Overkill (66 page)

The Prime Minister’s soft chuckle interrupted him. ‘Believe me, I’ve already offered your resources as well as our own, but the people involved have told me that outside
assistance will not be required. I don’t pretend to understand the technicalities of it, but apparently they can only use one line to access the Russian computer, so the two men who are
working on it—’

‘Two men?’ the President interrupted. ‘Only two men? Good God, I hope they know what they’re doing.’

‘I think they do,’ the Prime Minister said smoothly. ‘One of them is the man who stopped the road convoy in France and disarmed the weapon in Gibraltar.’

Hammersmith, London

When the courier arrived, Richter took the file and flicked through it until he reached the notes he had made following his meeting with Piers Taylor of SIS. As Richter
read them, he realized that the answer had been staring him in the face all along, and that Graham Newman might have had an inkling that something was going on at Krutaya, even if he had no idea
what it was. Richter thought he now knew why he had sent Andrew Payne to Sosnogorsk, and what the exchange of messages probably meant.

‘The SIS Head of Station in Moscow sent his deputy – a man called Andrew Payne – out to Sosnogorsk in June,’ Richter said. ‘Officially, he was acting as a
translator to a party of European businessmen, but the real reason he went was to contact a Russian called Nicolai Karelin and exchange messages. The messages,’ he went on, ‘consisted
only of single words. He said
Schtchit
to Karelin, and the Russian replied with
Stukach
and
Chernozhopy
.’

Richter wrote the words on a piece of paper, together with the name of the Russian contact. ‘Try
Schtchit
first,’ Richter suggested.

Baker looked at the paper. ‘What’s that mean?’ he asked.

‘The actual meaning is “shield”,’ Richter said, ‘but it has a more specific meaning to GRU personnel. It’s a particular kind of double-exposure film that
allows an operative to take two sets of pictures, one entirely innocent – the family playing on the beach, that sort of thing. The other set can be of anything he likes – classified
documents, secret military installations or whatever. If the film is developed normally, all that the prints will show are the innocent pictures, but if the correct developing technique is used,
the other images will appear.’

‘All clever stuff and no rubbish,’ Baker said, and watched the screen as the Moscow computer dialled Krutaya again. When the prompt appeared, he typed the word in, and they watched.
Again, the screen went blank and the computer in the Moscow Embassy severed the connection.

‘Shit,’ Richter said. ‘I really thought we had it. Try
Stukach
.’ Baker typed in the word at the prompt, but again the screen blanked out as the connection was
terminated. ‘This is our last chance. Type
Chernozhopy
.’

‘
Chernozhopy
,’ Baker repeated, trying to get his tongue around it. ‘What’s it mean?’

‘Literally,’ Richter replied, ‘it means “black-arses”, but it’s a GRU slang term meaning any foreigners.’ Baker typed it, but the result was the same.
‘Oh, shit.’ Richter closed his eyes and leant back in the chair, then sat forward suddenly. ‘Athought,’ he said. ‘Try the name of the Russian contact – Nicolai
Karelin.’

Baker instructed the Moscow computer to dial the number again and tried ‘Nicolai’, without success.

‘OK,’ Richter said. ‘Now try Karelin.’ This time Baker typed in ‘Karelin’ at the prompt. The connection didn’t break, and almost immediately another
line of text appeared.

‘Yes!’ Baker said loudly. ‘That’s more like it. It looks like a password request.’

‘That’s what it says,’ Richter agreed, nodding and leaning forwards. ‘Try
Stukach
.’ Immediately after Baker had typed the word, another line of text
appeared. ‘It says “incorrect password”,’ Richter said. ‘Try
Chernozhopy
, then
Schtchit
. This really is our last chance.’

As Baker finished typing
Chernozhopy
and pressed the ‘Enter’ key, the screen cleared and a series of messages was displayed. Richter didn’t understand what they meant,
but they made sense to Baker. ‘Thank God for that,’ he said. ‘We’re in. It looks like it’s UNIX-based – that’s just a type of operating system, don’t
worry about it – and we are logged on.’

Richter pointed at the screen. ‘There’s the username Karelin,’ he said. ‘So Nicolai Karelin must be an authorized user of this system, and the name he passed to Payne was
his password into the computer.’

‘Excellent,’ said Baker. ‘Now we’re cooking. Let’s see what we can do. It all depends,’ he went on, ‘on Karelin’s access level.’

‘What’s an access level?’

‘It’s a means of regulating the facilities which each user can access. In a business, for example, the higher management personnel will have access to all the data files, but the
accounts staff only to accounts programs and associated data, and typists just to the word processor and the letter files. You can compartmentalize the computer’s files in any way you like,
but that would be a typical set-up. The most important user is the system supervisor or manager. He alone has access to everything – data and system files – at all times, and he can
delete, copy or move files as he wishes, all as part of his job managing the network. What I’m hoping is that Karelin isn’t just a low-grade user. I’m hoping he’s the system
administrator.’

‘Is he likely to be?’ Richter asked.

‘Probably not,’ said Baker. ‘My gut feeling is that the administrator is probably based at Yazenevo. Anyway, we’ll see in a couple of minutes.’ While he’d
been talking, Baker had been studying the screen. ‘It looks like a fairly standard menu-based system,’ he said. ‘Can you just translate what these words mean for me?’

Richter looked at the screen. ‘There are only two headings,’ he said. ‘The first means Satellite Maintenance, and the second Weapon Maintenance.’

Baker looked disappointed. ‘I would have expected more than that,’ he said. ‘Still, let’s have a look inside.’ He selected Weapon Maintenance and Richter watched as
a new screen of options was displayed. He ran down the list for Baker, translating each heading. Baker slumped low in the chair and shook his head. ‘These are all low-grade functions –
there’s nothing here we can use to access the weapon control program. It looks as if Karelin is just a local operator, and he’s locked out of all the other options.’

‘Can you by-pass the security controls and access the weapon control functions?’

Baker considered this for a moment. ‘Possibly,’ he said, ‘but it would take a hell of a long time – days, maybe. This system’s been designed by someone who knew
what they were doing, and I’d need to do a lot of playing around with it to get anywhere.’

‘The clock’s running,’ Richter reminded him.

‘I know,’ Baker said, and looked across at him. ‘I think we’re up shit creek. Unless we can find another password – a password for the system administrator or some
high-level user – I don’t think we’re going to crack this.’

Kherson, Prichernomorskaya Nizmennost’ District, Ukraine

Captain Valentin Ivanovich Kabanov was a Ukrainian peasant by birth, and had spent all his working life in the SVR, most of it in and around Odessa. He had begun as a
clerk, but his active brain and keen powers of observation had quickly elevated him, despite his lack of higher-level education, to field status.

When the alert message about Trushenko had arrived from Yazenevo, Kabanov had been directing a surveillance operation on the outskirts of Kherson, where the Dnieper drains into the Black Sea.
The Odessa SVR operations room controller had called Kabanov on his mobile phone as a matter of course, but as the search for Trushenko was centred on the Crimea, there had been no obvious action
for him and his team of five officers to undertake. At least, there had been no formal orders given, but Kabanov had not reached his present station in life waiting around for orders to be
given.

He made two telephone calls to pull three of his team off the surveillance operation, then reached for a map of the Crimea and the Prichernomorskaya Nizmennost’ District and studied it
carefully. The alert message from Yazenevo had not been very specific, but as Kabanov looked at the map, the more sure he became that the roadblocks were in the wrong place. If he had been looking
for a place to hide, the island that was the Crimea would have been a long way down on his list. Unless, of course, the rebel minister had another way out.

Fifteen minutes later, Kabanov was briefing the Odessa SVR duty officer on his mobile phone as his two-car convoy sped south-east through Tsyurupinsk on the main road from Kherson to Kalanchak
and Port-Khorly.

Hammersmith, London

‘I have a feeling,’ Richter said, ‘that I’m missing something here.’

‘Apart from the system manager’s password, you mean?’ Baker said.

Something was bothering Richter. Something somebody had said, or hadn’t said. Like a half-remembered dream, it was lurking at the very edge of his memory. He closed his eyes and leaned
back in his chair, willing his mind to go blank, to become as receptive as possible.

Baker looked at him curiously. He had heard a lot about Richter – staff gossip was just as prevalent at FOE as in any other close-knit organization – and Richter’s name had
figured prominently in many of the stories he had heard or half-heard. Usually, the stories had involved violence of one sort or another; a mystic Richter was something altogether new.

Suddenly, Richter sat forward, his blue eyes snapping open. ‘The phone,’ he said. ‘Give me the phone.’

Port-Khorly, Prichernomorskaya Nizmennost’ District, Ukraine

Dmitri Trushenko nosed the powerboat slowly through the port entrance and eased it gently alongside the jetty. It was a big boat for one man to control when mooring, but
Trushenko was an accomplished boat-handler and had no difficulty. The jetty was deserted, apart from one elderly man slumped against a bollard with a fishing rod across his lap. When Trushenko
looked closely at him, he realized that his eyes were closed.

Trushenko had parked the car as close as he could to the jetty, but it was still ten minutes before he unlocked the door and slid behind the wheel. The engine fired at the first turn of the key;
he slid the car into gear and headed towards the centre of Port-Khorly.

On the jetty, the elderly man put down the fishing rod, sat upright and looked round cautiously as soon as he heard the sound of Trushenko’s receding footsteps. Then he climbed to his feet
and walked towards the centre of the port, feeling in his pocket for some kopecks to make a local phone call. Like the KGB which preceded it, the SVR had eyes everywhere.

Hammersmith, London

‘Good afternoon. American Embassy. How may I help you?’

‘Roger Abrahams, please,’ Richter said.

There was a brief pause, then the switchboard operator replied. ‘I’m not sure we have anyone here of that name.’ Standard procedure. None of the names of the CIA officers were
a matter of public record, and the switchboard had standing orders to reject any caller who asked for a CIA officer by name.

‘Lady,’ Richter said slowly, ‘this is an open line, which I know you’re recording. I know Roger Abrahams personally. He’s your Agency Chief of Station, and I need
to speak to him immediately. If he’s available, I would also like to speak to John Westwood, and you certainly don’t want me to tell you who he is on this line.’

There was a short silence, and then a male voice spoke. ‘Who is this?’

‘Richter. Is that you, Roger?’

‘Yup. What gives?’

Richter paused, choosing his words with some care. ‘It’s about that matter in France that John and I were involved in,’ he said. ‘We’re trying to bring it to a
final conclusion, and we need some help, right now. Our colleague from the east said something that we think might be important. He said,’ Richter continued, ‘that your Company and mine
had to work very closely together, so I’m wondering if you’ve received something that we haven’t.’

‘Like what?’ Abrahams asked.

‘A word, a number, a name. Anything like that. We need it for access to the project we’ve been working on, if you see what I mean.’

‘Stand by,’ the American replied. ‘I’ll check.’

Port-Khorly, Prichernomorskaya Nizmennost’ District, Ukraine

The other reason Trushenko had chosen Port-Khorly was because there were several small hotels and guesthouses there, catering to the crews of the ships which docked in the
harbour. Trushenko parked the car in a side street and walked the final few hundred yards to his destination. As a government minister, Trushenko had no need of travel passes or any other
documentation, and he checked into the principal hotel without problems. He specified the largest room available, and insisted on a direct telephone line being provided through the hotel’s
switchboard.

Twenty minutes after he had walked away from his boat, he was ready to log on again.

Hammersmith, London

‘You still there?’

‘Yes,’ said Richter.

‘The only thing that we’ve received that might fit is a single word,’ Abrahams said. ‘It doesn’t mean anything to us, but it might to you.’

‘What is it?’ Richter asked, picking up a pencil.

‘The word is
Pripiska
,’ Abrahams said, and spelt it.

‘Thanks. Can you tell me where it came from?’ Richter asked.

‘From our source in the east. It came in a message, but without any explanation.’

‘That’s pretty much what I hoped you’d say. I’ll get back to you, Roger,’ Richter said, and put down the phone. Richter looked across at Baker. ‘Here,’
he said, sliding the paper across the desk. ‘Try “Modin” again, then this.’

Prichernomorskaya Nizmennost’ District, Ukraine

Valentin Kabanov knew Port-Khorly well. As a young man he had enjoyed sitting in the port, watching the ships arriving and departing and wondering to what exotic
destinations they were bound. He also knew the local chief of police as a personal friend, and had telephoned him as soon as he had ended the call to Odessa. ‘Any stranger – that means
anyone not known personally to one of your officers or to a prominent local citizen – who has arrived in the town today by boat or car is to be apprehended,’ Kabanov instructed.