James Barrington - Overkill

‘Perhaps, Comrade Bykov,’ Richter said, after a few moments, ‘it would help if I explained the facts of life to you. The operation to halt your little convoy and prevent you positioning a nuclear weapon in London was a joint effort. We used a detachment from our Special Air Service, a squad from the French Groupe d’Intervention de la Gendarmerie Nationale and the whole thing was coordinated by the French DST, that’s the Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire .’

‘I do know what the acronym stands for, Mr Beatty,’ Bykov said.

Richter nodded. ‘I thought you probably would,’ he said.

‘So why are you telling me this?’ Bykov asked, looking puzzled.

‘I’m telling you so you realize that the operation has involved people of two different nations who don’t share a common language. Because we don’t speak the same language, we have had some problems with communications. None of the organizations involved in this matter have filed their reports yet,’ Richter continued, ‘but when they do they will probably all incorporate a recommendation that any future joint operations include interpreters. That way, unfortunate accidents and misunderstandings might be prevented.’

‘I really don’t understand what you’re talking about. What unfortunate accidents and misunderstandings?’

‘Well, that rather depends on you,’ Richter said, after a short pause. ‘If, for example, you give me some answers – preferably truthful answers – to a few simple questions, then in a couple of hours you and your colleague can get back in your comfortable limousine and continue your journey, or return to Mother Russia, or go wherever else your whim or your conscience dictates. We’ll even,’ he added, ‘pay for four new tyres for you.’

‘And if I refuse?’ the Russian demanded.

‘Well, that’s the problem,’ Richter said. ‘I really do need to get some answers from either you or your colleague. If you refuse to talk to me then I have to hope that he will be sensible. What I might have to do is arrange for you to be, say, shot while trying to escape, to encourage him to see reason. That’s the kind of unfortunate accident I’m worried about.’

Bykov’s glare was still defiant, but his face seemed a shade paler. ‘You wouldn’t dare. That would be murder, simple cold-blooded murder.’

‘It certainly would,’ Richter agreed, ‘but I’m sure you’ve done worse in your career.’ Bykov opened his mouth to speak, but apparently thought better of it. ‘France,’ Richter said, ‘is a civilized country, where all citizens are subject to the rule of law. Please believe me when I tell you that in this parking area the rule of law has been temporarily suspended. Here, we can do exactly what we like.’ He pointed out of the window at Trooper Smith. ‘You see that man there? He’s a member of 22 Special Air Service Regiment. He has spent all of his adult life in the British armed forces, and he is now a member of arguably the most professional and proficient elite Special Force in the world – not excluding your Spetsnaz .

‘I have a story which might interest you. In December 1974 a four-man IRA gang took a couple hostage in Balcombe Street, Marylebone – that’s a district in London. The gang was well armed – in fact, they had sub-machineguns – and showed no inclination at all to come out. The Metropolitan Police believed they faced a long siege, which might conceivably end with the killing of one or both of the hostages and general mayhem and havoc. However, before any major actions were taken by either side, an enterprising police officer leaked a fictitious story to the BBC and one of the national daily newspapers. The story stated that operational control of the incident was about to be transferred to the SAS. Do you know what happened when that news was broadcast?’

‘No, of course I don’t,’ Bykov snapped.

‘The gang surrendered. Immediately and without conditions. And do you know why?’ The Russian shook his head. ‘Because they knew perfectly well that if the SAS took over the siege, their chances of getting out alive were nil. Zero. More recently, in April 1980, a group of six terrorists seized the Iranian Embassy in London. When they started killing hostages, the SAS stormed the building, with the press of half the world watching. When it was over, five of the six terrorists were dead, and the sixth only survived because he pretended to be a hostage and was only properly identified outside the building after the SAS had cleared it.

‘What I’m trying to tell you,’ Richter went on, ‘is that the SAS don’t take prisoners. The Regiment is our force of last resort. They are sent in when all other remedies have failed, when the only sensible course of action left is to blow away the bad guys. All their training, all their tactics, are geared to that objective. You are undeniably a bad guy. Compared with what you had planned to do, the Iranian Embassy terrorists were just a bunch of naughty schoolboys.’ Richter paused. ‘Now, bearing all that in mind,’ he said, and pointed again at Trooper Smith, ‘what do you think he would do if I dragged you out of this van and told him to shoot you?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Wrong,’ Richter said. ‘You do know. He would shoot you immediately, and without question. The only consolation you would have is that it would be a quick death – the SAS only shoot to kill, never to wound.’

‘You’d never get away with it,’ Bykov spluttered.

‘Wrong again,’ Richter said. ‘My report would say that Trooper Smith acted instantly to protect a senior officer – that’s me – from an assault by a Russian terrorist – that’s you. Trooper Smith and I would both know that the truth was somewhat different, but if you think either of us would lose any sleep over it you’re wrong. The reports filed by our French colleagues standing over there—’ Richter pointed at a group of Gigènes near Erulin’s Renault ‘—would say exactly the same, because they wouldn’t have understood anything I said to Trooper Smith or he said to me. That’s the problem with not having a common language.’

Richter leaned forward, his eyes cold and hard. ‘Here and now,’ he said softly, ‘we are the law. Anything I do to you can be justified, because anything I could do is totally insignificant compared to what you tried to do. Please believe that, because I’m going to ask you the same question now that I asked ten minutes ago, and if I get the same answer you’re leaving here in a pine box. And that’s a fact.’ Richter stared at him, and Bykov’s eyes shifted from his gaze. ‘Right, Comrade Bykov, we start again. Can I please have your full name?’

The Russian looked at Richter and said nothing. Richter picked up the passport and opened both rear doors of the Transit. He had got one foot on the ground when he heard the Russian’s voice. ‘Bykov,’ he said, with a sigh. ‘Viktor Grigorevich Bykov.’

Fifteen minutes later Richter helped Bykov out of the Transit – his wrists were still tied – and led him to the stone picnic table, where he could remain under the watchful gaze of Trooper Smith. The older Russian stood up as they approached. Richter nodded to him. ‘Just a few questions, please.’

As they walked away Bykov spoke – a single sentence that caused Richter to turn and look at him again. ‘It’s not over yet, Mr Beatty,’ he said.

The Kremlin, Krasnaya ploshchad, Moscow

The Moscow traffic police began stopping vehicles long before the approaching cars could be seen or the sirens even heard. The motorcade – two of the huge ZIL limousines still favoured by some Russian officials, and accompanied by four police outriders astride BMW motorcycles – swept across Teatral’nyj proezd and swung right into Manezpaja ploshchad. They crossed ploshchad Revoljucii, passed the massive fourteen-storey-high red granite and white marble Moskva Hotel, and on into Krasnaya ploshchad – Red Square. The long, wide, red wall of the Kremlin extends down the right-hand side of the Square in a straight line, the ground sloping away. Opposite the Kremlin wall, the huge Gothic building which is the GUM department store fills the whole of the other side of the Square.