James Barrington - Foxbat

Oustenka now looked a little less doubtful. ‘I can assure you, General, that all my aircraft are accounted for.’

‘I don’t doubt it,’ Bykov replied dryly. ‘Now, the scenario we envisage is that these foreign agents first find a pilot who’s willing to participate. Then it’s up to the pilot to identify those senior officers whose cooperation would be essential, and who in turn would be approached with the offer of a bribe. Only when everyone who needs to be involved has been suborned would the theft go ahead, as the appropriate documentation is prepared.’

‘And you think Lenkov was approached?’

‘Yes – and the fact that he’s dead means he wasn’t prepared to go along with them.’

‘But why would he even have talked to them?’ Oustenka asked.

‘We don’t know,’ Richter said, ‘but we presume their pitch would have been credible, and obviously unrelated to their real objective. For example, perhaps they told him they were making a documentary film about the Russian Air Force and would need some shots of MiG-25s engaged in practice air combat. Or they were trying to recruit current front-line pilots for instructor duties with a Third-World air force. Something like that.’

Oustenka nodded, and Bykov leant forward. ‘Yes, Colonel?’ he said.

‘When I heard that Lenkov had been killed, I interviewed each squadron member individually and asked them if they had any idea who might have wished to harm him. One officer, Pavel Bardin, told me he’d been with Lenkov in a bar in the city one evening when three men approached them. They claimed to be looking for qualified MiG-25 pilots to join the air force of one of the Gulf States. Bardin took their contact number, though he wasn’t really interested in taking such a step, but he said that Lenkov seemed more enthusiastic.’

Bykov looked triumphant. ‘Where is this Bardin? Can we see him?’

Oustenka stood up and walked to the door of his office. He barked an order, then returned to his seat. ‘He’ll be here in a couple of minutes.’

Office of the Associate Deputy Director of the Central Intelligence Agency, Langley, Virginia

‘Okay, Richard,’ said Walter Hicks, ‘you’ve almost convinced me about the “what”. Based on your investigations, I think it’s at least possible that the DPRK has acquired a squadron of Foxbats. But what I still don’t see is the reason. Why would the North Koreans go to all this trouble to get their hands on some forty-year-old obsolete interceptors?’

‘I have no idea,’ Muldoon shrugged. ‘If they’d got their grubby little hands on a squadron of any new-generation air-superiority fighters, I’d be a lot more worried, because that could indicate they’re planning an invasion against the South. You’re quite right, the Foxbat is obsolete. It’s not as agile as anything we’re flying today, although it’s still the world’s fastest interceptor. But sheer speed doesn’t count for a lot. Success in air combat is determined by agility, avionics, radar performance, missile technology and all the rest, and the Foxbat scores pretty damn poorly on most counts. But there must be a reason. They must want the aircraft for something and we have to figure out what.’

‘How?’ Hicks asked.

‘Right now, I don’t exactly know,’ Muldoon admitted. ‘We’ve got no sources we can tap inside the DPRK itself, and I doubt if Bae Chang-Su would be willing to risk infiltrating another of his agents north of the Demilitarized Zone. The NSA already monitors what signal and voice traffic there is in North Korea, and obviously they’ve not picked up anything of interest, or they’d have told us. So I guess the only avenue we have left is technical intelligence. I’ll mark T’ae’tan and that entire area of North Korea a Priority One target for N-PIC, and suggest they modify the orbits of the Keyhole birds so that the NKs won’t anticipate when they’re overhead. That way we might actually get to see whatever the hell they’re doing with those aircraft.’

Bolshoye Savino Air Base, Russia

Pavel Bardin was about six feet tall, with dark hair and eyes and a stocky build. He looked uncomfortable as he walked into Oustenka’s office, and even more uncomfortable when the colonel introduced his visitors.

‘Lieutenant Bardin,’ Bykov began, ‘let me assure you we have no interest in your reasons for engaging in conversation with these three men we’ve heard about. But we believe they were directly responsible for Georgi Lenkov’s death, and we want to trace them as soon as possible. Now, I have a question for you. Colonel Oustenka told us they gave you a telephone number to contact them if you changed your mind about their offer. Do you still have that number?’

Bardin nodded, still unwilling to speak, and reached into the pocket of his uniform jacket. He pulled out a piece of folded paper and passed it to Bykov.

‘It’s a mobile number,’ the GRU officer said, studying the first few digits. ‘That means we can trace it and find out who the phone is registered to.’

Richter broke in. ‘That’ll give you a name and an address, probably both false, but it won’t actually help us to find these men. I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t we just ask Lieutenant Bardin here to call them and set up a meeting for tonight?’

The three of them stared at the young lieutenant, who was already shaking his head.

‘Excellent idea,’ Oustenka boomed, ‘and I’m sure Lieutenant Bardin will be only too pleased to help avenge the death of his comrade.’

Reluctantly, Bardin turned the head shake into a nod and looked even more unhappy than before.

‘Don’t worry,’ Richter assured him. ‘You won’t be meeting them just by yourself. We’ll organize a full police presence and I’ll be there too.’

‘You?’ Bykov and Oustenka blurted simultaneously, their surprise obvious.

‘Damn right,’ Richter said, turning to Bykov and switching back to English. ‘Ever since I arrived in Moscow I’ve done nothing but tag along behind you, Viktor, like a spare prick at a wedding.’

‘A what?’ Bykov demanded.

‘I’ll explain it later. No offence, but I’m bored rigid. It’s time I did something to justify my presence over here.’

He looked across at Bardin, whose unhappiness seemed to have deepened still further at Richter’s lapse into a language he didn’t understand.

‘Don’t worry, Pavel,’ Richter said, once again speaking Russian. ‘This kind of thing – it’s what I do best.’

Wednesday

Pyongyang, North Korea

Pak Je-San sat stiffly upright on a hard wooden chair at the end of the long table, a notebook lying open in front of him. He was nervous and trying not to show it: the hierarchy of the North Korean government thrived on fear, using it to keep the population in line, and Pak sincerely believed they could actually smell any trace of it. For sure they – or more specifically Kim Yong-Su, sitting in an armchair at the head of the table – would pounce on any sign of weakness from him.

‘And when do you expect the last of the interceptors to arrive?’

‘Quite soon, I hope,’ Pak replied. ‘Ryu Chang-Ho reported that his first approach was turned down, but he has another possibility. If his offer is accepted this time, and the other officers can be bribed, the aircraft could be ready to leave the base within forty-eight hours. So the last two fighters could arrive in Pyongyang within four or five days.’

There was a grunt from one of the other four men. ‘When you say his offer was “turned down”, I assume Ryu ensured his target was not left in a position to reveal what had been discussed?’