Overkill (48 page)

Lacomte was warming to his theme.

‘As soon as we close the northbound carriageway we will also close the southbound section, two junctions to the north, to ensure there are no witnesses to the operation. Then, when all the
traffic is clear, your SAS men and our assault forces will stop the truck.’

If you said it quickly, it sounded easy. It could even work, but Richter wasn’t certain it would be quite as simple as Lacomte seemed to believe. ‘Fine,’ Richter said. ‘I
have no problems with any of that. But stopping a lorry isn’t that easy. If the driver simply decides to keep going – and he will probably have orders to do exactly that – what
then?’

‘We arrange an accident,’ Tony Herron said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘We have to allay their suspicions. The Russians will probably notice the absence of traffic heading south, and the fact that nothing is overtaking them going north, and they will be
expecting trouble of some sort. So we arrange an accident – a big one, one that blocks the northbound carriageway altogether – and put rescue vehicles on the southbound side. Lots of
flashing lights and confusion, people running about.’

‘Yes,’ said Lacomte. ‘That should work.’

‘The convoy will have to stop, and with all the vehicles stationary it should be fairly easy to immobilize the escort. Perhaps a gendarme could approach the cars and ask if anyone is a
doctor, or demand their first-aid kits or something. Something to distract their attention.’

‘That’s good,’ Richter said, and turned to Lacomte.

‘Can you organize that?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘We’ll take two articulated lorries and jack-knife them across the carriageway, as if they collided when one was overtaking the other. It happens often
enough in France,’ he added.

‘We can leave the details of the actual assault until I have spoken to the SAS officer,’ Richter said. ‘But we should identify the location of the operation now so you can
prepare.’

Lacomte nodded and turned his attention back to the maps. The other DST man returned to the room and advised them that a main water pipe had burst just outside Strasbourg and that access to the
autoroute for all heavy goods vehicles was very slow. Private cars, he added with a smile, were able to get through without too many problems.

Half an hour later they had identified the site. The operation would take place between Chambry, junction number 13, just to the north of Laon, and the Courbes junction, number 12, on the A26
autoroute between Laon and St Quentin. There was even a convenient military camp just south of the autoroute between Vivaise and Couvron-et-Aumencourt, which could possibly be explained away as the
origin of any small-arms fire which might be heard.

‘Who will you use for the assault?’ Richter asked.

‘
Gigènes
,’ Lacomte said, ‘GIGN –
Groupe d’Intervention de la Gendarmerie Nationale
. They have a base in the south-east of Paris, at
Maisons-Alfort.’

The GIGN was formed on the 3 November 1973, principally in response to the siege of the Saudi Arabian Embassy in Paris that year. The force has always laid great store on personal marksmanship,
and this was vividly demonstrated at Djibouti in February 1976, when GIGN snipers simultaneously shot at and killed five Somali Coast Liberation Front terrorists who had seized a school coach
containing thirty children aged between six and twelve. The marksmen had to wait over ten hours for a clear shot at all the terrorists at the same time. The only casualty was a little girl who was
butchered by a sixth terrorist who boarded the bus after the shooting; he did not survive the subsequent storming of the vehicle by GIGN personnel.

‘We thought,’ Lacomte continued, with a smile, ‘that your SAS men might like to experience working with true professionals.’

It was after six when Richter and Herron emerged from the Ministry and climbed into the waiting car. Westwood waved a hand and walked away towards the avenue Gabriel. Back at the British
Embassy, Herron looked through a sheaf of signals, including one from Stirling Lines – the signal address of the SAS Headquarters at Hereford – which he passed over to Richter. It
confirmed that the unit requested would arrive no later than 2359 GMT that evening. No date, no place, no names. Typical SAS brevity.

Marne-la-Vallée

At ten minutes to midnight there was a gentle double tap on the cabin door. Richter pushed everything into the briefcase and locked it, eased the Smith out of the shoulder
rig and gently pulled the curtain away from a window. Outside was a white Transit van with ‘Uxbridge Vehicle Hire’ printed on the side and a handwritten sign in one of the windows
advising any interested onlooker that the occupants belonged to the Rotary Club (Pinner, West London, Division). With the Smith held out of sight behind him, he unlocked and opened the door.
Richter almost didn’t recognize him in his suit and tie, but Colin Dekker knew Richter instantly, despite the state of his face.

‘Paul Richter,’ he said. ‘I might have guessed.’

‘Come in, Colin,’ Richter replied.

Dekker stepped up into the cabin, and watched Richter put the Smith back in its holster. ‘This looks serious,’ he said. ‘You don’t normally carry a piece.’

‘I don’t and it is,’ Richter agreed. ‘Where are your men?’

‘Out there,’ he gestured with a thumb. ‘Making sure we aren’t disturbed or overheard. So what’s this all about? Nothing to do with British lamb and French farmers,
I hope.’

‘Not exactly,’ Richter said. ‘We’re going to attack an armed road convoy and seize a nuclear weapon that the Russians are trying to deliver to London.’

‘Fuck a duck,’ Colin Dekker said, and sat down.

Wednesday
Marne-la-Vallée

Colin Redmond Dekker, Captain, Royal Artillery, and nearing the end of a three-year detachment as Commander, Troop 3, D Squadron, 22 Special Air Service Regiment, sat in
an easy chair and watched a film of the Main Street Electrical Parade, with commentary in German, on the Disneyland Paris resort closed-circuit television system.

Richter put the kettle on and sat down opposite him. ‘You’d like a drink, I take it? What about your troop?’

‘Yes, thanks, and they would too,’ Colin Dekker said. ‘I’ll leave one man outside just in case, but I think we should be safe enough here.’ He opened the door,
stepped outside and whistled softly. A figure approached silently, murmured to Dekker and then stepped inside. A second followed him. A third man approached, talked briefly to Dekker, then melted
into the darkness. Colin Dekker walked back inside and stood beside the two newcomers. His stocky, compact figure looked smaller than Richter remembered, but it might just have been the contrast
with the size of the other two men. ‘Introductions, I suppose. This is Trooper Smith, and that is Trooper Jones. As you can probably guess, the man outside is Trooper Brown.’

Richter nodded. Standard SAS procedure.

‘Troopers,’ Dekker began, ‘this gentleman is a member of Her Majesty’s Secret Service, but that’s a secret, so don’t tell anyone.’ The two men smiled
politely but disinterestedly. ‘Before you both dismiss him as just another desk jockey with delusions of adequacy,’ Colin Dekker continued, ‘you should also know that he has been
through the full course at Hereford, starting with the Battle Fitness Test and finishing with the Fan Dance.’

The Fan Dance is named after Pen-y-Fan, the highest peak in the Brecon Beacons. It’s a twenty-four-kilometre run over the Beacons. You start at the bottom of Pen-y-Fan, run up to the top
of the mountain, down and around another mountain called the Crib and along a Roman road to the checkpoint at Torpanto. Then you turn round and do the whole thing again in reverse. The memory of it
still gave Richter occasional nightmares.

‘He also spent some days on the range and a week in the Killing House, and his scores were easily good enough to get him into the Regiment.’

The Killing House at Hereford is the Close Quarter Battle training range. Its interior can be modified to simulate almost any environment, and it offers the most realistic combat environment
possible, short of an actual firefight. The troopers were looking at Richter with a little more interest.

‘Whilst I am reluctant to break into this paean of praise,’ Richter interrupted, ‘we do have things to discuss. Oh, and for the duration of this operation, my name is Beatty,
OK?’

The kettle boiled. Richter made coffee and handed round the mugs. Dekker flopped down again in his chair, took a sip and then put his mug on the table beside him. The two troopers sat side by
side on the sofa, silent and watchful. ‘It’s been a very long day,’ Colin Dekker said, ‘and we nearly didn’t make it. We got the Flash activation signal from your
Secret Squirrel outfit at just after fourteen forty, UK time. We sent the van on its way within twenty minutes, which was bloody good going, and then we sat down and worked out what we were going
to need.’ He took another drink. ‘Drawing the gear and checking it took over two hours, then we had to sort out passports, money, Channel Tunnel tickets and all the other stuff, so we
weren’t ready to get into the chopper until well after five.’

‘Where did you fly to?’ Richter asked.

‘Manston,’ Dekker said. ‘The van was waiting for us, so it was a quick blast down to Folkestone, hop into the Chunnel train and then explore the delights of the French
autoroute system, which isn’t that bad, actually.’ He smiled at Richter. ‘I hope you’re impressed.’

‘By what?’ Richter asked.

‘By the fact that neither I nor Trooper Smith nor even Trooper Jones have asked what the hell we’re doing sitting in a log cabin in a wood at a holiday resort in France watching
Disney cartoons at nearly one o’clock in the morning, while Trooper Brown wanders about outside guarding a van which contains enough ordnance to start a small war.’

‘Only a small war?’ Richter asked.

‘It’s only,’ Dekker replied, ‘a small van.’

‘It’s camouflage,’ Richter said. ‘Hopefully no one will think of looking for us here.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t look for you here,’ Dekker said, after a pause, ‘so you might be right. Who exactly do you think might want to find us?’

‘At the moment, only the SVR and the GRU, but if it all goes wrong tomorrow you can probably add the entire security apparatus of la belle France.’

Trooper Smith blinked once, but that was the only reaction Richter could detect. Colin Dekker swallowed the last of his drink and put down his mug. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘that
you’d better tell us everything we need to know.’

Forty minutes later Richter folded up the map and put it back in his briefcase. Dekker looked at him thoughtfully, then turned to his men. ‘Trooper Smith can give us his recommendations
before he goes out to relieve Trooper Brown. Your thoughts, John.’

The man called Smith looked at them both, then spoke softly and economically. ‘It doesn’t look difficult,’ he said. ‘The only problem is not knowing the actual opposition
strength, but we can handle it.’ Looking at him, Richter thought he probably could.

Dekker nodded to him, and he left the cabin as silently as he had entered. Trooper Brown came in a minute or so later, walked straight to the kitchen and switched on the kettle.

‘Make yourself at home,’ Colin Dekker said. ‘Oh, I see you have.’

Brown walked into the lounge carrying a mug of tea and sat down next to Trooper Jones. He was more Dekker’s build, compact and wiry, but looked just as competent and capable as his
companions. Colin Dekker outlined the task ahead, and Brown just nodded. ‘No problem,’ he said.

Richter coughed politely. ‘I have no wish to dampen this mood of unbridled optimism,’ he said, ‘but you should remember that we are likely to be facing two or three armoured
saloons occupied by
Spetsnaz
troopers, probably carrying automatic weapons, plus an armed crew in the cab of the lorry and maybe other armed guards inside the cargo bay. There are exactly
four of you, and you’ll also have to avoid shooting a number of GIGN personnel who’ll try and get in on the act.’

Brown looked at him coldly. ‘I said, no problem.’

‘Fine,’ Richter said. ‘Colin?’

‘Trooper Brown, as you’ve probably noticed, is not one to be bothered by the odds, but he does have the experience to back up what he says.’

‘I don’t doubt that for a moment, but I don’t think it’s going to be a picnic.’ Richter took a fresh sheet of paper. ‘We have a meeting at nine thirty
tomorrow morning with DST and GIGN personnel in Paris, where we’ll sort out the details of the actual assault, but I would like to get some feedback from you first. Are you happy with the
basic plan – stopping the lorry and the escort using the fake accident?’

‘Yes,’ Dekker said. ‘That’s good, and it should minimize the risks.’

‘So the next question,’ Richter said, ‘is how to immobilize the truck and the escort.’

‘Right. The truck first, as that’s the most important. What size vehicle is it?’

‘We’ll know tomorrow morning, but my guess is an articulated lorry.’

‘Good,’ said Dekker, ‘that makes it easier.’ He thought for a moment. ‘The two most important things, I take it, are that the load the lorry is carrying isn’t
damaged, and that the vehicle is completely immobilized as quickly as possible?’

‘Yes,’ Richter replied. ‘I doubt if any external cause could detonate the weapon, but there would be obvious radiation hazards if the container was breached.’

Trooper Jones spoke for the first time. ‘We can slice the main drive-shaft.’

‘How?’ Richter asked.

‘Easy. A small piece of plastic, wrapped around it and detonated. The shaft’s hollow, and that would snap it like a twig. Without the drive-shaft, that truck’s going
nowhere.’

‘That’s good,’ Colin Dekker said. ‘That’s very good. And you’d deliver the explosive as soon as the truck has stopped at the accident?’ Jones
nodded.

‘OK,’ Dekker continued. ‘That takes care of the truck. Escort?’

‘Again,’ Richter said, ‘we won’t know until tomorrow what the strength is. The DST has mounted surveillance of all overland border crossings, and will then operate a
long-tail on the convoy as it travels through France. I’m expecting a minimum of two escort vehicles, possibly three, so probably at least ten armed opposition personnel.’