Overkill (16 page)

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.’

Arkenko was silent for a moment, then he grasped his friend’s hand tightly. ‘This will work, won’t it, Dmitri?’ he asked.

Trushenko nodded. ‘We haven’t come this far to fail. The Americans can do nothing, and once the last phase is complete we will be able to walk into Europe as if we owned
it.’

Hammersmith, London

Amongst the other junk that had accumulated in the bottom non-lockable drawer of Richter’s desk was a dog-eared atlas. It was an elderly and somewhat inaccurate
document when it came to statistics, populations and political systems, but it served its purpose well enough. After a brief search Richter found it and dusted off the cover. A rapid flick-through
revealed the bulging mass of western Russia. Richter opened the pink file Simpson had given him, and noted down the start and stop points of the Blackbird’s surveillance run.

He scanned the north coast and soon pinpointed Vorkuta, then he found Shenkursk to the south of Arkhangel’sk. With the start and stop positions identified, Richter took a pencil and ruler
and drew a straight line between the two. Then he sat and stared at the map.

After a couple of minutes, Richter realized that either he was missing something or he’d drawn the line across the wrong bit, so he re-checked the data from the file, this time using the
latitude and longitude figures given. The first line had been a little out, but not enough to make any significant difference. That didn’t make sense, so he rang the Registry and got them to
send up the Basic Intelligence Digest (CIS), a remarkably useful document that listed details of every known military or quasi-military installation in the Confederation of Independent States,
including those under construction, with maps showing their locations.

When the courier had departed, Richter checked the list attached to the front cover, and noted that the last insertion had been made a matter of ten days previously. Then he opened it up at the
map section and carefully compared it with the line he had drawn in the atlas. Then he compared it again.

Ten minutes later, Richter rang for the duty courier and returned the BID (CIS) to the Registry. He sat for a few minutes, looking through the SR–71A file, and staring at the atlas. Then
he rang Simpson.

‘Yes?’

‘Richter. I’m coming up.’

‘What for? Have you found something?’

Richter paused. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said. Then he put the receiver down and headed for the stairs.

That Simpson was busy Richter inferred from the pile of pink files in front of him, obscuring his view of the cactus forest. Richter sat down and waited for him to finish the sentence he was
writing. When the sentence looked like turning into a paragraph he put the atlas and file down on the floor. ‘I hope I’m not disturbing you,’ he said.

‘You’re not,’ Simpson said, continuing to write. He finished the note, closed the file, initialled the front cover and tossed it into his ‘Out’ tray. Then he looked
at Richter. ‘I’m busy,’ he said, ‘so make it snappy.’

Richter moved three pink files to one side and force-marched the front rank of cacti two paces backwards. Into the space vacated he placed the atlas, open at the appropriate page.

‘This line,’ he said, ‘is the route followed by the Blackbird. According to the USAFE, anyway.’

Simpson looked up sharply. ‘Why do you say that? Do you think it isn’t?’

‘I’m not sure. I can’t think why they would try and fob us off with a false route structure – JARIC would bowl that out as soon as they got a decent look at the films.
But, assuming for the moment that the route is correct, I don’t see why the Americans risked incurring the wrath of Moscow by over-flying that bit of Mother Russia.’

‘Explain.’

‘There’s nothing up there,’ Richter said. ‘It’s just hills and tundra, with a few small towns within camera range, but nothing – assuming that the Basic
Intelligence Digest is more or less correct, and it usually is – that is of any military significance whatsoever. And I don’t think it’s a question of risking the wrath of the
Russians. There are details in the route notes of a mid-course acceleration to dash speed, and five gets you ten they didn’t do that just to watch the numbers move on the Mach meter. They
were being chased by something.’

‘Something that didn’t catch them.’

‘No, but I’m not too surprised at that. The Blackbird was not exactly notorious for hanging about, and the crews weren’t fresh out of flying school either. The only things the
Russians have got that can get high enough and go fast enough to catch the ’bird are MiG–25s and MiG–31s, and neither of them can match the Blackbird for sustained high
speed.’

Simpson sat silent for a few moments. ‘So?’

‘So I’m curious. As I see it, there are only two possible explanations, assuming that the USAFE Command hasn’t fallen off its collective trolley. First, the aircraft was
hopelessly off-route, which I don’t believe.’ Richter paused. ‘What do you know about the Blackbird’s navigation kit?’

‘Nothing,’ Simpson replied, ‘but I assume it’s comprehensive.’

‘That’s one way of putting it. The Blackbird’s principal navigation tool is a computer that permanently tracks fifty-two stars and is accurate enough to guide the SR–71A
to any target on earth with an error of under a thousand feet. The aircraft definitely wasn’t off-route.’

‘So what’s the alternative?’

‘The only other explanation is that, somewhere along that line, there’s an installation that the Americans have detected, but which in their infinite wisdom they haven’t seen
fit to tell us about.’

Port of Odessa, Chernoye More (Black Sea)

The ten-thousand-ton coaster
Anton Kirov
had been built twenty years ago to run general cargo through the Mediterranean, and time did not seem to have been kind to
her. The ship’s sides were streaked with rust, the superstructure was pitted and discoloured, and she wore an indefinable air of neglect. In most respects, the appearance of the
Anton
Kirov
was an accurate reflection of her condition and usage. The exterior of the ship had been neglected – quite deliberately, because what the ship looked like had no effect upon the
vessel’s efficiency. But the engines and equipment were a different matter.

The main engines and generators were serviced and overhauled frequently – usually well before the runtime interval specified by their manufacturers – and all the deck machinery, the
winches, windlasses and cranes, were in proper working order. The rationale was simple. Efficient engines minimized the length of time the vessel was at sea and made for efficient passages, while
the cranes and winches speeded the loading and unloading of cargo, resulting in a shorter turn-round time in port. That made the
Anton Kirov
more efficient, and hence more profitable to
operate, than most of her contemporaries.

Unusually, the ship was still secured to a loading berth in Odessa’s outer harbour, although the stowage of all her manifested cargo had been completed that morning. All the crew were
aboard, but their kitbags and suitcases were stacked neatly on the jetty, and the master, Captain Valeri Nikolaevich Bondarev of the Russian Merchant Marine, a short, stout man with a face reddened
by years at sea, was irritably pacing the bridge, waiting.