Timebomb (Paul Richter)

by James Barrington

  When Johnson checked his emails that morning and read the one sent from Langley the previous evening, he spent almost two minutes cursing under his breath. Somebody else must have become alerted to the operation – the fact that the agent’s name had been entered in the database search field showed that clearly enough.

  What he had to decide was whether to try and identify who had initiated the search, or just sit back and wait. But if any of the other tripwires he’d placed in the computer system were triggered over the next few days, he knew he would have to do something, and quickly.

  Sittingbourne, Kent

  The Peugeot was located in a bay in a corner of the car park. By the time Richter and Mason arrived the surrounding area had already been taped off, and a forensic team was poring over the vehicle itself.

  DS Clark was standing nearby, having a conversation on his mobile phone, but as the two men approached he ended the call and turned to face his superior.

  ‘That was Canterbury,’ he explained to Mason, ‘and we’ve already had a confirmation from Hertz.’ The DI eyed him enquiringly. ‘There’s a bar-code sticker in the rear-side window,’ Clark pointed, ‘and the hire documents are there in the glove-box. This car was picked up by a man calling himself Helmut Kleber at Toulouse airport about ten days ago. He showed them a German passport and driving licence and paid with a Visa card in the same name. I’ve got Canterbury checking the provenance of those documents right now.’

  ‘The Visa card will probably come back verified,’ Richter said. ‘That’s just one of the things a good support agent would arrange. He would use his own contacts to set up a bank account and organize credit cards for the undercover agent he was assisting. But the driving licence and passport will most likely be faked.’

  ‘Driving licences I can understand,’ Clark said, ‘but passports? You mean one of these support agent people you’re talking about can get forgeries of them?’

  ‘They’re not that difficult to fake,’ Richter said, ‘not even the new biometric versions. Any competent forger can knock one up in a couple of hours. And don’t forget they normally only have to satisfy a deputy hotel manager or maybe some girl behind the counter at a car hire company. These passports won’t normally be shown to an immigration officer or anyone who would know exactly what to look for, or who has ready access to a database that can immediately identify a forgery. For that, the agent will be carrying the real thing, in a different name and probably issued by his own government. That’s why our dead man used the genuine “Gregory Stevens” passport when he crossed the Channel. He couldn’t afford to risk showing a faked document – not even a really good forgery.’

  ‘Are you carrying a weapon?’ Clark asked, as Richter’s jacket swung open to show part of his shoulder holster.

  ‘Yes,’ Richter replied shortly. ‘And I’d suggest you don’t start fannying around with checking my carry permit.’

  ‘So what now?’ Mason asked.

  As I said before, even if this man was working deep undercover, he would probably have kept some kind of an emergency pack with him, something that he could produce as a last resort to the security and police forces of whatever country he was working in. That might then blow his mission completely, but it would allow him to get immediate help, and could even save his life if whatever he was doing suddenly turned to rat-shit. You didn’t find anything like that in his hotel room, so my guess is it’s hidden somewhere in the car.

  ‘Finding that would be a big help, because it might identify whatever agency he was working for, and knowing exactly who he was would then provide me with a big stick to hit the Yanks over the head with. And that might mean we could find out just what the hell he was really doing over here.’

  Fifteen minutes later, one of the white-clad figures summoned Mason over to the rear of the car. By that stage they’d removed almost everything from the Peu-geot’s boot and had found nothing of interest, but once this man lifted out the spare wheel, he saw a small, flat packet taped to its underside.

  Clark and Mason pulled on latex gloves and leant forward to scrutinize the object. ‘There won’t be a booby-trap or anything in it, will there?’ Clark asked.

  ‘Most unlikely,’ Richter muttered, also peering closely at the packet. ‘An explosive charge would destroy whatever documents are in it, and that’s the last thing he would want. And it really isn’t big enough to hold some kind of anti-handling device. I think it’s just a normal pouch holding documents.’

  ‘OK,’ Clark said, uncertainly.

  ‘Cut the tape,’ Mason ordered, ‘and give me the packet.’

  The white-clad officer reached into a tool box beside him and selected a Stanley knife. Extending the blade, he bent forward and carefully cut straight across the black insulating tape that secured the packet to the wheel. Then he picked it up gingerly and handed it to Mason.

  Despite Richter’s reassurance, the DI took it with obvious trepidation and studied it closely. It was a plain black leather pouch, and the first thing he took out was an American passport. Richter pulled on the rubber gloves Clark handed him and accepted the passport from Mason. He opened it, flicked to the page with the photograph and examined the information it contained. The photograph was instantly recognizable, and the name of the holder was given as ‘Gregory Stevens’.

  ‘If we can scan this somewhere here,’ Richter said, ‘I’ll email it over to Langley see if the picture rings any bells with them. Anything else in there?’

  ‘Just a bit of paper.’ Mason handed it over.

  Richter carefully unfolded the sheet and looked at it. The data on this one was handwritten rather than encoded, perhaps because there was hardly any information on it, yet what there was didn’t make obvious sense. There were only seven lines of text, all written in block capitals:

  1/8

  KELLERMAN

  5412

  SM/VIPER

  TS – SCI DINGO

  NOTATIONAL – OVERWHELMS

  6/30

  ‘That mean anything to you?’ Mason asked, staring over Richter’s shoulder.

  ‘Some of it, yes,’ Richter admitted, ‘and I don’t like the look of this at all.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because this is beginning to look more and more as if it’s a CIA operation. The Company is very predictable and, like any bureaucracy, it follows certain rules. One of them is the way it designates the geographical area in which an operation will be carried out. “SM” stands for the United Kingdom, so this’ – he pointed to the fourth line – ‘means that there is a CIA operation called “VIPER” currently being run in Britain. And it’s obviously highly classified. The letters “TS” in the fifth line probably mean “top secret”.’

  ‘What about “SCI Dingo”?’

  ‘One of the problems with the higher-security classifications – and there are about thirty grades higher than top secret – is that they’re very general. I’ve got a “cosmic top secret” clearance, which means I can legally have sight of all CTS documents, and obviously anything with a lower classification than that. But often such documents contain information that is extremely sensitive and therefore have a very limited distribution, and that’s why the SCI system was first introduced. SCI stands for Special Compartmentalized Intelligence, and it’s a code word clearance system only applicable to documents classified at top secret level and above. Basically, applying SCI to a document or operation means that knowledge of it can be restricted to a very small group of people. So with a CTS clearance I can get to see a top secret document, but unless I also had, in this case, “Dingo” clearance, I couldn’t see whatever else this is referring to.’

  ‘A dingo’s a kind of wild dog, isn’t it?’ Mason asked, frowning.

  ‘The word chosen doesn’t mean anything at all. Most operation names and SCI code words are generated at random by a computer, and that’s the whole point. If you have a secret operation running, it doesn’t make a lot of sense if the name you choose has some clear c
onnection to it. That would be an obvious breach of security, hence the names being randomly assigned.’

  ‘That makes sense, I suppose. And what about the rest of it?’

  ‘The two words “notational” and “overwhelms” I already knew,’ Richter said. ‘They were the decryption key words for the double-transposition cipher on that other paper you found. The first and last lines look like dates, and “Kellerman” is obviously a personal name. But I have no clue what “5412” means. I’m going to have to talk to my Langley contact to try and make some sense of this.’

  Romford, Essex

  A little after nine thirty the big roller-shutter doors at the front of the warehouse slid up fully and a man wearing blue overalls emerged. He gestured, and one of the ‘Metropolitan Police’ vans backed out, two shadowy uniformed figures just visible inside the cab behind the wire-mesh guard over the windscreen. The van reversed out, swung round and then drove off down the road. It was followed shortly afterwards by another van, but this was one of those that had been parked at the rear of the warehouse and was entirely unmarked. Again, two men sat in the cab, and a keen observer might have noted that the rear doors were secured by two external hasps, each fitted with a heavy-duty padlock.

  Maidstone, Kent

  Mason led Richter through into a rear office of the police station, equipped with two fax machines and a photocopier. Prior to making his call to Westwood, Richter made copies of both the ‘Gregory Stevens’ passport and the sheet of paper they’d found in the boot of the Peugeot, before handing the originals back to the DI.

  ‘Stay if you want,’ he suggested. ‘This is an open line, so I won’t be saying anything that’s classified.’

  ‘Who are you calling?’ Mason asked.

  ‘He’s a senior CIA agent. I’ve known him for a few years, and we’ve worked together a couple of times in the past.’

  ‘You do know it’s about four in the morning over on the East Coast?’ Mason warned.

  ‘I do, but I think this is too important to wait for the normal start of business. And anyway, knowing John, he won’t mind.’

  Richter pulled out his mobile and found Westwood’s home number.

  ‘You could use one of the landlines here if you like.’

  Richter shook his head. ‘No thanks. My friend’s very particular about who knows his name and home number, so I’d best use my mobile.’

  He heard the ringing tone, then Westwood’s slightly sleepy voice. ‘Good morning, Paul.’

  ‘How did you know it was me?’ Richter asked.

  ‘Paul, it’s four o’clock in the morning here and I’m still in bed. I’ve left standing orders back at Langley for them to call me at home only if World War Three has started and the enemy troops have already reached Washington. So who else could it be?’

  ‘Point taken, John. Right, this is an open line, so no specifics, please. Regarding the matter we discussed yesterday and earlier today, we’ve recovered a passport that seems to confirm the man’s identity, and it is precisely who we thought it was.’

  ‘OK. I can’t say I’m that surprised. Anything else?’

  ‘Yes,’ Richter said, picking up the photocopy of the document they’d found in the car. ‘We also recovered some notes our man had made. Most of them I can’t relay over an open line, but there is what looks like a code name that seems to suggest a Company operation over here where I live. Do you follow me?’

  ‘Yes. You’re talking about a Sierra Mike op?’

  ‘Exactly The other thing I can say is just four numbers. They mean nothing to me, but maybe they do to you.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘The numbers are five, four, one, two.’

  For a few seconds Westwood didn’t respond. ‘No,’ he said slowly, ‘That doesn’t mean anything to . . . Hang on, are you sure? Five, four, one, two? Yes?’

  ‘Confirmed. So what is it?’

  ‘If that means what I think it does, you’re not looking at a Company op, or not in the sense you’re looking at it. It’s something much more serious. We need to discuss this over a secure link, Paul, and quickly.’

  ‘Understood. Look, do you have a fax machine there? I can squirt this stuff over to you and I’ll call you from the office as soon as I get back there. That should be safe enough.’

  ‘No, Paul, not even a fax, please. I’m heading for the office as soon as I can. Call me when you get back to Hammersmith, and then we’ll discuss it properly. Don’t talk to anyone else about this.’

  ‘You got it,’ Richter said, and ended the call.

  ‘So what does he think?’ Mason asked.

  ‘I don’t know. But it sounds like those four numbers have got him really worried. So worried, in fact, that he won’t even let me fax that sheet of paper. I’ve got to get back to London and call him on a secure line just so I can find out what the hell this is all about.’

  Greenford, London

  The unmarked white van turned into a side street about half a mile from its objective. There was a small area of rough ground at one end of the street, just big enough to allow the driver to manoeuvre the vehicle round to face the way it had come. He stopped the van on a set of double yellow lines, partially blocking the pavement, then wound down his window. He lit a cigarette and glanced across at his companion, who was doing likewise.

  ‘We’re well ahead of schedule,’ the driver remarked, checking his watch against the digital display on the dashboard. ‘I’d better check in with Hans.’

  He pulled out the ashtray, carefully placed his cigarette on it, took a mobile phone from his pocket and dialled a number from memory.

  ‘This is Alpha Two,’ he said, once his call was answered. ‘We’re in a holding position about half a mile out.’

  ‘Good,’ Morschel replied. ‘Alpha One’s already checked in and they’re parked, too. Once you’ve moved into your final position, they’ll get mobile.’

  Hammersmith, London

  ‘Those two pages are on their way to you right now,’ Richter confirmed. ‘So, tell me. What’s with those four numbers, John?’

  ‘Hang on, I’m just reading the fax . . . OK. Now, 5412. It’s a long story. Ever since the end of the Second World War, the Agency’s had access to a top-secret slush fund, a pile of money that even Congress knows absolutely nothing about, and for which the director is directly solely and personally accountable to the president himself. During Eisenhower’s time in the White House, the National Security Council issued a paper recommending the creation of a top-secret group to advise the CIA on the best way to spend this cash.

  ‘That paper’s number was 5412, and the group born out of that recommendation was called simply the 5412 Committee. It’s always been the single most secret organization in the States, and it still exists today, though it’s gone through a succession of different and obscure designations. It’s been called “The 303” and “The 40 Committee” and a number of other innocuous names, but most people in the know just refer to it as “The Special Group”.

  ‘That group’s purpose today is the same as it was back in Ike’s day. Every covert, illegal or simply potentially embarrassing operation the Agency wants to undertake is first approved by The Special Group, before the president gets to hear about it, so that our chief executive can then quite truthfully deny all knowledge of it if the shit hits the fan. In fact, not even the National Security Council is told about its activities, and the president’s approval is only ever given verbally – nothing is ever written or signed.’

  ‘I have heard of The Special Group,’ Richter reflected, ‘but I didn’t know much about it, and I certainly didn’t know about the identifying numbers. Who’s actually part of it?’

  ‘There are usually only four members. It’s normally headed by the National Security Advisor, and the other three are the Secretary of State, the Secretary of Defense and, of course, the Director of National Intelligence ever since that post replaced that of the Director of Central Intelligence. Most of the covert stuff yo
u probably already know about – the building of the U-2, the assassination of Salvador Allende in Chile and Iran-Contra – were all clandestine CIA projects approved by The Special Group.’

  ‘So what’s the story now? Are you saying this guy Stevens was running an operation over here on behalf of this crowd?’

  ‘Maybe. But if he was, I’ve no idea of the objective, and you’ll appreciate that there’s no easy way I can find out. Membership of The Special Group is way above my pay scale, and for obvious reasons I can’t just buttonhole the Secretary of Defense, or one of the others, to ask him about this covert op he’s got running in London.’

  ‘Is there anything you can do?’

  ‘I can run a search through the computer system and see if there’s any mention of SM slash VIPER, but if the operation was carried out with the sole approval of The Special Group, it almost certainly never made it as far as the database we’ve got here. We’re probably looking at a totally deniable op, with verbal briefings, absolutely nothing in writing, and just a tiny number of people who’ve even heard of it.’

  ‘Understood, John. You’re probably right, but could you check anyway? Oh, and run a check on the name “Kellerman” as well, just in case that helps.’

  ‘Will do. I’ll call you back.’

  It didn’t take Westwood long to respond. Less than ten minutes later, Richter’s secure phone rang.

  ‘Right, Paul. First, there’s no mention of an operation codenamed SM slash VIPER on the database here, so that looks like a dead end. But I have found something else that’s a little odd. On the sheet of paper you faxed, the first line could be a date – 1/8 – which I assume means the eighth of January. If that was this year, there’s a possible link to the name “Kellerman”. On that afternoon, the body of a junior CIA officer named Richard Kellerman was found in the north Chinatown area of Washington. He’d been shot once in the chest with a 9-millimetre pistol. The slug was pretty badly chewed up, but from the rifling marks it looked like it had been fired from a Browning. His wallet and watch were missing, too, and his empty briefcase was dumped beside him. The police investigation didn’t turn up any suspects, so the killing was written off as just another mugging that went wrong.’