James Barrington - Overkill

‘Thanks, David.’

‘Don’t mention it. And I really do mean don’t mention it, and especially not to the people who did this to you. Now, can you make it up the stairs?’

‘If there’s a bed up there with my name on it,’ Richter said, ‘I can make it.’

Richter awoke with the sunlight streaming through the windows, from which the curtains had been drawn. For the briefest of moments he lay still, trying to work out where he was. He didn’t recognize the room, and the pyjamas he was wearing were an unfamiliar pattern. Then everything fell into place. He turned to look at his watch on the bedside table and winced as a spasm of pain shot through his neck. He tried again, more cautiously. Almost eleven. He lay back slowly, luxuriating in the warmth.

The ache from his stomach had eased somewhat, but his whole body was stiff and sore, and his face hurt like hell. He was wondering whether to try to get up by himself, because the one place he was definitely going to have to get to, and soon, was the toilet, when the bedroom door swung open and David Bentley walked in, bearing a laden tray. ‘Breakfast,’ he said, and put the tray on top of a chest of drawers.

Richter tried a smile that almost worked. ‘Thanks, David. Actually, what I need more than breakfast is the bathroom.’ With Bentley’s help, Richter levered himself into a sitting position, and then to his feet. Three minutes later, and much relieved, he sat down again on the bed and leaned back against the headboard.

‘Coffee?’ Richter asked, took the cup from Bentley and put it on the bedside table.

‘I wasn’t sure what you wanted, so I’ve just brought toast and marmalade. If you want anything else, it’s no problem.’

‘No, that’s fine,’ Richter said. ‘I’ve never got much of an appetite in the morning.’

Richter ate the toast and drank his coffee. Bentley poured a second cup and handed it to him. ‘What are you going to do?’ he asked.

‘First of all,’ Richter said, ‘and if you don’t mind, I’m going to take this cup of coffee and go and have a long soak in the bath. After that, I’ll let you know what my plans are. Always assuming,’ he added, ‘that I’ve worked any out by then.’

Richter looked at himself in the full-length mirror before he climbed into the bath. He was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a pretty sight. The bruises, although not aching quite as much, looked a damn sight worse than they had the previous night, and there were very few areas of his body which were free of some purple blotches. He pulled off the bandage and looked at his face. It was a mess, puffy and red with livid wheals on both cheeks – caused by the wet towel wielded by the late and unlamented Yuri – overlying the deeper bruises resulting from the early stages of his interrogation. The good thing was he still seemed to have all his teeth, and he could feel no evidence of deeper damage. What he wasn’t going to be able to do for a while was shave.

Richter lay in the bath, feeling the heat of the water beginning to ease his aches, drank the coffee and then started thinking. He needed to talk to Simpson, face to face, and quickly. The problem was how. He knew Simpson was going to be at Hammersmith for most of the day, because he had told him so the previous night. Richter wanted to keep out of sight as far as possible, which meant he couldn’t risk going to Hammersmith, because there would certainly be a hostile watch there, and even if he got inside without being hit, there would definitely be a man with a rifle waiting for him when he came out.

So he had to set up a meet, on neutral ground. Richter still wasn’t happy with the telephone situation, either. It was at least possible that his flat line had been tapped, and if it had, then he had no guarantee that the Hammersmith building exchange hadn’t got a few bugs as well. So, Richter knew he had to contact Simpson some other way.

Richter walked slowly and carefully down the stairs, wearing a vivid blue dressing gown he’d found hanging in the wardrobe in the bedroom. Bentley was sitting in an armchair, reading a copy of the Daily Telegraph , and looked up as Richter walked into the living room. ‘Kate?’ Richter asked, interrogatively.

‘Weekend shopping,’ Bentley replied briefly. ‘Normally I go with her, but as you’re here…’

‘Is she OK?’ Richter asked.

Bentley nodded. ‘Yes, she’s fine. She knows the sort of work you do, so she’s not too enthusiastic about having you in the house, but that’s all.’

‘If there was anywhere else I could go, David, I’d be out of here in a minute. The last thing I want to do is cause you or Kate any problems.’

‘It’s no problem, Paul. Just relax. Oh, and don’t, for heaven’s sake, let her see that pistol. You know what she’s like about guns of any sort.’

‘Of course not. It’s tucked away in my haversack upstairs.’

‘Good. Now, would you like another coffee?’

‘I never say no,’ Richter said. ‘Have you got some writing paper and an envelope? I need to send somebody a message.’

Bentley gestured towards a roll-top desk in the corner of the room. ‘Help yourself,’ he said, and walked out into the kitchen.

Richter wrote out a note with some care. He hand-wrote it, so that it could be verified against the samples of his handwriting held at Hammersmith, and prefixed it with the code-word ‘TESTAMENT’, which he knew would capture Simpson’s undivided attention. ‘TESTAMENT’ was a code-word only used when the sender of the message had information which was believed with reasonable certainty to be likely to involve major powers in conflict or, to remove the top-dressing of Ministry of Defence verbiage, information likely to lead to war. The word had not, to Richter’s knowledge, been used at FOE since the formation of the department, but in the circumstances it was certainly justified.

Richter read the note several times, ensuring that the contents were clear and unambiguous, then sealed it in an envelope and addressed it to ‘Hammersmith Commercial Packers’. At the top of the envelope he added in block capitals ‘For the personal attention of Mr Simpson’, and underlined ‘personal’ twice. He asked Bentley to ring one of the numerous motorcycle despatch firms working in west London and to request a rider as soon as possible.

The front door bell rang forty minutes later, and two minutes after that Richter watched through the living-room windows as the black-clad rider climbed back onto his Suzuki and roared away towards the Uxbridge Road.

Situation Room, White House, 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington, D.C.

‘Gentlemen,’ the President began, ‘the folders in front of you contain the latest information we have about this alleged Russian assault. The code-name “Kentucky Rose” has been allocated to this, and the data is subject to a “Top Secret, US EYES ONLY” classification.’

He looked slowly round the table at the three other statutory members of the National Security Council – the Vice-President, the Secretary of State and the Secretary of Defense – and at the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, one of the two statutory advisers to the Council. The other statutory adviser, the Director of Central Intelligence, was absent.

‘You should also know,’ the President continued, ‘that Ambassador Karasin has denied all knowledge of this threat. It could be argued, of course, that he would have been instructed by Moscow to make such a denial, which is certainly possible. However, I’ve known Karasin for three years, and I don’t think he’s following the party line. I think he really doesn’t know. If we take that as fact,’ he went on, ‘then the situation is even more dangerous than the Cuban crisis. At least then Kennedy knew who he was dealing with. This time, I don’t think we do. Accordingly, despite the fact that we still have no independent evidence to support the data the CIA claims to have uncovered, I propose to invoke SIOP with immediate effect.’