Overkill (22 page)

Richter loaded three rounds and fired them as instructed, then passed the pistol to the armourer, who ejected the empty cases before adjusting the sights again. ‘Elevation seems about
right now, but you’re still grouping to the right. Try that.’ The last three pleased him.

The armourer walked to the end of the range to put up two more targets, then Richter reloaded. He took the left-hand target first, and fired the six quickly, taking the minimum aim necessary
– in a fire-fight, the opposition may not be sporting enough to stand silhouetted against a bright light for thirty seconds while you adopt the correct stance and take careful aim – and
he was pleased that they were all hits, although the score would have got him nowhere at Bisley. The last two shells he fired at the right-hand target, taking his time.

‘Nice, sir. One bull, one nine.’

‘Thank you.’ Richter put the spent shell cases into the now empty box, reloaded the pistol from the box of fifty and slid it into the holster.

The armourer looked on approvingly. ‘Quite right,’ he said. ‘No point in having the weapon unless it’s loaded.’ Richter followed him back up to the Armoury, signed
the register for the pistol and rounds, and signed the range log to the effect that he had received a full briefing on the pistol and had fired twenty rounds.

Back in his office, Richter examined the pistol again, loaded it and unloaded it a few times, and practised getting it out of the holster quickly. It was clear that Richter was never going to be
able to out-draw Billy the Kid, but that didn’t worry him unduly – he didn’t expect to meet Billy the Kid. What he did expect to meet was a man or men armed with, probably, 9mm
automatic pistols, and Richter felt more than a match for them with the Smith.

The problem with a relatively small calibre bullet like the 9mm is that it isn’t a man-stopper. The Americans found this out years ago when they issued some of their forces with
.32-calibre pistols. Field experience showed that a determined or hyped-up attacker could just keep coming, even after multiple hits with these weapons. But a .357 Magnum – or the
Americans’ preferred .45 ACP – stopped pretty much anything and anyone. That was the edge Richter wanted.

He made a mug of coffee, put the cup down on his desk, and dialled the Registry. He requested the Blackbird file, the Moscow Station files for the last three months, and the one entitled
‘Newman, Graham (deceased)’.

Regents Park, London

The black Mercedes – one of several non-US manufactured vehicles used by the Embassy for unofficial duties – drove out of Grosvenor Square and joined the
one-way system in Upper Grosvenor Street, then turned up Park Street, through Portman Street, Gloucester Place and into Park Road. At the western end of Hanover Gardens the car stopped and Roger
Abrahams and John Westwood climbed out. ‘We’ll get a cab back,’ Abrahams said, dismissing the driver.

John Westwood glanced at his watch. ‘Where are we meeting this guy?’

‘By The Holme – it’s on the other side of the Boating Lake. We’ve plenty of time.’

The two Americans walked through Hanover Gardens, past the London Central Mosque, across the Outer Circle and into Regents Park itself. They followed the footpath and the footbridge which
crossed the north-west end of the Boating Lake, and then turned right towards Queen Mary’s Gardens. The day was seasonably warm and Westwood found that Abraham’s brisk pace was causing
him to sweat slightly. He removed his jacket and draped it over his arm. As they reached the second footbridge Abrahams touched Westwood’s arm. ‘There he is,’ he said,
pointing.

Westwood glanced to his right and saw a tall, slim figure in a light grey suit standing close to the eastern edge of the Boating Lake. As they crossed the footbridge, Abrahams chuckled softly.
‘Look. He is feeding the ducks. John le Carré’s got a lot to answer for.’

Piers Taylor tossed the last few crumbs of bread into the water in front of him, smiling at the noisy scrambling as the mallards jockeyed for position, then folded the brown paper bag carefully
and put it into his jacket pocket. He stepped back from the water’s edge and turned towards the approaching Americans.

‘Hullo, Piers,’ said Roger Abrahams, extending his hand.

‘Roger,’ Taylor acknowledged, shaking his hand firmly whilst looking at Westwood. ‘And this is?’ He left the question dangling.

Piers Taylor, Westwood thought, didn’t look like much. He had the slightly vacant expression traditionally – and with some truth – supposed to indicate a good public school
education, and he was, Westwood mentally concluded, far too young.

‘A colleague from home,’ Abrahams said smoothly, before Westwood could answer.

John Westwood shook Taylor’s hand. ‘Call me John,’ he said.

‘It was nice meeting you, John,’ Taylor said, smiled agreeably, turned and walked off.

‘Piers,’ Abrahams called.

Taylor stopped and turned back. ‘Roger,’ he said, and waited.

Abrahams sighed and looked at Westwood. ‘OK, OK. This is John Westwood. He’s the Head of our Foreign Intelligence (Espionage) Staff, and he – we – need some
help.’

Westwood looked angrily at Abrahams. ‘Was that really necessary?’ he asked.

Abrahams nodded, but Piers Taylor answered him, his eyes hard and his face unsmiling. ‘Yes, it was,’ he said. ‘I don’t talk to anyone until I find out who they are. I
won’t ask for ID because you’re with Roger, but normally I would want a full recognition procedure. You know who I am?’

Westwood looked again at the slight figure in front of him and nodded. He glanced round to check that nobody else was in earshot, then replied. ‘Deputy head of SIS Section Nine,
responsible for Russian affairs,’ he said.

‘Right,’ Piers Taylor nodded, his languid manner returning. ‘Now we all know who we are, how can we assist our colonial cousins?’

The three men turned as if by common consent and walked towards the Inner Circle. ‘It may be nothing,’ Westwood began, ‘and for the moment I want this to stay on a strictly
unofficial level. Can I first ask one question?’

Taylor nodded. ‘You can certainly ask,’ he said.

‘Do you – or does SIS, I should say – have any high-level agents-in-place or other well-placed sources in Russia?’ Before Taylor could answer, Westwood continued.
‘We basically need either confirmation or denial of the existence of a high-level conspiracy which might – I say again, might – be a threat to the West. If it exists, we believe
it has been organized and directed by the very highest echelons of the Russian government.’

Taylor walked on in silence for a few paces, then stopped. ‘You do realize what you’re asking?’ he said.

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.’