James Barrington - Overkill

Hughes nodded abstractedly. ‘I hear what you say, John, but the fact is that the Russians quite obviously have developed a new type of bomb, and I don’t believe they did it just for fun. They have to have a specific purpose in mind.’

‘That,’ said Muldoon, ‘is what’s been bothering me ever since I read that signal. What the hell are they going to do with it?’ He looked over at John Westwood. Muldoon was a planner and a specialist in technical surveillance techniques, but he knew almost nothing about HUMINT – human intelligence, or espionage. Satellites and reconnaissance platforms provided very precise information about hardware, but no data whatsoever about the intentions of the people who were building that hardware. For that, you needed an agent in place, somebody who could ask the right questions or listen to the right answers.

Westwood shook his head. ‘We have no source we can tap about this – apart from RAVEN, of course, and we can’t establish a dialogue with him because we don’t know who he is. If we’re lucky, he might pass further data to Rigby, but we can’t rely on that.’

‘Definitely not,’ Hughes said. ‘In view of the last message received from RAVEN, I think the safest course would be to assume that he’s been burned. Even if he hasn’t, the Russians are bound to have increased security measures after the Blackbird flight, and I doubt he’d be able to pass anything further for a while.’

‘Agreed,’ Muldoon said. ‘So, what do we do? This is your department, John – what’s your recommendation?’

Westwood was silent for a minute or so. ‘Technical analysis,’ he said finally, ‘isn’t much use to us now. I’d like confirmation from our in-house experts that the conclusions reached by the Beale team are accurate, though I don’t have much doubt that they are. What we have to do is find a way to discover what the Russians are planning for their new weapon, and the only way to do that is to tap another intelligence source close to the top in Moscow. As I said, we don’t have one, but it’s possible that the British, or maybe the French or the Germans, have. My recommendation is that we approach the British first – because of the “special relationship” and all that – and see if they have a line into the GRU or SVR.’

Muldoon smiled. ‘I thought you were opposed to telling them anything, John?’

‘I am, and I wasn’t intending to change my mind, not unless it’s unavoidable. I’ve already cleared it with Walter that I go to London, liaise with our people there, and see if I can get anything. The local Chief of Station should, I hope, have a decent working relationship with their Secret Intelligence Service, and maybe I can find out something through him. This isn’t,’ he added, ‘something we can sort out over a telephone or through signal traffic.’

‘How soon would you go? I mean, what’s the priority for this?’ Muldoon asked.

‘I talked with Walter about this yesterday afternoon. Despite the negative feedback we’ve got, I think whatever is planned is imminent – maybe no more than a month away. If we’re to get anywhere, I think we have to move quickly. I’ve got an open ticket to Heathrow, and I’m planning on leaving no later than Tuesday morning.’

Monday

Hammersmith, London

Richter arrived at Hammersmith just after seven thirty in the morning, and had the first SIS file open in front of him ten minutes later. He was halfway through it when Simpson rang.

‘Have you seen this?’ Simpson asked, as Richter reached his desk.

Richter looked at the file Simpson passed over to him and read the title – ‘Forced-landing of USAF reconnaissance aircraft at RAF Lossiemouth’. ‘No,’ he replied.

‘OK,’ Simpson said. ‘To save time I’ll give you the short version. Last Thursday morning a Blackbird reconnaissance aircraft—’

‘ABlackbird?’ Richter interjected. ‘They’ve been withdrawn from service for years.’

‘I know,’ Simpson said, ‘and don’t interrupt. Last Thursday a Blackbird landed at Lossiemouth with empty fuel tanks, signs of light battle damage and a really close-mouthed crew. Since then the USAFE has been trying everything to get the aircraft back, but the Ministry of Defence, showing an unusual degree of common sense, refused to let them take it away until they were told what the aircraft had been doing. Yesterday, the Blackbird finally flew back to Mildenhall, and a copy of the films it had taken were sent to JARIC.’

‘And?’ Richter enquired.

‘And you can take this file, plot the route the aircraft flew and work out what exactly the Yanks were so keen to photograph, and why they didn’t want to tell us anything about it.’

‘Is that it?’

‘No. Tomorrow you can get your arse over to JARIC and take a look at the films.’

Kutuzovskij prospekt, Moscow

The black ZIL limousine drew into the kerb and stopped. The chauffeur got out, opened the rear door and stood respectfully at attention as a tall slim man emerged from the back seat. For a minute or so the two men stood together, exchanging a few words, then the passenger walked into a shop. The chauffeur closed the rear door, got back behind the wheel, and drove away.

Thirty seconds after the car had disappeared around the corner, the tall man emerged empty-handed from the shop and glanced quickly up and down the street. He nodded as if satisfied, then crossed the road and strode off briskly in the direction opposite to that taken by the car. Three minutes later, and without a backward glance, he entered the foyer of a large, and comparatively elegant, apartment building. The lift had just stopped on the ground floor to disgorge an elderly woman, and the visitor smiled pleasantly at her as he entered the lift. When the doors had closed, he pressed the button for the fifth floor.

Genady Arkenko had been expecting the knock on the door, and opened it almost immediately. Dmitri Trushenko nodded his thanks and stepped into the apartment.

‘Dmitri,’ Arkenko said, his face splitting into a smile of welcome as the two men embraced, ‘it is so good to see you.’

Genady Arkenko was a short, dark-haired Georgian, and was Minister Dmitri Trushenko’s best-kept secret. In a country where homosexuality was illegal, and where exposure would mean certain ruin, the two men had been lovers since their schooldays. ‘Can you stay?’ Arkenko asked hopefully.

Trushenko shook his head regretfully as he sank into a chair. ‘I can’t,’ he replied. ‘I have to return to the Ministry this evening.’ He looked round the familiar apartment. ‘Is everything ready?’

Arkenko nodded. ‘Yes. I’ve installed the radio and it’s working well. I haven’t transmitted, of course, as you instructed, but I have listened in to a number of transmissions. I have the contact frequencies pre-set on the receiver, all the numbers are programmed into my telephone, and I have memorized all the codewords and responses.’

‘And you have everything else you need?’ Trushenko asked.

Arkenko nodded again. ‘I have plenty of spares for the radio, plus the back-up transceiver. The kitchen cupboards are full of food and I have plenty to drink. Once the operation starts, I will not need to leave the apartment for at least a week.’

‘It will be starting, Genady, sooner than we expected,’ Trushenko said. ‘I have had to bring the date forward – the Americans have somehow found out something about Podstava – and I may have to implement the plan at very short notice.’ Trushenko noticed the look of concern on Arkenko’s face, and reached across and patted him on the knee. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll give you as much warning as I can. In the meantime, you should receive the first message from the ship sometime this evening, and you’ll probably have to transmit a number of changes to the vessel’s route over the next few days if it is to be in position as planned and on time.’