James Barrington - Overkill

‘So, Monsieur Westwood,’ the translator said, ‘you want to know if we have any high-level agents who can verify the information your Central Intelligence Agency has received?’

‘Yes,’ Westwood replied. ‘Or any indication from any source of any unusual activity in Russia, or any abnormal movements of men or equipment from Russia into any Western country. Or anything else that seems in any way odd,’ he finished, rather lamely.

Grenelle spoke briefly to the translator, reinforcing Westwood’s belief that the former at least understood English. ‘The colonel wishes to inform you that he is unable to divulge any information about French operatives.’

Westwood shook his head in exasperation, but kept his voice low and reasonable. ‘I thought I’d made it clear that I’m not asking for information about operatives. I don’t care if the DGSE has bugged the Russian President’s crapper and has every Kremlin valet on its payroll. All I’m interested in is whether the DGSE has received any relevant information.’

The translator paused slightly before reverting to French, but Grenelle interrupted him almost immediately. ‘The colonel wants to know why you need to know.’

‘Because,’ Westwood said, with as much patience as he could muster, ‘we believe that the Russians may be planning an attack of some sort on the West, and that it will probably involve France as well as every other country in Western Europe.’

The translator relayed this to the colonel, who paused thoughtfully before speaking. The translator looked slightly happier when he addressed the two Americans. ‘Colonel Grenelle says that the DGSE has no information about any such Russian plan, and that we have no operatives who would be able to assist. However, he has heard that there have been some slightly unusual movements of equipment from the former Soviet Union into and through France during the last year.’

Westwood glanced across at Miles Turner. ‘What movements?’ he asked.

The translator smiled across the table. ‘That, Monsieur Westwood, we cannot say. The function of the DGSE is limited to operations outside the borders of the hexagon.’

‘The hexagon?’ Westwood muttered. ‘What the hell’s the hexagon?’

‘France,’ Turner replied. ‘It’s a colloquial name for France.’

‘OK,’ Westwood said. ‘So who do we talk to now?’

Grenelle smiled a small, tight smile and spoke in English for the first time. ‘The Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire , Monsieur Westwood. The DST – that’s who you talk to now.’

Office of the Director of Operations (Clandestine Services), Central Intelligence Agency Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

‘What progress?’ Walter Hicks asked, rubbing his hand across his tired eyes. He had been at Langley all day, and he had an evening meeting scheduled with the President in a little under two hours.

‘Not a great deal, Director,’ Ronald Hughes replied.

‘That isn’t what I wanted to hear, Ron,’ Hicks growled. ‘I have to see the man this evening and I have to tell him something, like whether we punch the bombers into the air in two days’ time and point them at Moscow. “Not a great deal” is not the kind of thing I need to hear right now.’

Hughes shifted slightly in his seat. He, too, hadn’t left the building in some twenty hours. ‘Specifically,’ Hughes said, ‘Roger Abrahams in London has got nowhere with SIS, but he thinks this is simply because they don’t know anything, not that they won’t tell. The only significant piece of data he did manage to obtain is that one section of SIS is actively investigating an incident which may be related.’

‘What incident?’ Hicks asked, looking interested.

Hughes shrugged. ‘I’m not convinced there’s any connection, but the SIS Head of Station in Moscow was reported to have died in a road accident last week. SIS sent someone to investigate it and the word is that the body the Russians handed over definitely wasn’t the SIS man. The suggestion is that he was snatched by the SVR and pumped dry.’

Hicks looked at him over the desk. ‘That’s unusual, to say the least. Are they certain?’

Hughes nodded. ‘The identification of the body was positive – positive, that is, that it wasn’t their man. Some kind of distinguishing mark wasn’t present, I think.’

‘OK,’ Hicks muttered, ‘we have to accept that SIS will know their own man, so if they say the stiff wasn’t him, it wasn’t. What I don’t see is any connection with RAVEN.’

‘Nor do I,’ Hughes agreed, ‘but I’ve told Abrahams to keep us in the loop just in case there does turn out to be a link.’

‘What about France?’ Hicks asked.

‘You know what the French are like,’ Hughes said. ‘John had a meeting with the DGSE – that’s the foreign espionage section of the French security forces – this afternoon. It didn’t go well. They were a few minutes late arriving, and John said the French colonel apparently took umbrage. The only thing the French admitted was that there had been some non-typical movements from the CIS into and through France.’ Hicks opened his mouth but Hughes forestalled his question. ‘The DGSE wouldn’t tell him. Any operational matter within France, they said, was the concern of the DST and nothing to do with them.’

Hicks grunted. ‘All assistance short of actual help, by the sound of it.’

Hughes nodded. ‘Anyway, he’s on it, but I’m still not sure if he’s just wasting his time. Non-typical movements might just mean that the Russian Embassy in Paris is having new crappers fitted.’

Pilsen, Czechoslovakia

The convoy stopped for the night at a small hotel just outside Pilsen. As usual, one Spetsnaz trooper stayed in each vehicle, sleeping as best they could.

‘Not a good day,’ Modin remarked, as he and Bykov sat together in a deserted corner of the lounge after dinner.

Bykov shook his head. ‘We seem to have spent all day on the road and got nowhere,’ he replied.

‘It could be worse,’ Modin said. ‘We are now only about sixty kilometres from the German border at Waidhaus so, unless we have a repeat of today’s performance, we should be inside Germany by mid-morning tomorrow.’

‘I hope so,’ Bykov replied. ‘The weapon must arrive in London on schedule.’

Tuesday

American Embassy, 2 avenue Gabriel, Paris

John Westwood woke just before seven, dressed and walked down to the Embassy commissary for breakfast. Over coffee, ham, eggs and hash browns, he and Miles Turner reviewed the situation. ‘We have to talk to the DST today,’ Westwood said. ‘Why that DGSE colonel played so hard to get I don’t know. I just hope the DST people have more sense.’

‘I’ll ring at nine – that’s the earliest there’s likely to be anyone there apart from the night duty staff – and set up a meeting this morning,’ Turner said. ‘There haven’t been any overnight developments at this end, but it’s buzzing like a hornets’ nest in the States. Walter Hicks has arranged another conference call for three this afternoon, our time, to up-date us on what’s happening Stateside, and to receive progress reports from us.’

Westwood grunted. ‘Well, I’d be happy to be able to report some progress, but on past form it isn’t likely.’

Marne-la-Vallée and Paris

Richter’s alarm went off at seven, and he was driving into the Disneyland resort before eight. He had managed to shave for the first time since his visit to Orlov, and looked fairly presentable. Disneyland was quiet – the doors weren’t open to the public that early – and Richter parked close to the main entrance, then walked in and down to the RER station.