James Barrington - Overkill

Westwood nodded. ‘Yes. If you have a source at that level we would like you to task him with verifying this information. We do not, of course, require access to your source, or knowledge of the identity of the source, but we would want your assurance that he is in a position to do what we ask.’

Taylor looked up at the sky. ‘I had thought this was going to be a good day,’ he murmured, almost inaudibly. He began walking again, and the other two followed.

‘Let me lay out the problems as I see them,’ Taylor said quietly. ‘First, I’m not in a position to tell you if we have such a source. Second, if we do have a source at the level you need, trying to get him to verify your suspicions might well result in him being blown to the SVR or the GRU, which is something I’m sure we’d all rather avoid.’ Taylor paused and glanced at the Americans, then continued. ‘Third, let’s look at the logic of this. You believe the Russians might have something nasty heading our way. In the current political climate I personally find that unlikely, but the information you have suggests that to be the case, right?’

John Westwood nodded. ‘So,’ Taylor continued, ‘if our putative source starts asking the wrong sort of questions of the wrong sort of people in Moscow, it will make it obvious to the Russians that we have discovered this plot, whatever it is. What effect will that have?’ Neither Abrahams nor Westwood spoke. ‘It might,’ Taylor said, answering his own question, ‘prompt the Russians to implement this conspiracy immediately.’

Westwood suddenly glimpsed the intellect behind the languid mask.

‘What do you suggest?’ Abrahams asked.

‘If I was in your shoes, for which I thank God I’m not,’ Taylor answered, ‘I would proceed on the assumption that the conspiracy is real and make appropriate contingency plans.’

Westwood was silent for a few moments, then spoke. ‘That’s good advice, but there are some problems.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like the fact that we know nothing whatever about the assault. What form it will take, I mean. All we are sure about is that there is no evidence at all that Russian conventional or nuclear forces are involved.’

‘What?’ Taylor’s calm demeanour vanished momentarily. ‘It can’t be much of a threat then, can it?’ He laughed briefly; Abrahams and Westwood didn’t. ‘Sorry,’ Taylor said. ‘Obviously you believe it’s real, and I noticed you used the word “assault”, not “conspiracy”, which changes things. Without giving me specifics, what data do you have?’

Westwood shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, but I can give you very little,’ he said. ‘The file classification is “NOFORN”. You’re not a US citizen, so officially I can tell you nothing about it. But,’ he added, ‘I can say that the information came from a high-level source in Moscow, and we have not been able to reach that source since we received the data.’

‘Hence the need for independent corroboration,’ Taylor finished for him, and Westwood nodded. Taylor walked on a few paces, right hand cupping his chin, then stopped. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘I’ll do what I can, unofficially, of course. You’ll appreciate that I’ll have to talk to some people before I can task any source we might have. And,’ he added, ‘I’m not saying that we have such a source, you understand? I can reach you through Roger, yes?’

‘Right,’ Westwood replied. ‘Oh, there’s one other thing that might be some help. One of the pieces of data we received was a single word.’

Taylor looked interested. ‘Yes?’

‘The word,’ Westwood said, ‘was “Gibraltar”.’

‘That’s it? Nothing else?’

Westwood shook his head. ‘Just the one word. We know what Gibraltar is, obviously, but we’ve no idea what it means in this context.’

Taylor nodded slowly. ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘I’ll be in touch.’ He turned away and took a pace, then stopped. ‘One final point,’ he said. ‘If we can’t help you, what will you do next?’

Abrahams looked at Westwood. ‘If you can’t help,’ Westwood replied, ‘we’ll have to try the French.’

Turabah, Saudi Arabia

It all, Sadoun Khamil reflected late that afternoon, seemed to be going reasonably well. The news from Hassan Abbas about the flight by the American spy-plane had been something of a shock, but the apparent absence of any other activity by the Americans – or by anyone else, in fact – suggested that the flight had not revealed anything of interest. And time was passing.

With all the American weapons in position, and with the London bomb almost complete, as far as Khamil could see there was little that anybody could do to stop them. And there was a compelling argument that any further waiting could be counter-productive, allowing a greater chance for some Western intelligence service to penetrate the Russian operation. He had discussed this view with the al-Qaeda leadership, but they had insisted that for the plan to be unequivocally successful, it was essential that all the weapons were positioned as intended, and for the final stages of Podstava to be carried through. Only that way could total success be guaranteed.

Khamil concurred with this view, but it still concerned him that something had happened – whether a leak from one of the Russians involved or some indication from a different source – that had prompted the American action. He worried about what they could have found out, but he worried more about what they might try to do if they discovered the full scope of the operation.

The one thing that he and the leaders of al-Qaeda were in complete agreement about was that the implementation of El Sikkiyn – the Arab component of the plan – had to be precisely timed and executed. And for that to happen there had to be no American pre-emptive action which might disrupt it, so it was essential that they were informed immediately of any further action by the Americans.

Khamil knew he could rely upon Hassan Abbas to keep him abreast of developments in Russia, through Dmitri Trushenko, and the best source of information about American activity was probably CNN, he reflected with a slight smile. He’d just have to start watching more television.

Hammersmith, London

That afternoon Richter found the first faint evidence of a link. It wasn’t much, and he didn’t know its significance, but he thought it was worth taking to Simpson. Before ringing him, Richter checked the Basic Intelligence Digest (CIS) and found exactly what he had expected, and a personnel file which only served to confuse him. Then he called Simpson on the direct line and told him he needed five minutes of his valuable time.

‘What have you got?’ Simpson didn’t look up as he spoke, but continued writing notes on the minute sheet of an open Secret file. His desk was covered in pink files, several of them open, and he seemed more preoccupied than usual.

‘Not a lot,’ Richter replied, ‘but I can place Newman’s number two in an area virtually in the centre of the Blackbird’s flight path, about five days before the aircraft flew.’

Simpson stopped writing, looked up and put down his pen. ‘Where, when, and what was he doing?’

Richter sat down in front of the desk and glanced down at the Moscow Station Activities file he had brought up with him. ‘The place was Sosnogorsk, and according to SIS he went there as a translator for two days last month.’

‘Who was Newman’s deputy?’

‘Andrew Payne. He’s alive and well and currently running Moscow Station pending the appointment of a new head.’

Simpson digested this for a moment or two. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Tell me about Sosnogorsk, starting with wherever the hell it is.’