Timebomb : A Thriller (9781468300093)

by Seymour, Gerald

  An apple was given him and the beaker was filled again. The coffee scalded his mouth. He held tight to the apple.

  ‘And we’ll put stones under the trees on which will be carved the names of some who went this route to die. We believe that the trees we put here and the stones will last for many years. Then this place and what was done here won’t be forgotten. We consider it would be a crime if the memory of the camp’s evil was lost.’

  He took a bite from the apple.

  ‘I think, friend, you’re quite old. Excuse me, because I don’t wish to intrude, but you would have been a boy when the camp existed. I wonder, were you here when there was the break-out? Did you live in the forest with your parents? Do you remember when the camp revolted?’

  Hands held out more sandwiches wrapped in cellophane, and a slice of fruit cake. His stomach growled. Tadeuz Komiski heard the sirens, rifle shots, and the rattle of machine-guns, which was clearest because they had been fired from the elevated watchtowers.

  ‘Do you remember … remember … remember? Were you here … here … here?’

  Remember? It was never out of his mind. Tadeuz Komiski was always in this place, among these trees. He dropped the beaker and the remnants of the coffee slopped on his trouser leg. He threw away the half-eaten apple, turned his back on the sandwiches and cake, and ran.

  ‘Well, I suppose the best that can be said of it is that bloody Lawson didn’t show up. Anyway, here’s what’s come through.’

  In a basement of the embassy building, Deadeye was passed two packages by the station chief. Big and bulky, wrapped in the thick brown paper used to send heavy parcels through the post for kids’ birthdays. But the packages weren’t presents, the courts had ordered that Deadeye had no contact with the children of his three failed marriages, and they hadn’t come through the post but by diplomatic courier.

  The station chief said, ‘Don’t think of opening them here. I saw the inventory and didn’t want to know that much. Another of Lawson’s hare-brained games? Count me out. Just give me a signature.’

  On the paper offered him – and it referred to the delivery and collection of ‘unspecified items’ – Deadeye scrawled an unrecognizable name. He picked up the packages, one under each arm. Under his right elbow, beneath the paper, was a canvas bag that held a Heckler & Koch machine pistol; under his left elbow, and beneath that wrapping, was a holdall with stun and smoke grenades, a Glock 9mm pistol, sufficient ammunition for the two weapons to fill five magazines, and a field medical kit.

  ‘So that there are no misunderstandings – and please pass this to the esteemed Mr Lawson – should any of these “unspecified items” be used inside the borders of the new greater Germany then he, you and whatever ragtag army he has in tow will be pegged out to dry. Still living in the Good Old Days, is he? From me, please quote verbatim, the time when we could run round like an occupying power is gone. No offence, and nothing personal, but just fuck off out of here soonest.’

  He was shown the door. Deadeye was led up a staircase, taken through the lobby, damn near slung out of the embassy entrance. ‘Wanker,’ he murmured. Rain dripped on to the paper wrapping. He walked down Wilhelmstrasse, past the German police guards – more wankers – and threaded through the chicane of concrete blocks in place there to prevent a suicide bomber in a vehicle achieving martyrdom. He used few words, wouldn’t have wasted them on the station chief. Truth was, he rather liked Mr Lawson. That he did not walk easily, down Wilhelmstrasse, in the late afternoon when the pavements were crowded with the spill-out of ministry workers, had nothing to do with the weight he carried under each arm. In the bathroom, before breakfast, he had checked his testicles and the bruising was still there. After three days there were still technicolour shades round them, but Deadeye hadn’t complained, was never a moan-merchant. In fact, he was pretty damn pleased that Mr Lawson still called him up.

  His name, Deadeye, had been with him for twenty-six years: once he had been a young marine, cosy in the sanger on top of Londonderry’s walls with his rifle and its mounted telescopic sight. The Provo guy had been eleven hundred yards away and had taken the M-1 carbine out of the boot of the car and been sniped. His company major had called it the ‘finest exhibition of marksmanship I ever heard of’, and his colonel had congratulated him on ‘bloody fine shooting, real Deadeye Dick stuff’. It had stuck. He was Deadeye in the Special Boat Squadron when he was married to Leanne, Deadeye as an instructor at the Commando Training Centre, Lympstone, when he was married to Mavis, Deadeye in the first Iraq war as an increment with SIS, holed up with a big bloody radio and his rifle in a Kuwait City apartment block, when he was married to Adele … He was still Deadeye, but wasn’t married to anyone.

  He turned off Wilhelmstrasse and, in the far distance, saw the minibus. The rain had come on harder, but he reckoned the paper wrapping would hold till he reached shelter.

  That he worked at all, that his loneliness in a one-bedroomed flat on the outskirts of Plymouth was ever broken, was due to Christopher Lawson. No one else called him. The bloody wives didn’t, or the kids. He didn’t do reunions, men getting pissed and polishing reputations. He had no friends. To kill the time he put together expensive models of men o’ war from Nelson’s time, with intricate rigging, and waited for the phone to ring. That loneliness, with the model kit for company and the phone not ringing, hurt deep.

  He reached the minibus, dragged open the door, climbed in. They were all there, squashed in, except Dennis. Lawson was in the front, had the passenger seat, and Adrian was at the wheel. Their breath had misted the windows. Deadeye squeezed between Bugsy and Shrinks, then chucked the packages in their wet wrapping over his shoulders on to the laps of Davies and the girl. He didn’t give a toss for his grunt and her squeal. Lawson looked at him, quizzed with a raised eyebrow, and Deadeye nodded.

  ‘How was my colleague?’

  Deadeye said, ‘He badmouthed you, Mr Lawson.’

  ‘Predictable … He won’t for much longer, if I’m right. Yes, time for a bigger picture.’

  Deadeye thought Mr Lawson always did the big picture well, and he settled back in his seat to listen. Well, it would help to see the big picture, help good.

  ‘I told you, back in London, that my supposition was of a warhead being brought from Russian territory – to be precise, as I was then, from the former closed city of Arzamas-16 – for delivery and sale to a Russian ethnic criminal organization. I believe, after that sale, a second deal will be struck with a purchaser who will attempt to detonate that warhead in a city in western Europe, probably in the UK, or in the United States of America. The aim of Operation Haystack is to disrupt such a deal and to destroy such a sale. To that end I am endeavouring to insert our man, November, as far as I can into the bowels of that criminal organization. We have made progress.’

  Lawson paused. He seldom rushed on explanations when they had to be given. He believed a stuttering drip-feed of information better held the attention of an audience. By stopping in his monologue, he had the chance to look around him, to study the faces and see where support rested, where antagonism built.

  ‘Take the story of Oliver Twist. Forget about Oliver, but recall the character of Sykes. Sykes had a dog, a much whipped mongrel that harboured no malice and followed its vile master. After Sykes had, most brutally, murdered a pretty girl, he fled. There was a hue and cry. Diligent citizens pursued Sykes, anxious to apprehend him, see him tried, condemned and hanged – but they lost him. Sykes would have escaped but for the loyalty of the mongrel, which refused to be abandoned. The dog trailed him, found him. He could not throw it off. Allusions to this may be flawed but the conclusion is justified. The pursuers followed the dog. The dog handed them their man. We have a dog and we call him November. Understood?’

  No questions, but Bugsy passed round a little box of breath-freshener pills. He looked into the faces of the girl and young Davies, saw outrage and enjoyed it.

  ‘At every opportunity presented me, I have endeavoured
to push our man, November, further from dependence on us. I have no interest in him believing that we hold his salvation in our hands. We are achieving this aim. We saw it today, November supported by Reuven Weissberg. Links are in place. Reuven Weissberg, and our mongrel has led us to him, is a considerable player in the ranks of organized crime, well capable of purchasing and selling on a device from Arzamas-16. He is—’

  Shrill, a voice from the back: ‘I don’t think I’m hearing this … Are you just using Johnny Carrick – yes, he does have a bloody name, is not simply a codeword and a file number – like he’s a half-dead fish hooked on to a treble and lobbed into a lake to catch a damn pike? He’s owed more, a bloody sight more, than you’re offering.’

  ‘Charmingly put, my dear. As I was saying, our man is embedded in the world of Reuven Weissberg. If I’m correct, Reuven Weissberg will travel in the next few hours to the East and will have a prearranged rendezvous to take delivery of the device, the warhead, whatever. Our man has to lead us, show us where to be. Then we deal with the matter. Questions?’

  He saw that the girl shivered. Saw also that young Davies had slipped an arm loosely round her shoulder, doing the comforter role. He thought questions, accusations, were blurring the girl’s mind and her lips moved, but she didn’t cough out her hatred of him.

  Bugsy spoke. ‘I’m not one to cringe. Don’t get me wrong, Guv’nor. I’m up for this like we all are. How safe is this thing likely to be? I think it’s only fair we should know.’

  ‘Drop it on your foot, Bugsy, and there will not be a mushroom cloud but you will have a broken toe. In the heart of this weapon – the pit – if it’s to be sold on, there will be plutonium or highly enriched uranium. Pack round that pit several kilos of commercial or military explosive, along with a detonator and a wire to a button switch or a remote, and you will have what we laughingly call a “dirty bomb”. A dirty bomb, when triggered, will contaminate a city centre to the extent that it has to be abandoned. It is a dirty bomb that Reuven Weissberg will take delivery of and sell on, and Josef Goldmann is in place to make payment for it, then accept payment on sale. I hope, with your help – and November’s – to stop him. Questions?’

  He sensed it had welled up, but was controlled. Young Davies asked. ‘Did you consider sharing your suspicions?’

  ‘With whom?’

  ‘Well, for a start, we’re in Germany – sharing with the BfV. Allies, aren’t they?’

  ‘Unreliable, burdened with bureaucracy. Next question.’

  ‘If the device is coming from Russia, and the Cold War’s over, why not share with them?’

  ‘For a decade the Russians have rebuffed insinuations that their nuclear arsenals are porous. It is not accepted that a weapon could be missing – it would be regarded as “provocation” to suggest it. The Cold War’s over, is it?’

  ‘So, just us and the agent stand between peace for the great unwashed and Armageddon. Too damn proud to share … Down to us and him?’

  ‘About right,’ Lawson said.

  ‘That’s ridiculous.’

  ‘It’s the way it will be.’

  ‘And should we fail on the interception, should we lose it, or inconveniently lose them, what happens? Do I hear you say, Mr Lawson, “Let’s go for a beer”? Do we stand at the bar, wait for the big bang and—’

  ‘I think we’re aware of your opinion and the prejudice it carries.’

  ‘You’ll be damned, Mr Lawson – oh, did Clipper Reade not share? – if you fail.’

  ‘I do not intend to fail.’ He was hurt. Wouldn’t have shown it. The sneering reference to Clipper had wounded. Couldn’t have explained his reverence and respect for the big Texan. The best damn years of his life had been with Clipper, and Lawson could well recall his desolation when the American had left Berlin and taken the flight down the corridor out of Tempelhof. He had known that Clipper, in a week, would be en route to the States and retirement. He had written once, now twenty-seven years ago, to the Agency’s personnel department, just a chatty note in his own handwriting, and it had been returned in a clean envelope with a slip inside stating Addressee instructed no forwarded mail. Had only the memories, the wisecracks and the wisdom to hold on to. He had shredded that chatty note, never written again, and had never asked Agency people what had happened to his mentor, but had kept the past alive … And a little wet-behind-the-ears bastard had sneered at that name. ‘And with your help and co-operation I shall not fail.’

  The silence hung inside the minibus, as if it was a burden.

  He was anonymous, a stranger in the city. The Crow had not visited Damascus before. He was in a lodging-house, two streets back from the north end of Semiramis Square. He had bought food from a street stall and taken it back to his room.

  He lay on the bed. An electric fan on the table ruffled his hair but its constant whine was insufficient to distract him. He reflected. Of course, the Crow felt no resentment at what he believed his future held. Alone in the aircraft that had brought him to Syria, and on the pavements of its capital city, he had considered his position, and the future. Some, faced with such a situation, cut off thoughts of those they had loved, found a new woman and a new life. He would not. He couldn’t imagine being in the bed of another woman or holding other children in his arms. They knew nothing of what he did, what he planned. Those he had left behind were in complete ignorance of who he was. They would learn.

  It would happen. It was inevitable. In the hour before dawn, in a week, a month or a year, the front door of his home would be bludgeoned open and men of the Interior Ministry’s investigation unity, the mabaheth, would pour into the villa, with Americans of the Agency trailing behind them. While rooms were ripped apart, his wife and children would cower in a corner and questions would be screamed at them. It would happen. However close the security around an operation, traces were always left. So many of the leaders’ names were known once the work of an operation was completed. The very attack opened the road for the investigators to follow. Now the Crow was unknown, but in the hours after an explosion and as computers pored over the minutiae of travel arrangements, his name and picture would materialize. He would be running, would be in hiding until the day he made a mistake or was betrayed … The love of his wife and children would be stretched to breaking-point as investigators rifled through their home.

  He would have inflicted that pain on them. He couldn’t apologize. He couldn’t ask their forgiveness. He was a soldier, committed to war, and he believed he had the chance to attack and wound his enemy.

  ‘Please, don’t do that,’ Sak said, emphasized it.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ His mother stood in the kitchen doorway, hands on her hips, her head shaking in confusion.

  ‘There is no problem.’

  ‘I said, reasonably enough, if we need to reach you while you’re away we’ll get your accommodation address from the school.’

  ‘Don’t.’

  ‘Why the mystery? You’re on school business. They’ll know where you are.’

  ‘You shouldn’t call the school. They wouldn’t like it.’

  His father, more confused than his mother, intervened from the sofa. ‘But you said yourself that your mobile won’t be on.’

  ‘Don’t call the school.’ He flounced out, crossed the hall, stamped up the stairs, slammed the door of his room.

  Sak fell on his bed.

  He imagined them. His father would again be slumped in front of the television and his mother would be doing her final tidy of the kitchen before coming upstairs for the night, and he had perplexed them both. It had been an aside from his mother: ‘You said you didn’t know your hotel when you’re away. Should we need to contact you, I don’t know why, but – well, the school secretary will tell us … because you say your mobile won’t be switched on.’ All innocence. His mother, almost, had caught him in the lie of his doing reconnaissance for a school trip later in the year. He was a poor conspirator, recognized it.

  He wouldn’t have
dared now to back out of the conspiracy.

  There had been a moment when he had stood in front of a metal-faced gate to the garden of a villa on the outskirts of Quetta when he might have. But he had sucked in a big breath and pressed the bell. Inside, under a walnut tree, sitting on the dried earth, welcomed, propositioned, he couldn’t have backed out – hadn’t wished to, and had felt himself, at last, to be important. Couldn’t have backed out when the car had pulled up beside him as he walked away from the school gate, and he was told what he should do, and when – not in the form of a request but as an instruction. He had been told to take holiday from work, to find an excuse for his absence from his family, and he had been ordered to leave his mobile phone behind, because, when switched on, a mobile phone left a footprint.

  He lay on his bed, with his packed bag close to the door. A life of failure swam past him. Sak had no idea of the enormity of the conspiracy he had joined, or of the many who were part of it.

  ‘I tell you, Yashkin—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You always fucking interrupt … I tell you I feel better.’

  ‘A pity we have no wine to celebrate.’

  They were long past Pogar and had gone through Starodub, a miserable little place, Molenkov had thought, and were now on the main route, the M13. Not from choice, but there was no side road on which Molenkov could navigate them to Klincy, where they would sleep. He sensed that his friend’s sour mood came from his directions that they must use the highway. Every car sped past them, and every van, every motorcycle, every lorry hooted in a cacophony because the plodding Polonez was an obstacle. Drivers held up behind them hit their horns and flashed headlights, and when they came level they pointed to the hard shoulder, as if that was where a slow old car should be.

  ‘Are you sulking because I’ve omitted to ask why you feel better?’