Overkill (38 page)

To an American, accustomed to the heavy traffic, but generally tolerant and competent drivers stateside, French driving habits were frightening – almost lethally aggressive. Cars swerved
from lane to lane without warning, drivers gesticulated and hooted at each other, and the few pedestrians he saw crossing the roads were quite clearly taking their lives in their hands. ‘Is
it always like this?’ Westwood asked the diplomat.

The young man smiled and shook his head. ‘No, sir. This is mid-afternoon at a weekend – it’s quiet and peaceful. If you want to see it busy, stay here till next Friday and go
stand at the Arc de Triomphe at about five thirty.’

‘Jesus,’ Westwood muttered.

At the Embassy, he was ushered through the security doors at the rear of the building and taken to a guest suite. He was unpacking his suitcase when there was a gentle knock on the door.
‘Come in,’ he said, turning around from hanging up his jacket.

A short, grey-haired man wearing rimless spectacles opened the door and walked into the room. ‘Miles Turner,’ he said, by way of introduction. ‘I’m Chief of
Station,’ he added.

‘John Westwood. Pleased to meet you, Miles,’ Westwood replied, striding across the room and shaking his hand.

‘I know why you’re here, John,’ Turner said. ‘I had a classified signal from Roger Abrahams in London yesterday afternoon, and there’s a conference call with
Langley scheduled in an hour or so. What I’m not sure about is whether you’ve had a wasted journey. The French are as prickly as hell about anything to do with espionage. If they had an
agent who was valet to the head of the SVR, I doubt if they’d even tell you what colour pants he wears.’ Westwood grunted. ‘Anyway, we’ll do what we can,’ Turner
continued. ‘I’ve arranged a meeting with the DGSE for Monday afternoon.’

‘Remind me,’ said Westwood.

‘The DGSE is the
Direction Générale de Sécurité Extérieure
,’ Turner said. ‘It used to be called the
Service de Documentation
Extérieure et de Contre-Espionage
, or SDECE, until Mitterand’s election in 1981. As well as being partisan and reluctant to talk to anyone who isn’t French, it’s also
made some spectacular blunders, like sinking the
Rainbow Warrior
in New Zealand waters a few years back. The DGSE has been quiet of late, which may mean it’s up to something.
Or,’ he added after a pause, ‘it may not.’

Ickenham, Middlesex

‘I’m really sorry to be a nuisance, Kate,’ Richter said, as Bentley’s wife walked into the kitchen carrying two bulging shopping bags.

She put the bags down on the worktop and began pulling groceries out of them. ‘You’re not a nuisance, Paul,’ she said, dark eyes flashing under her fringe of black hair.
‘You’re a friend and we’re glad to be able to help. It’s just that you’re dangerous – well, not you personally, but it’s the work you do and the people you
associate with. That’s what worries me.’

‘I know,’ Richter said, ‘and I’ll be out of here just as soon as I can. Probably tomorrow, or Monday at the very latest.’

‘You don’t have to leave until you’re ready, Paul,’ Kate said, but Richter could detect the relief in her voice as she realized that he would soon be out of their
house.

After lunch, while Kate busied herself in the kitchen, Richter outlined what he was going to have to do the following morning, and what he was going to have to ask David Bentley to do to help
him.

‘It seems bloody complicated,’ Bentley said when Richter had finished.

‘It is bloody complicated,’ Richter said, ‘but I have to be sure that the man I’m going to meet has shaken any tails – lost anyone following him, I mean –
before he meets me. I can tell you, with absolute certainty, that if I get seen by the wrong people, I’m dead.’

‘You do lead an exciting life, Paul,’ Bentley said, but there was absolutely no trace of envy in his voice. ‘On the whole, though, I think I’d rather just shuffle files
at Uxbridge all day then come back home and mow the grass.’

‘To each his own,’ Richter said, ‘though right now I’d trade places with you if I could.’ He paused. ‘I know what Kate thinks, but could you help me tomorrow
for an hour or two? Your part will, I guarantee, be risk-free. All you’d have to do would be to deliver me to the service area on the M4, and then pick me up after the meeting.’

Bentley grinned at him. ‘I don’t see a problem. I think tomorrow it would be prudent if we took you along to the local hospital for a check-up. That way she’ll never
know.’

‘Thanks, David. I really appreciate it.’

‘One question. Why are you meeting in a motorway service area?’

‘Because on a motorway you can be very sure if anyone is following you. If my man pulls in, and any of the cars he has had following him pull in as well, he’ll simply put some petrol
in his car and then drive off. He’ll only meet me if there’s no indication of any pursuit. You can’t, you see,’ Richter finished, ‘front tail or double back on a
motorway, not without making it quite obvious, and not without risking a motorway patrol breathing down your neck.’

Bentley looked doubtful. ‘Yes, I can see that, but what happens if he is followed, and just drives away?’

‘Then I’m back to square one,’ Richter said.

Minsk, Belorussiya (White Russia)

Nicolai Modin unlocked the door of his stateroom with relief. It had been a busy day and a long evening. He had spent the morning in a final, but inconclusive, session
with Grigori Sokolov. Sokolov had been apologetic, but he had still found no positive evidence to indicate the identity of the SVR traitor. Privately, he confided to Modin, he still thought Viktor
Bykov was as likely as anyone, but he had discovered absolutely nothing incriminating about him.

The afternoon flight from Moscow had been delayed nearly an hour, as far as Modin could see for no good reason, and the drive from the airport to the local SVR headquarters had seemed
interminable. Bykov seemed to have taken charge of the journey, and had appeared delighted to have been seconded to Modin’s staff.

Out of courtesy, Modin had dined with the SVR senior officers, and had only retired at midnight, pleading the next day’s long drive as the excuse. Viktor Bykov, he noted to himself
somewhat sourly, was still in the dining room.

American Embassy, 2 avenue Gabriel, Paris

‘I don’t believe it,’ John Westwood said into the telephone handset. ‘Surely not even the GRU could mount an operation without some sort of
approval from the Kremlin?’

‘You may well be right,’ Hicks replied. ‘All I’m telling you is what the President thinks. It’s possible that Karasin is a far better actor than we’re giving
him credit for, and that this is a carefully concocted operation approved of, and directed by, the Kremlin.’

‘Nothing new from RAVEN, I suppose?’ Roger Abrahams asked from London.

Hicks grunted. ‘Nope,’ he said. ‘Rigby is still making himself as visible as possible, but he’s had no further contact.’

‘So where do we go from here?’ Westwood asked.

‘We carry on,’ Hicks said. ‘We assume the threat is real and do everything we can to combat it. You keep chasing the French while Roger tries to get something out of the
British intelligence services. We’re increasing satellite surveillance of the Asian landmass, but as we don’t know what the hell we’re looking for, that’s probably a
complete waste of time.

‘I discussed this with the President, and his orders were quite specific. The security of the American people is paramount, so we’re going to move from DEFCON FOUR all the way up to
DEFCON ONE no later than the tenth. The President will launch the bombers and support tankers that evening. They’ll fly to their Positive Control Points and hold there, awaiting a
Presidential decision to either proceed and deliver their weapons or return to base.

‘The Navy will get the boomers into position no later than the morning of the ninth, and all serviceable strategic nuclear missiles will begin countdown on the tenth. The missiles will be
held at five minutes’ notice to launch until the Russians implement their threat, or until the President is satisfied either that the threat doesn’t exist or that the crisis is
over.

‘The President will probably remain at the White House throughout, or may decide to retreat with his family to Camp David. He wants to create as little speculation in the media as
possible, and he thinks that if he remains in Washington that should help to reassure the American people. Whatever he decides, he has already ordered his principal military advisers to get
airborne in the Nightwatch aircraft during the afternoon of the tenth.’

Walter Hicks paused for a moment. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘the United States military machine is assuming a full war footing, and at the slightest sign of any provocation from
Russia the President intends to attack at once.’

Sunday
Minsk, Belorussiya (White Russia)

The civilian stewards at the SVR headquarters had set out a separate table adjacent to the windows for the visiting senior officers. When Nicolai Modin walked somewhat
stiffly down the stairs just after six, he found Viktor Bykov already seated, drinking thick black coffee and reading a local paper. The two men nodded to each other, and as soon as Modin was
seated, a steward hurried over to take his order. Modin looked at the plates of black bread, cheese, salami and pastries that were already arranged on the table, and just asked for coffee.

‘So, General,’ Bykov said, ‘today we begin the final phase.’

Modin nodded and reached for a pastry. ‘It will be a long and tiring journey, Viktor,’ the older man said. ‘Nilov – my aide at Yazenevo – prepared a schedule for
me. He prepares,’ Modin added thoughtfully, ‘schedules for almost everything.’

Bykov nodded and smiled. ‘So I’ve heard,’ he murmured.

Modin looked at Bykov and smiled gently. ‘I would be somewhat lost without that young man,’ he said. ‘Anyway, he has calculated that we have about eighteen hundred kilometres
of driving before we reach the French border, so we have little time in hand if we are to get to London on schedule. Nilov’s estimate for the French border is mid-morning on Tuesday, and
London on Wednesday morning.’

‘What time have you ordered the convoy to leave?’ Bykov asked.

‘Six thirty,’ Modin replied. ‘We have two drivers for each vehicle, so we can realistically expect to be able to travel for twelve hours a day, if necessary. Nilov estimated an
average speed on the road of fifty kilometres an hour, which shouldn’t be too difficult to achieve. A lot,’ he added, ‘depends upon the border crossings, but our diplomatic status
should ensure we receive some priority.’

Bykov nodded. Both men ate in silence for a few minutes. Then Modin put down his coffee cup, wiped his mouth on his napkin and glanced at his watch. ‘Six twenty,’ he said. ‘We
should move.’

Bykov nodded agreement and stood up. A steward walked over to the two men and handed Bykov a large brown paper bag. Modin looked at him. ‘Snacks and soft drinks,’ Bykov explained.
‘As you said, General, it will be a long drive.’

The two men walked out of the building by the back stairs and into the rear courtyard. An articulated lorry was parked adjacent to the far wall, its engine idling. Two light blue Mercedes
saloons were parked nose to tail almost in the centre of the courtyard, and a black Mercedes limousine was waiting at the bottom of the steps.

As Bykov and Modin appeared, the driver of the limousine stepped out of the car, opened the rear door and saluted briskly. Modin acknowledged the salute, but did not immediately get into the
car. Instead he walked over to a small group of men – all
Spetsnaz
troopers but wearing civilian clothes – standing next to the Mercedes saloon cars. ‘All well,
Captain?’ Modin asked, as he stopped beside a tall, well-built man.

The men came smartly to attention, and the man Modin had addressed saluted, then nodded. ‘Yes, General. We are ready.’

‘Very good,’ Modin replied. He strode across to the articulated lorry, exchanged a few words with the drivers, and then walked back to the limousine. ‘Right, Viktor,’ he
said, taking his seat, ‘let’s go.’

Thirty seconds later one of the blue Mercedes saloons pulled smoothly out of the courtyard, followed by the articulated lorry and then the second saloon. Bykov nodded to their driver, and the
limousine joined the group at the rear. The four vehicles cleared the outskirts of Minsk at seven fifteen and headed south-west for Brest on the Polish border, some two hundred miles distant.
Nilov’s schedule suggested that they should reach it at about eleven thirty. As the convoy picked up speed, Modin wondered just how accurate his estimates were going to prove.

Anton Kirov

Colonel Petr Zavorin broke the seal on another bottle of Scotch whisky and poured healthy measures into two short glasses. ‘Your health, Captain,’ he said, and
took a sip.

Valeri Bondarev obediently raised his glass and drank. He didn’t particularly enjoy the fiery amber liquor – of which Zavorin appeared to have an inexhaustible supply – and
would have much preferred a decent vodka. However, Zavorin was in charge, and Bondarev saw no real harm in humouring him.

‘We have done well, Valeri,’ Zavorin said, putting his glass down on the side table. They were, as usual, sitting together in the captain’s day cabin. The message from Moscow
had arrived half an hour earlier, and the anonymous sender had declared himself pleased when Zavorin – roused from sleep – had responded with the current position of the
Anton
Kirov
.

‘No more changes of plan, Colonel?’ Bondarev asked.

Zavorin shook his head. ‘No, no more changes. We make for Gibraltar, to arrive no later than Tuesday morning. We have ample time, I think?’

Bondarev nodded agreement. ‘Yes, we have plenty of time. And what then?’

‘We wait,’ Zavorin replied. ‘We wait at Gibraltar until we are instructed to proceed.’ He took another sip of his whisky. ‘I should not really tell you this,
Captain, but we have been working well together, and I think, perhaps, that you have earned the right to know.’