James Barrington - Overkill

‘What do you mean?’ Sokolov said, looking up sharply.

‘I mean that since glasnost the Americans have been very reluctant to carry out any overt intelligence-gathering operations against us. They are very sensitive to world opinion, and do not wish to be seen in an aggressive light. So why would they risk flying their spy-plane across the tundra now, in broad daylight? Of course, they would have been able to detect the last weapon test, but we have been exploding devices for the past year or so.’

‘Yes, Nicolai, but they were underground tests. This was the first above-ground test.’

‘The first and the last,’ Modin said, nodding agreement. ‘It is unfortunate that we had to have an above-ground detonation at all, and it wasn’t even a test of the weapon, just a confirmation that the triggering mechanism was functioning correctly. But even so, why would the Americans risk the flight?’

Sokolov took another sip of coffee, and then looked across at Modin. ‘Do you have a theory, old friend?’ he asked, finally.

‘It seems to me,’ Modin replied, ‘that there are only two possibilities. The first is that the Americans are a lot smarter than we thought, and have deduced the nature of the weapon from the recordings of their seismographic devices.’

‘I doubt that,’ Sokolov said.

‘So do I.’

‘Of course,’ Sokolov added thoughtfully, ‘the flight could simply have been a precautionary measure. They would obviously be aware from their seismic records that the weapon does not have the usual characteristics of a strategic fission or fusion weapon, and they might have decided that the only course open to them was to use the spy-plane.’

‘Agreed,’ Modin said, ‘but in the current political climate it seems unlikely.’

‘Unlikely, but it is possible, yes?’ Modin nodded again, almost reluctantly. ‘You said there were two possibilities, Nicolai,’ Sokolov went on. ‘What is the second?’

Modin lowered his eyes. ‘I do not like this, Grigori, but I can see only one other explanation: someone told them about the project. Someone here, or in the GRU.’

‘Are you serious?’ Sokolov asked. ‘Are you really suggesting that there is a predatel – a traitor – here?’

‘Yes,’ said Modin. ‘In fact, Minister Trushenko and I have already discussed this, and we both agree that this is the most probable conclusion, based upon the available evidence.’

Sokolov looked across the table and uttered a single word. ‘Who?’

‘If I knew that, Grigori, I would sleep tonight. This has been the highest-classified project in the country for the last four years. Until a year ago, only Minister Trushenko, General Bykov and I knew all the details – the technicians have obviously known they have been working on nuclear weapons, but not how the weapons were to be used.’ He put his coffee cup down and waved his arm in sudden anger. ‘This project was so secret that it wasn’t even given a name until this year, because if you name something, you acknowledge its existence.’

‘And now, Nicolai? How many people know about it now?’

‘More than twenty. All with the highest possible security clearances, and most of them known personally to me – and to you. I cannot even begin to suspect any of them.’

Modin picked up his coffee cup, glanced into it and stood up. He looked down enquiringly at Sokolov, who shook his head. Modin walked slowly over to the coffee pot and refilled his cup, then returned to the chair, sitting with a weary sigh. ‘The trouble is that every one of them needed to know about the project, now that it is approaching completion. I personally – personally, you understand – approved each one and, naturally, I checked all their records. I even,’ he added softly, ‘checked your record, old friend.’

Sokolov nodded. ‘So you should, Nicolai, so you should. With a matter of this importance no one can be considered to be above suspicion. What now? What will you do?’

Modin sipped his coffee and put the cup on the table, then looked keenly at Sokolov. ‘Two things. first, a job for you. It will be distasteful to you, but it must be done. I want you to identify the treacherous bastard who has told the Americans what we are doing.’

‘If he exists,’ Sokolov said quietly.

‘Oh, he exists, Grigori, the traitor exists. Of that I have no doubt. No doubt at all.’

Sokolov looked up, a frown creasing his brow. ‘Are you sure I should do this, Nicolai? It is not really my field.’

Modin smiled at him. ‘I know that,’ he said, ‘but I have to have someone I can trust, trust totally, to carry out the investigation. And he has to be someone who already knows about the project. If I call in the security staff, they will have to be told at least the broad outline of Podstava , and that will multiply the number of people with knowledge of it to an unacceptable level. No, Grigori. Whoever investigates this has to be someone already indoctrinated, but whose loyalty is above suspicion. You are the best – in fact, you are the only – candidate.’

Sokolov nodded. ‘I thank you for your trust, Nicolai. And what is the second thing?’

Modin looked grave. ‘This has not been my decision – Minister Trushenko himself has directed my actions. He believes we cannot afford to wait for all the weapons to be placed piecemeal using covert means, so the last weapon is to be delivered intact, despite the risks.’

Sokolov stared at Modin. ‘How?’ he asked.

‘It will be delivered by lorry, as Diplomatic Baggage, but protected by Spetsnaz troopers.’

‘Remind me,’ Sokolov said. ‘Where is this last weapon to be positioned?’

‘London,’ Nicolai Modin said. ‘It’s going to London.’

Sheremetievo Airport, Moscow

It took them just over twenty minutes to get clear of central Moscow and head out to the north-west on the M9 motorway, but that still left plenty of time. At Sheremetievo, Richter retrieved his suitcase from the Rover’s boot, shook Erroll’s hand and walked away. Erroll looked thoughtfully at his retreating back for a moment, then turned back towards the car. ‘Insurance investigator my arse,’ he muttered. ‘OK, George, let’s go.’

The black ZIL pulled up about fifty yards behind the Embassy Rover, and the three men inside watched intently as Richter approached the terminal building. As he passed through the doors, the man in the back seat opened the car door and stepped out. He pulled his overcoat tight around him, then walked across and followed Richter. He had barely entered the terminal before he heard the voice in his earpiece. He cocked his head as if to hear the words better, then smiled slightly and quickened his pace, following Richter deeper into the building.

The British Airways’ check-in desk was already open, so Richter produced his ticket and passport and handed over his small suitcase. A professional is always aware of what’s happening around him, and Richter was nothing if not professional. As he turned away from the counter, he casually scanned the crowd, looking for anything or anyone out of place, and one pair of hard grey eyes met and held his for just a moment longer than they should have.

Richter ignored the fleeting contact and walked away towards the cafeteria. Eight minutes later, sitting at a corner table and with a coffee and a paperback novel in front of him, he spotted the same man again, standing just beyond the cafeteria. Once can be happenstance and twice may be coincidence, but in Richter’s trade coincidences didn’t often happen. Usually it meant enemy action.

He finished his coffee, put the novel in his briefcase, stood up and walked into one of the shops. He wandered the aisles and selected a small bottle of the cheapest Scotch he could find. It wasn’t a brand he recognized but that didn’t matter because he had no intention of drinking it. He put the bottle in his briefcase then left the shop and crossed to the toilets. The rest-room was deserted, and Richter acted quickly. He ran to the stall furthest from the door and placed his briefcase on the seat, then closed all the stall doors. He entered the fourth stall, pushed the door closed behind him and climbed onto the seat. Then he waited.