Overkill (76 page)

‘As a matter of fact, Baker said that user Dernowi tried to get back on-line while he was actually disabling the weapons. And as Dernowi was dead at the time,’ Richter added,
‘either that’s definite proof of life after death or there was somebody else – probably another bloody Arab – who knew the backdoor code. Anyway, he couldn’t get in
using the “manalagna” code because Baker was already logged on as Dernowi.’

‘I wonder who he was,’ Simpson mused.

‘It doesn’t matter now,’ Richter said. ‘The weapons are just lumps of metal and the Arab plan is defunct. Right, I don’t pretend to understand the technicalities of
it, but I asked Baker to write what he called a subroutine and include it in the Russian system. What it means is that, with effect from the end of next week, the computer will accept any of the
previous log ins and passwords, but the new code he’s written will divert all users away from the existing system and into Baker’s little routine.

‘His program will tell them that all the weapons but one have been disabled, and that control of the firing program, and of the satellite, have passed into Western hands. The kicker is the
last section, which tells them that the London weapon is in full working order, armed and ready, and is now residing in Her Britannic Majesty’s Embassy at Sofiyskaya naberezhnaya 14, Moscow,
which is, as we all know, just across the Moskva River from the Kremlin. The access delay Baker built-in will allow plenty of time for the weapon to be physically placed in the Embassy.’

Simpson smiled – a rare and not particularly attractive sight. ‘A real cuckoo’s egg,’ he said, ‘right in the heart of Moscow, and one we can hatch any time we like.
Nice to know that the Diplomatic Bag system works as well for us as for them.’

‘Will it be armed?’ Richter asked.

‘Of course not,’ Simpson replied. ‘We can’t have some simple-minded Embassy hack fiddling about with it. Dewar assures me that it can be armed in about ten minutes, if
you know what you’re doing, so it’s still a viable threat.’ He paused. ‘So that’s it. The Prime Minister and “C” are waiting to hear from me, so I’d
best get moving. We’ve got a couple of nuclear submarines stuffed full of missiles more or less lurking at the mouth of the Moskva River, and I think the Navy would like to get them back, or
at least get them back into deep water. I take it,’ he added, looking at Richter’s red-rimmed eyes, ‘that you don’t want to come with me?’

Richter shook his head. ‘No thanks. What about Abilene? What’s the latest?’

‘The PM and the American President have agreed there’s going to be no military retaliation. In fact, it looks as if the official response will be to write it off as a tragic accident
– an American nuke was accidentally detonated.’

Richter grunted in disbelief. ‘Will the American people wear that? With, what, around a quarter of a million dead?’

‘The spin doctors will sort it out, and I don’t actually think it will be that difficult to do. Don’t forget, there was no launch vehicle involved, so they can argue that it
couldn’t have been an act of aggression by any other nation, and the bomb itself was really small, by Russian standards, and they can prove it. And there’s even a convenient American
Air Force base – Dyess – which is within about four miles of ground zero, down to the south-west of Abilene. They’ll probably say the epicentre of the explosion was there, and
blame it on some maintenance glitch or a freak weapon control malfunction.’

‘Very convenient. Does Dyess store nukes?’

‘I’d be very surprised if it didn’t; about half of America’s B-1B bomber force is based there.’

‘And the Russians?’

‘Oh, they’ll pay, there’s no doubt about that. The Americans will seek punitive damages for every life lost and every building flattened, and they’ll get exactly what
they ask for. Russia will be in debt for years.’

‘And what about the selection of little incidents on our side of the pond? The SAS killing Russian seamen in Gibraltar, nuclear bombs in Russian trucks on French autoroutes and dead Arabs
scattered all over southern France. Am I going to read about them in the paper tomorrow?’

Simpson shook his head. ‘If I’ve got anything to do with it,’ he said, ‘none of these little episodes will ever make any paper. They’ll be far more use to us as
bargaining counters with the Russians in the future, not to mention the clout it’ll give us with the CIA and the rest of the American intelligence community. Don’t forget, we – or
you, in fact – saved America.’

‘Yeah, right. But you’ll have to tell the press something. You can’t keep incidents like these under wraps – here or over in the States.’

Simpson waved a hand airily. ‘Abilene is going to dominate the news for weeks, maybe months, just like New York did after the nine eleven attacks. Nobody’s going to take any notice
of some minor and unrelated incidents in Europe. If anybody asks, we’ll just say, oh, that the Russian ship was carrying arms for the IRA, the Russian truck was stopped as part of a routine
security exercise, and the Arabs were terrorists who were killed by a rival faction. Something like that. No further details available due to the security classifications of the incidents and the
ongoing investigations.’

‘The usual crap, in fact?’

‘Yes, the usual crap, but that and the Official Secrets Act, and if necessary a handful of D-Notices, will ensure it’s all kept nice and quiet.’

Simpson paused and looked over at Richter. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘why don’t you push off and take some leave? You must have some crumpet lurking around somewhere.’

‘Two things,’ Richter said. ‘I wish you wouldn’t call any woman under the age of forty “some crumpet”, and there’s still one loose end that needs to be
tied.’

Richter told him what he wanted to do. When Simpson started to argue, Richter told him why.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know.’

Richter shrugged his shoulders. ‘No reason why you should. It wasn’t on file anywhere, and until this business it really wasn’t relevant. But you do see why I have to do
it?’

‘Yes. Let Tactics and Equipment know what you want and if they give you any flak refer them to me. Just don’t tell me all the details.’

Buraydah, Saudi Arabia

When Sadoun Khamil finally plucked up the courage to contact the al-Qaeda leaders to tell them that their plan, which had taken four years to prepare and cost literally
millions of dollars, had come to almost nothing, he had been prepared for furious anger.

To his surprise, the reaction from Tariq Rahmani was much less violent than he had expected. He guessed that the al-Qaeda leaders had realized that detonating the Abilene bomb was a considerable
achievement in its own right, overshadowing even the destruction of the World Trade Center buildings in New York, and with a huge loss of life.

He expressed his sorrow at Hassan Abbas’ failure, but assured Rahmani that there would be other targets, other opportunities and, above all, other successes. If he had been less nervous,
he might have wondered at one remark made by the man on the other end of the scrambled telephone link.

Just after seven that evening, local time, as Khamil was preparing to go to one of the nearby restaurants for a light meal, he was grabbed from behind by three men, wrestled to
the ground and bludgeoned into unconsciousness.

When he came to, he was lying naked on his back somewhere out in the dunes and tied spread-eagled to a rough wooden frame. An hour or so later, a small procession appeared. It was led by Tariq
Rahmani, Khamil’s conduit to the very highest echelons of al-Qaeda, and a man he had only seen twice before in his life. Rahmani walked across until he was a few feet from Khamil, looked down
at him, shook his head and then stepped back.

From behind him, another figure appeared, moving slowly and with deliberate purpose, and as Khamil heard the click of a knife being opened and saw Rashid’s swarthy features, he suddenly
remembered the remark he had heard, but not registered, on the telephone.

Tariq Rahmani had said, ‘It is not Hassan Abbas that we blame for this failure.’

Monday
London

On Friday night Richter slept like a log, and dozed off and on all Saturday. On Sunday he felt more like a going concern, but didn’t leave his flat, even to buy a
paper. He watched the news programmes on the television and ate out of his freezer.

At seven fifty on Monday morning he climbed out of the minicab at Heathrow Terminal One and walked in, carrying an overnight case and a slim black briefcase bearing a gold crest. Around his neck
was a blue tie bearing a small silver greyhound motif, the symbol of the Corps of Queen’s Messengers.

The Queen’s Messengers are diplomatic couriers who spend their lives ferrying documents from embassy to embassy and back to Britain. Their travels are conducted under the auspices of the
Treaty of Vienna and, as diplomatic personnel, their luggage is exempt from search at borders. Every week a Queen’s Messenger, sometimes with an assistant, flies from London to Moscow to
deliver and collect the diplomatic mail. All that is necessary is for the British Embassy in Moscow to inform the Russian authorities forty-eight hours in advance who is flying in or out, and the
Queen’s Messenger invariably travels on a diplomatic passport.

The Moscow British Embassy had been informed the previous Friday that a Queen’s Messenger named Beatty would be arriving on Monday with urgent documents, and notice had been duly given to
the Russians.

At the Enquiry Desk Richter asked if there were any messages for him, and received a manila envelope in return, together with a sympathetic look at his still battered face.

‘Car accident,’ he murmured, and headed for the gents’ toilet. Sitting fairly uncomfortably, Richter opened the envelope and scanned the contents. There was a first-class
return ticket on the direct Heathrow– Moscow British Airways flight in the name of Beatty to match the diplomatic passport that he still held. In a sealed envelope was a letter addressed to
the British Ambassador, the contents of which Richter knew, because he had told Simpson what to write. He also found another permit issued by the Metropolitan Police, this time endorsed by someone
in the higher echelons of British Airways, authorizing the carriage of the Smith and Wesson, and another personal search exemption certificate, which would avoid the pistol shorting out the metal
detector in the departure lounge.

Richter flushed the toilet, disposing of the manila envelope, then checked his suitcase in at the BA counter, and bought a paperback at the book shop – it was going to be a long flight,
and he didn’t want to spend all the time thinking about the job he had to do in Moscow.

They called the flight five minutes early and the aircraft took off on time. Richter watched the streets of London dwindle in size until the Boeing 767 went through a cloudbank and he could no
longer see the ground.

Moscow

As for all arrivals in Moscow by Queen’s Messengers, there was an escort from the Embassy waiting for Richter at Sheremetievo. He looked a little surprised at
Richter’s haggard appearance, but was obviously far too well trained to comment. Richter followed him through passport control with a minimum of fuss, and they avoided Customs altogether on
the strength of the Beatty diplomatic passport. A black Rover was waiting, and they drove swiftly through the streets of Moscow, heading for the Embassy. Richter said little to the driver or the
escort. He was still feeling the after-effects of both his encounter with Yuri and the Kalashnikov round in his chest, not to mention the succession of sleepless nights that seemed to have
accompanied them, and he really didn’t want to make conversation.

Richter ate a light lunch at the Embassy, then went down to meet the Ambassador. When he found out this couldn’t happen, because the Ambassador had left the Embassy on Friday morning to
spend a four-day weekend in Germany, Richter had no option but to renew his acquaintance with Secretary Horne.

That afternoon, Horne was late and Richter sat twiddling his thumbs in his office until almost two. When Horne walked in, he didn’t seem at all pleased to see his visitor. ‘Who let
you in? What do you want?’

‘We met a short while ago, after Mr Newman’s death, remember?’ Richter said.

Horne looked at him with suspicion. ‘My secretary advised me to expect a Mr Beatty this afternoon, not you.’

Richter tossed the Beatty passport onto his desk. ‘That’s me as well. As you may have guessed, I’m not an insurance company representative.’ Richter passed Horne the
envelope with the Ambassador’s name on it. ‘Would you please read that. I need help from some of your staff, and I need it today.’

Horne turned the envelope over suspiciously in his hand. ‘Now look here, Mr Willis or Beatty or whatever your name is, you can’t just push your way in here and start ordering me
around. I’ll have you know—’

Richter stood up, leaned across the desk, fixed Horne with an unblinking stare and spoke very quietly. ‘Secretary Horne,’ he said, ‘I’m through asking; I’m telling.
Any obstruction from you, and I can have you shipped out of this Embassy in less than twenty-four hours, with no job, no pension and no “sir” at the front of your name.’

All of which was a grotesque exaggeration, of course, but it seemed to do the trick, because Horne sat down without another word and tore open the flap of the envelope. Richter resumed his seat
while Horne glanced at the single sheet of paper it contained, then read it.

When he’d finished, he folded the page and looked up at Richter. ‘I’ve never heard of this Richard Simpson or his organization,’ Horne said, ‘but I do recognize the
counter-signature on this letter. I do not,’ he added, ‘wish to know what you are doing here in Moscow. Payne will provide you with whatever assistance you need.’ Richter nodded
and Horne reached out his hand to the telephone. ‘Get me Payne, please. It’s urgent.’ He put the receiver back in its rest and looked in a hostile manner across his desk at
Richter.

Andrew Payne, still the acting SIS Head of Station, arrived three minutes later. Horne introduced ‘Mr Beatty’, told Payne to give him whatever assistance he required, and then
dismissed them both with a certain amount of relief. Payne was a tall, sandy-haired individual in his late thirties, who appeared puzzled at Richter’s presence in Moscow, and still more
perplexed when he had explained what he wanted.