Brian Freemantle - Bomb Grade

Popov shrugged the protest aside. Able, from the way he was standing, to conceal the heavy seriousness between them from other parents in the room he said, simply, ‘Hello.’

‘Hello,’ said Natalia, just as serious. Should she, could she, take another chance?

Stanislav Silin knew he had them rattled, Sobelov most of all. It was a good feeling, like it had been a good feeling watching the bombast leak from the man when Sobelov realized how easily the size of the robbery would re-establish things in their proper order.

Silin had guessed, of course, about the money involved but he didn’t think it was an exaggeration to value 250 kilos of weapons-graded material, which was what he’d been promised, at $75,000,000 at least. They’d been dumbstruck by that, as he’d known they would be because he had been when the size had been put to him. Sobelov had tried to recover, questioning both the amount and the profit, but the others hadn’t doubted him. They hadn’t just believed him, they’d backed him, not even Bobin or Frolov supporting the demand that there should be a change in the system to involve all of them in the negotiations instead of leaving it to him alone, which was his agreed right as the boss of bosses. Silin had been worried at that insistence, unsure how much ground he’d lost: the fact that everyone apart from Sobelov was prepared to leave the brokering to him, like it had always been in the past, had to be the best indicator he could have wished that he could defeat Sobelov’s challenge.

But he still couldn’t afford to relax.

He’d always protected his sources but this time the secret had to be absolute, not just for their benefit but to prevent Sobelov trying to take over, which the man might attempt in his desperation. Just as secretly as he had to set things up in Berlin and for the same reasons.

And when he’d put everything in motion he could start planning how Sobelov was going to die. He was going to enjoy that.

Silin looked to the side of the room at Markov’s re-entry, for the nod of assurance that Marina’s guards had been properly briefed.

Everything was working out perfectly.

Q uestions crowded in upon him but Charlie Muffin was too experienced to interrupt. It wasn’t just what Rupert Dean was saying. Or the awareness that he had been professionally reprieved. There was the overwhelming personal implication. But which couldn’t be allowed to become overwhelming. Anything personal had to be blocked off, later more calmly to be assessed. For the moment the posting was the only thing he could afford to let into his mind.

So Natalia had to be forgotten.

Dean’s presentation, like his demeanour, was that of a lecturer concisely establishing with facts and assessments and analyses a problem that phrases and words like ‘potentially catastrophic’ and ‘cataclysmic’ and ‘nightmare’ did not exaggerate. He also referred to ‘political sensitivity’ and ‘extreme caution’ and ‘essential cooperation’ and Charlie knew they weren’t exaggerations either. Dean concluded, ‘So that’s your brief, to liaise with the Russians and with the already appointed Americans to do everything you can to stem the flow of nuclear material to the West.’

Charlie wondered if the telephone boxes in Moscow would be large enough for him to change into his Superman outfit. ‘There are officers from this department already attached to the British embassy in Moscow. Others from SIS, too.’

‘Engaged in their normal functions, which remain quite separate from what you are being appointed to achieve,’ said Dean. ‘Our role was extended years ago to combat the terrorism in Northern Ireland. Now it’s being widened even further. And what’s coming out of Russia and its former satellites provides the potential for the worst terrorism imaginable.’

‘To whom will I be responsible? The station chief? Or direct to London?’ Charlie had rarely engaged in an operation where jealously guarded territory did not have to be respected. Diplomatic niceties were always a pain in the ass.

‘London. But through the embassy,’ ordered the sharply featured Peter Johnson.

‘What’s my officially described position to be?’

It was Patrick Pacey who responded. ‘An attache. Don’t for a moment forget the genuine political importance of what you’re doing…’ He made a hand movement over the conference table and Charlie became aware that each of the group had his personal dossiers before them. ‘There won’t be any of the nonsense of the past,’ continued the department’s political advisor. ‘Just one example of what you’ve always explained away – and got away with – as necessary operational independence and you’re on the first plane back to London. And in this building only long enough to be formally dismissed from the service once and for all.’

‘And don’t suffer the slightest doubt at our seriousness,’ endorsed the deputy Director. ‘There are changes to our function. This is one of them: you’re one of them. So you’ve got to change, like everything else about the business we’re now in. There’s no place for anyone disobeying orders. That clear enough?’

‘Completely,’ Charlie said, caught by just one part of the threat. ‘This isn’t seen as a temporary assignment: one specific operation?’

‘The Americans got agreement a long time ago to appoint an FBI office in Moscow specifically to monitor nuclear smuggling,’ reminded the deputy Director. ‘You’re our equivalent.’

‘To liaise,’ instructed Simpson, the moustache hedge seemingly moving slightly out of time with the man’s upper lip. ‘That’s your sole function…’ He gestured sideways to Pacey. ‘You’ve got to do more than simply think what the politics are. Whatever it is, it will be inextricably tied up with legality. The Russians are the law, not us. We have – you’ll have – no legal jurisdiction. All the nuclear stuff haemorrhaging across Europe is coming overland through Poland and Hungary and Germany and the two countries that made up Czechoslovakia and what was Yugoslavia.’

Minefield was too much of an appalling pun, thought Charlie. ‘It’ll be a waste of time even bothering,’ he declared. ‘Before we’ve even begun working our way through the officials we’d need to consult, every terrorist group, despot or dictator will have atom bombs up to their knees.’

‘Let’s be more specific,’ said the distinctively voiced Director-General. ‘We decide here in London who should be consulted and who shouldn’t. The important thing for you to understand, totally and at all times, is that you must never, ever, act without consulting us.’

He’d made the protest to maintain his credibility, which was all that mattered. There were other, more essential parameters to be established: one more important than all others. ‘I don’t think I can operate effectively – as I will have to operate – living in the embassy compound.’

‘Why not?’ demanded Williams, sensing a danger.

Because it would severely limit the enormous expenses benefits, thought Charlie. ‘According to what you say, the nuclear trade is handled by gangsters: an acknowledged Mafia.’ He briefly hesitated, wondering if Natalia had transferred to the Interior Ministry, just as quickly thrusting the intrusion aside. ‘Would the Foreign Office like the idea of my meeting a questionable informant on embassy property

…?’ He turned his attention to Simpson, warming to his argument. ‘Wouldn’t there even be a legal difficulty…?’ And then to Pacey. ‘… As well as a political one…?’

‘I still think…’ began Williams, anxious to continue his objection, but Dean cut the man off. ‘There are obvious advantages to your living separate from the embassy.’