Overkill (39 page)

He paused, and Bondarev leaned forward expectantly. ‘First, one of the equipment boxes that we loaded at Varna is to be delivered to a small company in Gibraltar which is run by one of our
operatives. But the real reason for visiting Gibraltar is that we are to collect a piece of American cryptographic equipment – a cipher machine – which our agents have managed to
obtain. This will be delivered, probably by a small boat, whilst we are alongside. As soon as this machine has been loaded we will be able to leave Gibraltar.’

Zavorin smiled pleasantly and Bondarev nodded. It was more or less what he had expected. His ship had effectively been hijacked for use in some spy game that Moscow was playing, and there was
nothing he could do about it. At least the end was in sight. Once the cipher machine had been loaded, the
Anton Kirov
could turn east again, and head back towards the Black Sea. Perhaps,
Bondarev thought, he would suggest to Zavorin that the ship should pick up some legitimate cargo on the way. A matter of camouflage, almost. He wondered, for the first time, if the voyage might
become something other than a total waste of his time. Bondarev stood up and smiled. ‘I thank you for your confidence, Colonel. Now, if you will excuse me, I have to return to the
bridge.’

‘Of course.’ When the captain had closed the door behind him, Zavorin drank the last of his Scotch. He was rather pleased with his story of the cipher machine; the idea had come to
him whilst re-reading one of the very first James Bond novels. Zavorin smiled to himself, then picked up the bottle and left the cabin.

Middlesex

After an early breakfast of coffee and toast, Richter made himself as presentable as possible by covering the more offensive-looking abrasions on his face with plasters
which were more or less skin-coloured. His jeans were a mess and his shirt and sweater had been shoved straight into the dustbin as soon as Bentley had managed to pull them off him. Bentley
rummaged around in his bedroom wardrobe and emerged carrying a white shirt and a clean pair of jeans. The jeans were a little big around the waist, but the belt ensured they’d stay up.
Richter dressed in his bedroom, assisted by Bentley, and as soon as he’d pulled the jeans on he opened the haversack and extracted the shoulder holster and the Smith and Wesson.

‘Is that going to be necessary?’ Bentley asked, as Richter pulled the holster into place.

‘Christ, I hope not,’ Richter replied, loading the pistol with six shells, ‘but I’m not about to start taking any chances.’

Bentley gave him a hand with the leather jacket, which completely covered the shoulder rig, then unearthed an elderly trilby-type hat and offered it to Richter.

‘Not exactly a picture of sartorial elegance,’ Richter said, looking at his reflection in a mirror, ‘but it does cover some of the damage.’

Bentley grinned at him.

‘What?’ Richter asked.

‘Nothing,’ Bentley said. ‘Just shades of Philip Marlowe.’

‘Before we go,’ Richter said, looking straight at Bentley, ‘I’d feel happier if you were armed, just in case.’

‘Just in case what?’ Bentley demanded. ‘You told me my part of this little escapade would be completely risk-free.’

‘It should be,’ Richter said, ‘but I’d feel happier if I knew you were carrying, that’s all.’

Bentley looked at him for a long moment. ‘OK,’ he said, finally. ‘Hand it over.’

Richter delved into his haversack and pulled out the little Mauser HSc and its shoulder holster. While Bentley pulled on the holster, Richter quickly showed him how to operate the Mauser. The
Navy man was used to the Browning 9mm pistol, an altogether bigger weapon, but very similar in operation. He was still somewhat apprehensive about carrying the pistol, and Simpson would throw a fit
if he knew. Neither Richter nor Bentley wanted to think about Kate’s reaction if she found out.

Richter had fixed the rendezvous at the service area for ten twenty – only a fool or an amateur ever has a meet on the hour or half hour – and they drove a tortuous route out as far
as Reading in Bentley’s red Saab Turbo before turning south to join the M4 at junction eleven. By that time Richter was absolutely certain that there was no one on their tail. It just
remained to check that there was nobody on Simpson’s.

Richter had told Simpson to leave London in the Jaguar on the M4, losing any tails if possible, and drive out as far as junction ten, where he was to turn round and head back towards the
capital, timing his arrival at junction ten at nine twenty as near as possible. Richter reckoned it was a comfortable forty-five minute drive from junction ten to the Heston service area, beyond
Heathrow, which meant that Simpson should arrive there at about five past ten.

With Bentley at the wheel of the Saab – Richter wanted to devote his entire attention to watching, as if his life depended on it, which it did – they turned left onto the eastbound
carriageway of the M4 at eight fifteen, and settled down to a relaxing fifty miles per hour cruise. Few cars travel at fifty on a motorway, and those that do tend to be very conspicuous.

Everything Richter spotted as possible opposition passed them, and by the time they approached junction nine he was certain that this final check was also negative. They pulled off the motorway
at junction seven, and Richter told Bentley to park on the southbound flyover, above the westbound carriageway, and pretend to look at a map for a few minutes while he watched the westbound
traffic.

Richter checked his watch. Eight fifty. Just about right. At five minutes to the hour he saw the dark green XJ6, a shadowy figure at the wheel. For the moment, Richter wasn’t interested in
him, but he was in the cars behind him. A grey Rover was overtaking, so he discounted that, but listed seven possibles – two Ford Orions, an old Metro, a light blue Transit van (a favourite
vehicle for watchers, because you can park it almost anywhere without too many questions being asked), a Renault Laguna and two BMWs – a three-series and a five-series.

Richter turned to Bentley. ‘Wagons roll, David. And could you wind it up a bit once we get on to the motorway?’

‘No problem. I hate driving at fifty.’

‘I’ve noticed that.’

They closed the gap rapidly, and by the time they reached junction nine Richter had eliminated the BMW 325, because it had overtaken the Jaguar, and the first Orion, because it had expired in a
cloud of steam on the hard shoulder. At the junction, the Transit and the five-series BMW turned off, as Bentley and Richter did, and headed north towards the A4, so that just left the second
Orion, the Metro and the Renault in trail behind the Jaguar.

Richter told Bentley to pull the same map-reading effort again, and they stopped on the northbound flyover so that he could watch the eastbound traffic, waiting for the Jaguar to show again. It
did, at twenty to ten, and Richter waited until he was sure that the three cars he had seen westbound were no longer in company before telling Bentley to start the engine.

They pulled onto the motorway and held position about a mile behind the Jaguar. Richter was still constantly checking cars, both in front of them and behind, but by the time they approached
junction four, the Heathrow turn-off, he had only spotted two possibles, a Volkswagen Passat and a Renault Safrane, both of which had appeared on the motorway at junction six and had then held
position in front of the Saab and behind the XJ6.

Richter’s mobile phone rang as they passed junction four. ‘Yes?’

‘Simpson. Are you in a red Saab?’

‘Yes.’

‘Right.’

The phone went dead, and Bentley looked enquiringly at Richter. ‘That was the man I’ll be meeting,’ he said. ‘He’s spotted us, but I don’t think he’s
seen any other possible tails.’

The Jaguar’s left-hand indicator came on as it approached the Heston service area, and Richter watched the two cars he had been watching drive on towards London. ‘Right,
David,’ he said. ‘I think we’re clear. Pull in and park where we can see the Jaguar, but where you have a clear run to the exit, just in case the opposition have been cleverer
than I thought.’

They pulled up on the end of a rank of cars and Richter saw Simpson walk away from the Jaguar and head towards the cafeteria area, feeling in his pocket, presumably for some change. That was a
good sign, as it indicated that he hadn’t spotted any chase cars either, apart from the red Saab he knew Richter had been using.

Richter and Bentley sat in the Saab, watching for any sign of cars that he had previously seen, but by the time Simpson emerged, Richter had still no indication of any possible watchers. At
eighteen minutes past, he reached for the door handle, then turned to Bentley. ‘If there’s any sign of trouble, any sign at all, don’t hang around, just take off and get back
home. And if when I get out of the Jaguar I walk towards the cafeteria, go, because that will mean I’ve spotted someone. OK?’

‘OK, Paul. Just be careful.’

‘I will,’ Richter promised. ‘I’ve got a pension I’m determined to collect, if only to piss off my boss.’

Bentley smiled and nodded, and Richter opened the door and stepped out.

Biala Podlaska, Eastern Poland

Modin was pleased. The convoy had encountered no significant hold-ups on the road to Brest, and the crossing into Poland had taken less than fifteen minutes. The Poles
knew better than to delay vehicles bearing diplomatic plates, especially Russian diplomatic plates.

Warsaw was about one hundred and twenty miles ahead, and they were actually ahead of Nilov’s schedule. Modin instructed the
Spetsnaz
escort to radio approval for a meal break and
driver change. The lead Mercedes driver pulled off the road where it looped north around the town of Biala Podlaska, and parked his car at the far side of the parking area of a small café.
The articulated lorry followed, then the second Mercedes saloon and the limousine.

‘Thirty minutes,’ the
Spetsnaz
escort said into the microphone. ‘Remember the standing orders. One person to remain in each vehicle at all times. No talking in the
café.’

Modin nodded his approval, and he and Bykov got out of the limousine and walked towards the double doors of the café.

Middlesex

Richter opened the nearside rear door of the Jaguar and climbed in. There was an audible clunk as Simpson used central locking to secure all the doors. He turned to face
Richter. ‘I’d like some answers, Richter. I’ve had the Met on my back all morning, wanting to know if I knew anything about the late Mr Orlov and two of his associates who were
found dead by their cook this morning. The Met Super said he’d never seen such carnage. He said Orlov had twelve bullet wounds, just as if someone had shot bits off him.’ Richter
nodded. ‘What happened to your face?’ Simpson asked.

‘I walked into a door. Why did the Met contact you?’

‘Because Orlov was an alien, and a Russian alien at that. They said the Foreign and Commonwealth Office thought that SIS might know something, and the idiot SIS Duty Officer gave the plods
my phone number. I’ll be sorting him out later.’

‘And what did you tell them?’

‘I told them I’d look into it,’ Simpson said. ‘And unless you’ve got some pretty fancy answers, I’m going to point the finger straight at you. I told you last
night not to touch Orlov.’

‘I thought you said you couldn’t afford to do without me?’ Richter asked.

‘I’ll give it a go, Richter,’ Simpson snarled. ‘Now tell me a tale, and it had better be a good one to justify all this bloody cloak and dagger crap and
TESTAMENT.’

‘It may be cloak and dagger crap to you, Simpson, but it means my life, so if it’s all right with you, we’ll just keep on with it, OK?’

Richter leaned forward in the seat and told him what Orlov had told him or, rather, what he had started to tell him after Richter had shot off both his kneecaps, and what had then been forced
out of him with further 9mm encouragement. When Richter finished, he leaned back and waited. Simpson looked ashen. ‘You’re sure? You’re absolutely sure?’

Richter nodded. ‘I am sure that Orlov believed what he was telling me. I do not believe that anyone in his position would have been able to invent such complicated lies which would tie in
so well with what we already know.’

Simpson sighed. ‘Dear God. Dear God help us all. What are we going to do?’

Richter shrugged. ‘That’s not up to me. We have to tell the French, obviously, because they’re already involved. We should tell the CIA officially – I know they’ve
been aware that the Russians have been up to something for some time, but if we tell them what we know it might get us a bit of co-operation. As for retrieving the situation, I suppose we could
make strong diplomatic noises at Moscow, not that it would do much good if the Kremlin knows as little about this as we did. The only thing Orlov couldn’t tell me, because he didn’t
know, was when the final phase is going to happen, but I think we have very little time left.’

‘How long?’

‘Four days, at a guess, perhaps five. No longer.’

‘That hardly leaves enough time to go through diplomatic channels, does it?’

‘No,’ Richter said, ‘but what other course of action is open to us?’

‘Only one,’ said Simpson, ‘just as you suggested. First, now that we know what we’re up against I’ll get everything sorted at FOE. Second, I’ll brief Vauxhall
Cross so that they can tell the CIA here in London, and everyone else who needs to know. Third, we stop the last device, and that means we send you to France.’

‘Me? Why me?’ Richter asked. ‘You haven’t forgotten I’m at the top of the SVR’s kill list, have you?’

‘No, Richter, I haven’t forgotten, but it has to be you. You know more about this than anybody else in the department, because you’ve been involved right from the start, but
the real reason is that you’re the best man I’ve got for this kind of work. I’ll get you a diplomatic passport, for what it’s worth, and give you a couple of bodyguards, but
you’ve got to go.’

Richter grunted. ‘I don’t like it,’ he said.

‘I’m not asking you to like it,’ Simpson snapped. ‘I’m just telling you what you’re going to do. Can you see any alternative?’