Overkill (53 page)

Richter didn’t think the occupants of the limousine would want to abandon their car and head off on foot into rural France, but he wasn’t going to take a chance on it. He stopped
about ten metres short of the car and directly behind it. Richter could clearly see the faces of the two men in the back seat looking at him, and at the Smith and Wesson he was pointing at them. He
heard running footsteps and glanced to his left. Two of the GIGN snipers were approaching. Richter waved one to his left and the other to the right; they stopped in line with him, crouched and
sighted their rifles at the Mercedes, covering both sets of doors.

‘It’s over,’ Richter shouted in Russian at the car, reinforcing his words with gestures. ‘Open the doors and step out. Left rear seat passenger first.’

‘That’s it,’ Modin said.

‘What? We just give up?’

‘Viktor,’ Modin snapped. ‘Use your eyes, and then use your head. We’re outnumbered and out-gunned. If we fight, we die.’ He nodded to Bykov. ‘Get out,’
he said. ‘And Viktor,’ he added, ‘try not to do anything stupid.’

Modin leaned forward to the driver. ‘Switch off the engine,’ he said.

Richter saw the movement and turned towards the sniper on his right, but the trooper was way ahead. His rifle cracked twice and both right-hand tyres blew. The Mercedes was
going nowhere. ‘The next ones go into the fuel tank,’ Richter shouted. ‘Get out now.’

The left-hand rear door opened, and the passenger slowly emerged, his arms held high above his head. ‘Walk towards me,’ Richter commanded. When he reached about five metres away
Richter shouted again. ‘Stop. Lie down, face down, hands and feet apart.’ The Russian hesitated. Richter raised the Smith and Wesson and Viktor Bykov looked straight down the barrel.
‘Your choice,’ Richter said. ‘You’ll lie down, alive or dead.’ Bykov lay down.

Richter followed the same routine, straight out of an American police basic training manual, with the second passenger, and finally the driver and escort. While Richter ensured the co-operation
of the prisoners with the intimidating presence of the Smith and Wesson, one of the GIGN snipers lashed their hands together, behind their backs. No rope, no wire, just cheap plastic cable ties.
Virtually unbreakable, and no keys to lose.

Richter tucked the Smith back in the shoulder rig, left the four Russians lying in the road and trotted back to the Renault van. Lacomte met him halfway there. ‘The limousine OK?’ he
asked.

‘Yes,’ Richter said. ‘Any problems with the lorry?’

‘No. The cab crew got a good dose of CS gas, and came down without any trouble. Both of them have lacerations of the head and neck caused by flying glass, but nothing serious. Our problem
is the two Mercedes.’

‘What happened?’

‘They stopped when the lorry started the blocking manoeuvre, but Erulin thought they might try and make a run for it, so his men shot out the tyres.’ The GIGN snipers seemed to be
getting quite good at that.

‘And?’

‘The occupants of one of them opened fire, so the
Gigènes
fired a few rounds through the windows which stopped them. We don’t know whether they’re dead or alive
inside the car, but at least they’re not still shooting. The second car is just sitting there. The men inside have weapons available – we can see them through the windows – but
they aren’t using them, and neither do they seem to want to come out peacefully.’

Richter thought for a moment. ‘Leave it to me,’ he said. ‘Tell Colin and Erulin not to take any action yet.’ He turned back towards the limousine.

‘Where are you going?’ Lacomte asked.

‘To consult a higher authority,’ Richter said. He walked past the GIGN guards and knelt down beside the older of the two men lying on the tarmac. ‘Are you the senior
officer?’ Richter asked him, in Russian. Nicolai Modin nodded. ‘Right,’ Richter said. ‘Let me help you up.’ Richter got Modin to his feet and walked him back towards
the limousine.

‘We have a problem,’ Richter said, and pointed up the autoroute. ‘Both your escort vehicles are sitting immobilized about half a mile up the road, full of
Spetsnaz
soldiers armed to the teeth and surrounded by our men, also armed to the teeth. There’s already been an exchange of gunfire and I guess some of your men will need medical attention
quickly.

‘Now,’ Richter continued, ‘we can do this the hard way, or we can do this the easy way. The hard way is they stay in the cars, and we pop an armour-piercing round through each
window and follow it with a grenade. That makes a mess on the road and means I’ve got a lot of boring forms to fill in.’

‘And the easy way?’ Modin spoke for the first time, and in English.

‘The easy way is you get on the radio –’ Richter pointed through the window of the limousine ‘– and tell them to leave their weapons in the cars and get out, one at
a time.’

‘And then?’ the Russian asked.

‘And then we have a little talk,’ Richter said. ‘If your men surrender I can guarantee they won’t be harmed.’

‘Do I have much of a choice?’

‘Frankly, no.’

‘Can you release me?’ Modin asked.

‘I’d rather not,’ Richter said. ‘Not just yet. I’ll operate the radio for you. My Russian,’ he added, ‘isn’t fluent, but I promise you I’ll
know if you say anything you shouldn’t.’

Wednesday
Autoroute A26, vicinity of Couvron-et-Aumencourt

By five they had the situation sorted out. Two
Spetsnaz
troopers had been found dead when Dekker’s men opened the rear doors of the Mercedes; the other two
occupants had serious wounds and were on their way to hospital. The two lorries that had been used for blocking the carriageway had gone, as had the tractor unit from the Russian artic. A new
tractor, summoned by Lacomte, had been hitched to the Russian trailer and driven into the next rest area, a few kilometres further up the autoroute. The Mercedes cars had been winched on to
breakdown trucks and were parked in the same rest area, awaiting new tyres. Both carriageways of the autoroute were closed to all traffic between the Chambry and Courbes junctions, and were going
to stay that way until everyone was ready to leave. The Minister of the Interior was expected imminently, by helicopter, to inspect the cargo in the Russian lorry.

The surviving Russians, with two exceptions, were sitting with their wrists bound with cable ties and locked in the back of Erulin’s Renault van. The first exception was the senior officer
who had ordered the
Spetsnaz
personnel to surrender without a fight. He was sitting comfortably enough at a stone picnic table, thoughtfully provided by the French autoroute operating
company, and eating one of the sandwiches left over from Colin Dekker’s lunch. Trooper Smith was standing ten feet away, watching him carefully, his Hockler at the ready.

Richter was sitting in the back of the Transit van, looking at the second exception – the younger of the two Russian passengers they had pulled from the back seat of the limousine.
‘My name is Beatty,’ Richter said, ‘and I represent the British government.’ A somewhat sweeping, and almost entirely inaccurate, statement, but there was nobody around who
could dispute it. ‘Can I please have your name?’ Richter asked politely.

The Russian stared at him. ‘You have seized my passport,’ he said. ‘If you can read, you will see that it is a diplomatic passport, and that by holding me you are in breach of
international regulations. I have nothing further to add.’ He turned to look out of the window.

Richter picked up the passport and glanced at it. ‘According to this document,’ he began, ‘your name is Petr Lavrov and it states that you are a diplomat. I do not believe
either of those pieces of information. I do not believe that your name is Petr Lavrov, because I heard your superior address you as “Bykov”. And I do not believe that you are a diplomat
because real diplomats do not attempt to smuggle nuclear weapons into another country.

‘Perhaps, Comrade Bykov,’ Richter said, after a few moments, ‘it would help if I explained the facts of life to you. The operation to halt your little convoy and prevent you
positioning a nuclear weapon in London was a joint effort. We used a detachment from our Special Air Service, a squad from the
French Groupe d’Intervention de la Gendarmerie Nationale
and the whole thing was coordinated by the French DST, that’s the
Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire
.’

‘I do know what the acronym stands for, Mr Beatty,’ Bykov said.

Richter nodded. ‘I thought you probably would,’ he said.

‘So why are you telling me this?’ Bykov asked, looking puzzled.

‘I’m telling you so you realize that the operation has involved people of two different nations who don’t share a common language. Because we don’t speak the same
language, we have had some problems with communications. None of the organizations involved in this matter have filed their reports yet,’ Richter continued, ‘but when they do they will
probably all incorporate a recommendation that any future joint operations include interpreters. That way, unfortunate accidents and misunderstandings might be prevented.’

‘I really don’t understand what you’re talking about. What unfortunate accidents and misunderstandings?’

‘Well, that rather depends on you,’ Richter said, after a short pause. ‘If, for example, you give me some answers – preferably truthful answers – to a few simple
questions, then in a couple of hours you and your colleague can get back in your comfortable limousine and continue your journey, or return to Mother Russia, or go wherever else your whim or your
conscience dictates. We’ll even,’ he added, ‘pay for four new tyres for you.’

‘And if I refuse?’ the Russian demanded.

‘Well, that’s the problem,’ Richter said. ‘I really do need to get some answers from either you or your colleague. If you refuse to talk to me then I have to hope that he
will be sensible. What I might have to do is arrange for you to be, say, shot while trying to escape, to encourage him to see reason. That’s the kind of unfortunate accident I’m worried
about.’

Bykov’s glare was still defiant, but his face seemed a shade paler. ‘You wouldn’t dare. That would be murder, simple cold-blooded murder.’

‘It certainly would,’ Richter agreed, ‘but I’m sure you’ve done worse in your career.’ Bykov opened his mouth to speak, but apparently thought better of it.
‘France,’ Richter said, ‘is a civilized country, where all citizens are subject to the rule of law. Please believe me when I tell you that in this parking area the rule of law has
been temporarily suspended. Here, we can do exactly what we like.’ He pointed out of the window at Trooper Smith. ‘You see that man there? He’s a member of 22 Special Air Service
Regiment. He has spent all of his adult life in the British armed forces, and he is now a member of arguably the most professional and proficient elite Special Force in the world – not
excluding your
Spetsnaz
.

‘I have a story which might interest you. In December 1974 a four-man IRA gang took a couple hostage in Balcombe Street, Marylebone – that’s a district in London. The gang was
well armed – in fact, they had sub-machineguns – and showed no inclination at all to come out. The Metropolitan Police believed they faced a long siege, which might conceivably end with
the killing of one or both of the hostages and general mayhem and havoc. However, before any major actions were taken by either side, an enterprising police officer leaked a fictitious story to the
BBC and one of the national daily newspapers. The story stated that operational control of the incident was about to be transferred to the SAS. Do you know what happened when that news was
broadcast?’

‘No, of course I don’t,’ Bykov snapped.

‘The gang surrendered. Immediately and without conditions. And do you know why?’ The Russian shook his head. ‘Because they knew perfectly well that if the SAS took over the
siege, their chances of getting out alive were nil. Zero. More recently, in April 1980, a group of six terrorists seized the Iranian Embassy in London. When they started killing hostages, the SAS
stormed the building, with the press of half the world watching. When it was over, five of the six terrorists were dead, and the sixth only survived because he pretended to be a hostage and was
only properly identified outside the building after the SAS had cleared it.

‘What I’m trying to tell you,’ Richter went on, ‘is that the SAS don’t take prisoners. The Regiment is our force of last resort. They are sent in when all other
remedies have failed, when the only sensible course of action left is to blow away the bad guys. All their training, all their tactics, are geared to that objective. You are undeniably a bad guy.
Compared with what you had planned to do, the Iranian Embassy terrorists were just a bunch of naughty schoolboys.’ Richter paused. ‘Now, bearing all that in mind,’ he said, and
pointed again at Trooper Smith, ‘what do you think he would do if I dragged you out of this van and told him to shoot you?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Wrong,’ Richter said. ‘You do know. He would shoot you immediately, and without question. The only consolation you would have is that it would be a quick death – the SAS
only shoot to kill, never to wound.’

‘You’d never get away with it,’ Bykov spluttered.

‘Wrong again,’ Richter said. ‘My report would say that Trooper Smith acted instantly to protect a senior officer – that’s me – from an assault by a Russian
terrorist – that’s you. Trooper Smith and I would both know that the truth was somewhat different, but if you think either of us would lose any sleep over it you’re wrong. The
reports filed by our French colleagues standing over there –’ Richter pointed at a group of
Gigènes
near Erulin’s Renault ‘– would say exactly the same,
because they wouldn’t have understood anything I said to Trooper Smith or he said to me. That’s the problem with not having a common language.’

Richter leaned forward, his eyes cold and hard. ‘Here and now,’ he said softly, ‘we are the law. Anything I do to you can be justified, because anything I could do is totally
insignificant compared to what you tried to do. Please believe that, because I’m going to ask you the same question now that I asked ten minutes ago, and if I get the same answer you’re
leaving here in a pine box. And that’s a fact.’ Richter stared at him, and Bykov’s eyes shifted from his gaze. ‘Right, Comrade Bykov, we start again. Can I please have your
full name?’