got them now.’
‘I know I’ll regret asking this,’ Richter said, ‘but what exactly is a principal user?’
Baker’s fingers were flying over the keyboard as he accessed the menu system. ‘It depends on what the administrator defined in his user categories, but it should mean he can do pretty much whatever he likes on the system. He can change settings and specifications, maybe even detonate the weapons. He can make almost any changes he wants without reference to anybody else. The only higher levels would be a super-user, the system designer and the administrator. I wonder,’ he said, ‘how the Americans got hold of his password?’
‘I’ll tell you later,’ Richter said, and looked at the screen. Immediately he could see the differences in the displayed menu. There were five headings, not two, and he translated the new ones for Baker. ‘That’s Weapon Control,’ he said, ‘then there’s Network Control and the last is System Utilities.’
Baker rubbed his hands. ‘We’ll start with the network, I think,’ he said, and pressed a key. Richter always enjoyed watching an expert at work. His role was confined to that of translator, as Baker set about trying to disable the entire system. ‘There are two stages,’ he said, almost talking to himself. ‘First we lock out the other users, then we sort out the bombs.’ He turned to Richter. ‘Could you feed me the right words when I ask for them? It doesn’t matter much if we make mistakes now because we’re actually in the system.’
Baker chose the Network Control menu item, looked down the list of choices and selected Current Log Ins, and watched as the screen changed. ‘Two users on the system,’ Baker said. ‘We’ll leave them until last. Now we’ll try User Records.’ That wasn’t what he was looking for, but Username Table was. Baker printed a copy of all the usernames, plus the passwords for each one, then started to run down the list, changing each password as he went. He had barely started when a message appeared at the bottom of the screen.
Port-Khorly, Prichernomorskaya Nizmennost’ District, Ukraine
Trushenko waited patiently, watching the screen, as the communications program logged on to the mainframe in Krutaya. Once he had connected, he instructed the computer to let him access the Weapon Control module.
Hammersmith, London
‘What’s that say?’ Baker asked.
‘“New logon”,’ Richter translated. ‘The username is Trushenko. If that’s the same Dmitri Trushenko who orchestrated this, he’s trouble.’
‘He’s just logged on to the system,’ Baker said. ‘Maybe he’s just another technician. Let’s just see what his access level is.’
Baker scanned down the Username Table until he reached Trushenko. ‘Oops,’ Baker muttered. ‘Trushenko is listed as a super-user.’
‘Can you lock him out?’
‘I don’t know,’ Baker said. ‘I can change his password in the Username Table, which will stop him logging on again, but that won’t affect what he can do now.’
Richter watched as Baker altered the password. ‘What’s he doing?’ Richter asked.
Their principal-user access meant that they could literally look over user Trushenko’s shoulders and see what actions he was performing. ‘Oh, sweet Jesus,’ Baker muttered. ‘He’s accessing the Weapon Control module.’
The Walnut Room, the Kremlin, Krasnaya ploshchad, Moscow
‘We missed him, Comrade President,’ Yuri Baratov said. ‘The local SVR officers found his mobile phone, still switched on, in a dacha at Razdolnoye on the north-west coast of Crimea.’
‘What about the roadblocks?’ the President asked.
Baratov shook his head. ‘We think he left by boat. The police at Sevastopol have found records relating to the purchase of a high-speed powerboat in Trushenko’s name. They’re combing all the Black Sea ports for it now.’ He paused. ‘We’ll find him, Comrade President,’ he said, reassuringly.
The old Russian looked at him. ‘Oh, I’ve no doubt you’ll find him,’ he replied. ‘I just hope that when you do it won’t be too late.’
Port-Khorly, Prichernomorskaya Nizmennost’ District, Ukraine
Kabanov’s phone buzzed as his car drove through the northern outskirts of Port-Khorly. ‘Kabanov,’ he said.
‘We may have something,’ the police chief said. ‘Atall man was observed arriving here in a powerboat less than thirty minutes ago. We’re checking the boat’s registration—’
‘Forget the boat,’ Kabanov snapped. ‘It’s the man we’re after. Where did he go?’
‘At the moment, we don’t know. Our informer thinks he drove away in a car, but can’t be sure. He was too far away to see the suspect get into a car, but he is certain that a car was started and drove off a few minutes after the suspect reached the car-parking area.’
Kabanov absorbed the news in silence. ‘What about the hotels?’ he asked.
‘We’re checking them now. Nothing so far.’
‘Let me know the instant you have anything,’ Kabanov said. ‘We’ve just arrived in the town, but we’ll stay in the cars until I hear from you.’
Dmitri Trushenko paused, savouring the moment. Which one should he activate first? The first page of the Weapon Control module had three vertical columns. The left column listed ten American cities in alphabetical order, the second column showed the weapon yield, and the third the anticipated loss of life. There were twenty-three pages in all, listing two hundred and three weapons on American soil, plus fifteen in Europe. Trushenko flipped through the pages until he came to the last one. Yes, he mused, that would be a satisfactory demonstration of the effectiveness of Podstava. He moved the cursor down the page until ‘Washington D.C.’ was highlighted. Then he pressed the ‘Enter’ key on his laptop and waited.
Hammersmith, London
Richter watched in horror as Dmitri Trushenko decided on the random annihilation of around a million people. ‘Stop him, for God’s sake,’ he said.
‘I don’t know i
f I can,’ Baker replied, and began scanning the options.
Port-Khorly, Prichernomorskaya Nizmennost’ District, Ukraine
The screen on Trushenko’s laptop changed and the boxed message ‘Washington D.C. Weapon Enabled – Enter Authorization Code Three’ appeared in the centre of it. Trushenko reached into his jacket pocket and extracted a slim diary. He opened it at the back page and placed the diary beside his computer.
Then he began to carefully enter on the keyboard the twelve random letters and numbers which constituted the first firing authorization code.
Hammersmith, London
Richter sat silent, because shouting wouldn’t help. Baker was looking for any menu option that would enable him to disable the weapon or somehow override Trushenko’s instructions.
‘There’s nothing,’ Baker said, panic showing in his voice. ‘There’s no master override facility. I don’t think we can stop this.’
Port-Khorly, Prichernomorskaya Nizmennost’ District, Ukraine
At the first ring, Kabanov snatched up his mobile phone and pressed a button. ‘Yes?’
‘He’s at the Hotel Metropole,’ the police chief said. ‘Room 25. It’s on—’
‘I know where it is,’ Kabanov said. ‘We’re on our way.’
Hammersmith, London
‘Wait,’ Richter said. ‘That code he’s inputting.’
‘Yes?’
‘There must be a copy of it in the Krutaya computer. You know, to check that the right code is being input. Forget about looking for an override command – just change the system’s authorization codes.’
‘Brilliant,’ Baker said, ‘that’s fucking brilliant,’ and turned back to the keyboard.
Port-Khorly, Prichernomorskaya Nizmennost’ District, Ukraine
Overkill pr-1 Page 52
