Overkill (54 page)

The Russian looked at Richter and said nothing. Richter picked up the passport and opened both rear doors of the Transit. He had got one foot on the ground when he heard the Russian’s
voice. ‘Bykov,’ he said, with a sigh. ‘Viktor Grigorevich Bykov.’

Fifteen minutes later Richter helped Bykov out of the Transit – his wrists were still tied – and led him to the stone picnic table, where he could remain under the watchful gaze of
Trooper Smith. The older Russian stood up as they approached. Richter nodded to him. ‘Just a few questions, please.’

As they walked away Bykov spoke – a single sentence that caused Richter to turn and look at him again. ‘It’s not over yet, Mr Beatty,’ he said.

The Kremlin, Krasnaya ploshchad, Moscow

The Moscow traffic police began stopping vehicles long before the approaching cars could be seen or the sirens even heard. The motorcade – two of the huge ZIL
limousines still favoured by some Russian officials, and accompanied by four police outriders astride BMW motorcycles – swept across Teatral’nyj proezd and swung right into Manezpaja
ploshchad. They crossed ploshchad Revoljucii, passed the massive fourteen-storey-high red granite and white marble Moskva Hotel, and on into Krasnaya ploshchad – Red Square. The long, wide,
red wall of the Kremlin extends down the right-hand side of the Square in a straight line, the ground sloping away. Opposite the Kremlin wall, the huge Gothic building which is the GUM department
store fills the whole of the other side of the Square.

The motorcade drove on into the Kremlin complex through Saviour’s Gate, the principal official entrance, in the left corner of the Kremlin wall. The Kremlin is a city within a city,
occupying a seventy-acre site high above the Moskva River in the centre of Moscow. Basically a three-sided fortified citadel with a north-facing point, dominated by the Sobakin Tower, it is
completely surrounded by a wall some fifty feet high reinforced by eighteen towers and pierced by four gates. There are three buildings in the northern section of the Kremlin. To the east is the
smallest, the Kremlin Theatre. Half concealed behind the Theatre is the building of the Council of Ministers, ostensibly the home of the Russian government.

The third building is also the biggest; an extended rectangle pointing north and lying along the western façade of the Kremlin, behind the spiked outer wall and overlooking the
Alexandrovsky Gardens. In the southern end of this building is the Armoury Chamber or Arsenal, a museum renowned for its collection of antique and pre-Revolutionary weapons, highly jewelled icons,
delicate clocks and jewellery. Immediately behind the Arsenal all the interior walls are solid, and there is no internal access to the upper floors of the building. To reach those floors, visitors
must pass through the tall wrought-iron barrier that guards the space between the Arsenal and the Ministers’ Building.

The upper Arsenal forms a hollow rectangle, four storeys high. Inside the building is a narrow courtyard aligned north–south that divides the area into two narrow sections. On the third
floor, about halfway up the eastern block, overlooking the courtyard and hidden from prying eyes, is the Meeting Room. About fifteen metres long and eight metres wide, it’s decorated in the
heavy, ponderous style which characterizes most Russian government buildings. In this room, every Thursday morning, the Politburo – the exclusive group of men at the pinnacle of the Central
Committee of the Russian Communist Party and still the real power in Russia – meets and sits at the long green baize-topped table to discuss the government of the three hundred million
citizens of the Confederation of Independent States. Adjoining the Meeting Room is the more intimate Walnut Room, with a smaller table and more comfortable seats, which is used for meetings when
the full Politburo is not present.

The motorcade stopped beside the western end of the Council of Ministers building. The motorcycle outriders parked their machines in a protective circle around the cars and waited. At a signal
from one of the outriders, both limousine drivers leapt out and opened the rear doors of their cars. Three men emerged from the first ZIL, and two from the second; all five walked briskly through
the gateway and were quickly lost to sight.

Fifteen minutes later, a black Mercedes limousine stopped outside the building. One man got out and walked through the gateway.

Autoroute A26, vicinity of Couvron-et-Aumencourt

The older Russian followed Richter to the Transit without comment and sat down where he indicated. Oddly enough, he seemed relatively cheerful, bearing in mind what
he’d been through that afternoon. ‘Let’s begin with some identification,’ Richter said. ‘My name is Beatty, and I am an agent of the British government.’

The Russian’s lips twisted in a gentle smile. ‘You seem to be a man of many names, Mr Beatty,’ he said. ‘Despite your somewhat battered appearance, I seem to recognize
you from a slightly blurred photograph. But the name you gave then was Willis.’

Richter smiled back at him. ‘You have a good memory,’ he said, ‘and perhaps the cameras at Sheremetievo need adjusting. I used that name on my last visit to Moscow. May I ask
who I am addressing?’

‘You have seen my passport, Mr Beatty.’

‘I know, but my question stands,’ Richter said. ‘Who are you? I don’t,’ he added, ‘really want to trawl through all our file photographs of GRU, KGB and SVR
agents and officers. Apart from anything else, that would delay your release considerably.’

The Russian looked at him appraisingly. ‘Very well, Mr Beatty. My name is Modin, Nicolai Fedorovich Modin, and I am a senior SVR general.’

‘What are you prepared to tell me about the operation?’

Modin hesitated. ‘I should not really tell you anything,’ he said, ‘but the fact that we are sitting here means that you obviously know almost everything already. I also have
no doubt that Bykov provided a good deal of information.’

‘I do know most of it,’ Richter replied, ‘but getting anything out of Viktor Bykov was very hard work, and there remain some details that I would like you to clarify. You will
also notice that we are alone in this vehicle, and I assure you that nothing you say will necessarily be passed on to any third party.’

‘So you say, Mr Beatty. So you say.’ Modin didn’t sound even slightly convinced.

‘Was it,’ Richter asked, ‘a Group
Nord
operation?’

Modin shook his head. ‘No. In fact, Group
Nord
has been disbanded for several years. Operation
Podstava
– you would probably translate the word as
“provocateur” – was directed from the start in great secrecy by Minister Dmitri Trushenko, acting on the direct orders of the Politburo. The plan was executed by a joint task
force of SVR and GRU personnel.’

‘Isn’t that rather unusual?’ Richter asked. ‘A joint SVR–GRU operation?’

‘No, Mr Beatty,’ Modin said, ‘it’s not unusual – it’s unheard of. But, if I may mix my metaphors, desperate situations make for strange bedfellows. We needed
facilities that only the GRU could give us, and if the plan was to work, we had to work with them. It was not a particularly edifying experience.’

Richter changed tack. ‘Why are you in France? Wasn’t that something of a risk for a man in your position, even carrying a diplomatic passport?’

Modin nodded. ‘It was a risk, yes, but I had been instructed by Minister Trushenko to witness the placement of the weapon myself. Viktor Bykov came with me ostensibly because he has been
posted as the London GRU
rezident
, a post I cannot now imagine him occupying. In fact, he has been the principal GRU liaison officer on this project since its inception.’

‘You said “ostensibly”,’ Richter asked. ‘Why did you use that word?’

Modin smiled, then actually laughed. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, ‘I will explain. First, may I ask you a question?’

Richter nodded. ‘I can’t promise to answer, but you can certainly ask,’ he said.

‘Thank you,’ Modin said. ‘Have you discussed this matter with the Americans?’

‘Yes,’ Richter replied. ‘In fact, we have a senior CIA officer here as an observer.’

‘Perhaps it might be better, Mr Beatty, if he was present before I say anything else.’

‘Why?’ Richter asked.

‘Because it will save time, and time is something you don’t have a great deal of.’

Richter thought for a few moments. ‘OK,’ he said, opened the rear door of the Transit and called John Westwood over, taking care to use only his Christian name. ‘General Modin,
this is John, from the CIA. John, this is General Nicolai Modin of the SVR,’ Richter said.

‘Did you,’ Modin asked Westwood, ‘tell the British that you had developed a source – I believe you would call it a “walk-in” – in Moscow? A high-level
source?’

Westwood looked somewhat sheepishly at Richter, then nodded. ‘We did,’ he replied, ‘although only very recently. We were trying,’ he went on, ‘to clarify the
situation without involving our allies. That was possibly a mistake.’ Richter nodded in agreement.

‘We knew about the “walk-in”,’ Modin said. ‘I briefed a colleague to try to identify the traitor. He spent a great deal of time and effort in trying to find anyone
who could have passed information to the Americans, but he was not successful. However,’ Modin added, ‘he and I both agreed that the most likely candidate was Viktor Bykov, which is the
real reason why Bykov was with me and why he was travelling to take up a post in London.’

Richter looked puzzled. ‘I understand that, General,’ he said, ‘but you seem to find it amusing that Bykov has been suspected of being a traitor. What’s funny about
that?’

Modin’s grin grew wider. ‘It is funny, Mr Beatty,’ he said, ‘because Bykov is not the traitor that my colleague believes him to be.’

‘How do you know?’ Richter asked.

‘Because, Mr Beatty,’ Modin replied, ‘I was the “walk-in”, not Viktor Bykov.’

The Walnut Room, the Kremlin, Krasnaya ploshchad, Moscow

The door opened and a short, slim, elderly man with thick grey hair walked in. He looked round the room and nodded respectfully to the five figures seated at the table. At
the head sat the Russian President. Flanking him were Yevgeni Ryzhkov, Vice-President of the Supreme Soviet, and Anatoli Sergeyevich Lomonosov, Chairman of the Council of Ministers. At the far side
of the table sat Yuri Baratov, Chairman of the SVR, and his deputy, Konstantin Abramov. The President gestured the newcomer to a seat at the end of the table.

‘General Sokolov,’ the President rumbled in his gravelly voice, ‘we have a problem.’

Grigori Sokolov sat down and looked enquiringly up the table, but said nothing. He was far too experienced to speak until he knew exactly what was going on, and the peremptory summons he had
received had given him no clue.

‘Where is General Modin?’ Baratov asked, his voice quietly penetrating.

Whatever Sokolov had been expecting, that wasn’t it. ‘General Modin?’ he murmured. ‘You know where he is, Comrade Baratov. He is on his way to London.’ Sokolov
watched Baratov’s face carefully as he replied, and as soon as the words were out of his mouth, Sokolov realized that Baratov did not know, and had not known, where Modin was. None of the men
at the table knew, and Sokolov suddenly understood that something was very, very wrong.

‘Why,’ the President asked, ‘is he going to London?’

Sokolov stood up and bowed his head. ‘Comrade President,’ he replied, stammering slightly, ‘I will assist you in any way that I can, but I do not think I am the person to whom
you should be speaking.’

‘Then who should we be addressing?’ Ryzhkov asked.

‘Minister Dmitri Trushenko,’ Sokolov replied. ‘General Modin and I have been carrying out the Minister’s specific instructions. General Modin believed – and I
believed – that the Minister was properly following Politburo directives.’

‘And what instructions did Minister Trushenko give?’ the President asked.

Sokolov straightened and looked directly at him. ‘Minister Trushenko has been co-ordinating Operation
Podstava
,’ Sokolov said quietly. ‘Operation
Podstava
was
designed to neutralize America and let our forces walk into Western Europe without a fight. General Modin,’ he finished, ‘is overseeing the final phase of the operation.’

Autoroute A26, vicinity of Couvron-et-Aumencourt

Westwood shook his head. ‘So you’re source RAVEN? We had a list of possibles,’ he said, ‘and you were on it purely because of the access we knew
you had. We never seriously thought it could be you.’

Modin shook his head. ‘I am not a traitor,’ he said. ‘At least, I don’t think I am. The information I passed to your man in Moscow earlier was genuine – it was not
what you call disinformation – and I revealed it for one reason only. I had to establish a track record with the CIA, so as to be sure that when I told you about this operation you would take
my warning seriously. I had to be sure that you would take action to stop it.
Podstava
,’ he went on, ‘would not have worked. I began to doubt the wisdom of our actions earlier
this year, and I even made representations to Minister Trushenko.’ He shook his head. ‘But it was like trying to stop a train – once it’s in motion, it’s impossible.
In the beginning, it all seemed so simple, so obvious. Frighten America off the stage. Take Europe without a fight, and at last we would have a platform from which we could truly dominate the
world. Make Communism work, really work. Fulfil the dreams of Lenin and the rest.’

He smiled. ‘I don’t know when it was, but I realized that it wouldn’t work – couldn’t work, in fact. We could take Europe – that would be easy enough –
but it was the aftermath. Russia already has ample natural resources, but the fact is that we can’t even feed our own people. Without the grain we buy from America every year, our people
would starve. Adding the territories of Western Europe would increase our resources, but we would have to absorb their populations as well, and that would simply mean yet more mouths to feed. We
would actually make the situation worse, not better. I opposed
glasnost
, you know. I didn’t believe that opening our borders to the West would help Russia. Now, I think that Gorbachev
and Yeltsin were right. Russia cannot remain a fortress, isolated and remote from the rest of the world, from progress, any longer. If we try to, we will just slip further and further behind. The
time has come for Russia to – if you will pardon the expression – come out of the closet.’