Overkill (11 page)

Time was a further problem. Sokolov checked his desk calendar; there were just three weeks to go before the implementation date of
Podstava
. Three weeks in which to review the records of
twenty-one high-ranking officers of the GRU and SVR, many of whom were personal friends, looking for a single anomaly, a single fact or indication that might suggest that the man’s loyalty
could be questioned. In fact, including Modin and himself, there were twenty-three officers indoctrinated into the project. There was also Minister Trushenko, but neither he nor Modin had the
authority to investigate him.

Sokolov pressed the intercom button and ordered more of the strong black tea that he enjoyed. Then he picked up the draft action plan he had agreed with General Modin and glanced over it.
Telephone taps were in place on the home and office telephone lines of all twenty-one officers – that, no doubt, was a complete waste of time, as only an idiot would use his own telephone to
pass classified information to a foreign power or agent. Mail intercepts had also been ordered, but again Sokolov had no illusions about the likely results of that. If there was a traitor, Sokolov
was sure that the only way he could be detected would be through physical surveillance, by watching where he went and whom he talked to or passed close to in the street or stood next to. The
watchers were assigned and ready, and that, apart from scanning the personal files again, was about all that could be done.

The door opened and Sokolov’s aide entered, carrying a tray of tea and sweet biscuits, which he placed in front of the general. Sokolov nodded his thanks and picked up the next file. He
glanced at the name on the cover – ‘Bykov’ – then opened it and looked down at the full-face photograph of a sharp-featured man wearing an artillery officer’s
uniform.

Hammersmith, London

Simpson stood up and walked to the window overlooking the Hammersmith flyover. His small pink hands fussed among the cacti for a minute or so, a sure sign that his mind
was on other things, and then he walked back to his desk and sat down. ‘Explain,’ he snapped.

‘First, the body,’ Richter replied. ‘The head injuries were extremely severe, even for a high-speed, head-on collision. According to the Russian authorities, the car ran into
the back of a parked truck at about fifty miles an hour, but the other injuries to the body don’t gel. From the condition of the car, the driver must have sustained lower-limb damage if his
right foot was on the brake pedal at the moment of impact. I can conceive of no circumstance in which a driver, knowing that a collision was imminent, would remove his feet from the pedals. His
natural instinct would be to brake, and keep on braking—’

‘Unless he was suicidal,’ Simpson interrupted.

‘Yes, but in that case, his foot would almost certainly be on the accelerator. Same difference. No apparent arm injuries, either. And the fire that followed the crash conveniently burnt
the body’s hands and forearms, obliterating the fingerprints. No, the whole thing stinks. The injuries are certainly consistent with the damage caused to the car, but with the proviso that
the driver was unconscious at the time of impact.

‘As far as I can see, the only way the body could have received those injuries was by being strapped into the car, feet placed on the floor and hands and arms lying limp or perhaps on the
lap. And another thing; when I was examining the corpse, Erroll pointed out a line of light bruising running across the chest, about six inches below the shoulders. At the time, I didn’t know
what had caused it, but I worked it out on the flight back.’

‘What was it?’ Simpson asked.

‘When they put the man in the car, he was still alive, but unconscious. The seats on the Lada that Newman owned were very upright, and I think they found that he slumped forward instead of
sitting normally in the seat. So they tied a length of string or twine around him to hold him upright.’

‘Why string? Why not rope?’

‘Too strong. What they wanted was a body that looked as if it had died in a road accident. If they’d used rope, that would have left heavy bruising on the body.’

‘OK,’ Simpson said, ‘but you’re telling me this man was alive when he was put in the car, but killed by the impact. Dead bodies don’t bruise.’

‘No, but tissue damage would still occur, and would still be detectable, and might lead to awkward questions being asked, albeit only in private. But they had a better reason for using
string. They wanted the victim to die in the crash. If he had been tied upright with rope, he might possibly have survived, and then they’d have had to beat him to death with clubs or
whatever to make it look as if he’d been killed in the crash. And it’s very difficult to do that without it being perfectly obvious to any reasonably competent pathologist. They must
have assumed that we would give the body a post-mortem, just because of who Newman was. By using string to support him, they made sure that at the moment of impact the string would break, and the
body’s head and upper torso would swing forward and downwards, and make hard – and probably fatal – contact with the steering wheel and dashboard. The bruising was caused by them
tying the string a little too tightly, or maybe it was a bit too strong, coupled with the pressure the body exerted on it at the moment of impact, just before it broke.’

Simpson considered this for a minute or so, then nodded. ‘OK. Go on.’

‘It was a set-up. Having snatched Newman, they looked around and found some middle-aged Russian with a similar build and colouring. They knocked him out, dressed him in Newman’s
clothing, put him in the car and then drove it, maybe by some sort of radio control, into a barrier.

‘Then they made sure the face was unrecognizable – part of the lower jaw was missing, and most of the teeth, so even dental records wouldn’t have been much help in confirming
the identity – and that the body was dead, and burnt the hands and the car. And finally they called the British Embassy to impart the sad news that Graham Newman, Third Secretary and only
incidentally Moscow SIS Head of Station, was dead.’

Sluzhba Vneshney Razvyedki Rossi
Headquarters, Yazenevo, Tëplyystan, Moscow

Lieutenant Nilov gave a respectful double knock on General Modin’s inner office door, waited until he heard the muffled command to enter, then opened it.

‘Yes, Vadim? What is it?’ General Modin asked, looking up from his desk.

Nilov walked briskly across the office and stopped in front of the general. ‘I have just been informed by the foyer guards that Minister Trushenko has arrived, General.’

Modin leaned back in his chair, an expression of faint surprise on his face. ‘The Minister? He’s come here?’ he said. ‘I wonder . . .’ His voice trailed away, and
he looked up at his subordinate. ‘He has, I suppose, come to see me?’

‘Yes, General. He’s on his way up now,’ Nilov replied.

Modin stood up, pulled his uniform jacket straight and began fastening the buttons. ‘Well, we must make the Minister welcome, Vadim,’ Modin said. ‘Coffee and biscuits, please,
and show him straight in.’

Six minutes later Nilov knocked again on Modin’s door and swept it open without waiting for a response. ‘Minister Trushenko, General,’ he intoned, and bowed slightly as the
politician walked past him and into the office. General Modin stood up respectfully as Trushenko entered. He strode forward and shook the Minister’s hand, then gestured to the easy chairs
either side of the low table upon which Nilov had already placed refreshments.

‘Welcome, Minister,’ Modin said, as Trushenko sat down and placed his briefcase on the floor beside him. ‘You have not, I think, been to Yazenevo before?’

Trushenko stretched out his long legs before replying. ‘No, General, I have not. In truth, I always preferred Dzerzhinsky Square. It was much more convenient there than being out here in
the wilds.’

‘Yazenevo is hardly Siberia, Minister,’ Modin said, smiling. ‘We are only a few minutes’ drive from the Kremlin.’

‘I know, but to me Yazenevo just feels remote.’ He nodded as Modin gestured to the coffee pot, and leaned back in the chair. Modin passed the coffee cup over, pushed the plate of
biscuits across the table, and waited. He knew Trushenko well, and knew that the Minister would not have arrived – still less arrived unannounced – unless he had a pressing reason for
doing so. In all his previous dealings with him, Modin had always been summoned by Trushenko, and they had always met in Moscow, either at the Kremlin or in Trushenko’s own spacious office
suite in the Ministry.

Trushenko took a sip of coffee, then replaced the cup and saucer on the table and looked across at the SVR officer. ‘We have a problem, General,’ Trushenko began. ‘There has
been, I am now quite certain, some kind of a leak. You will recall that we discussed this possibility at our previous meeting, before the Englishman was questioned.’ Modin made a gesture of
distaste, which Trushenko noticed. ‘The English,’ Trushenko said, ‘have an expression –“you can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs.” We are not
making an omelette, but the same principle applies. The death of the Englishman was inevitable, once he had been taken for questioning. We could hardly send him back to his masters at SIS with
knowledge of the questions we had asked.’

Modin put down his coffee cup. ‘I do not dispute that, Minister,’ he said. ‘What I do dispute is the method that was employed to question him. Surely the interrogator could
have been instructed to use drugs, rather than the medieval methods that he so obviously enjoyed?’

‘No,’ Trushenko replied. ‘The interrogator was acting under my direct orders, and I allowed him to use whatever methods he felt were the most suitable. He felt that, because
time was critical, torture was likely to be the fastest and most efficient technique.’

Modin shook his head. ‘I cannot agree, Minister. I don’t know what went on in—’

‘I do know,’ Trushenko interrupted. ‘I had the interrogation video-taped.’

‘You taped the interrogation?’ Modin demanded, staring in disbelief.

‘Of course. I like to know what goes on in my name. I have a collection of tapes recorded at several terminal interrogations. I wouldn’t recommend them for bedtime viewing, but they
are interesting, nevertheless.’ Trushenko picked up a biscuit and nibbled it delicately. ‘The Englishman was a disappointment,’ he continued. ‘He offered almost no
resistance and obviously had a very low pain threshold. A wimp,’ he added, dismissively.

Modin still stared at him. He had been acquainted with the man for nearly four years, and had never suspected this streak of ghoulish, sadistic voyeurism.

‘To business,’ Trushenko said. ‘The Englishman –’ he rolled the word on his tongue, as if the mere act of speaking it gave him pleasure ‘– confirmed
what I had suspected. He knew nothing of
Podstava
, which at least means that we will not be forced to implement the plan immediately. Obviously the Americans suspect something – or, to
be more accurate, they have been told something – which is why they flew their spy-plane, but they have not shared their knowledge with the British.’

General Modin stopped thinking about the death of the Englishman and concentrated on what the Minister was saying. ‘You are certain that they were not simply investigating the weapon test
in the tundra?’ he asked.

‘I don’t think so,’ Trushenko said, shaking his head decisively. ‘In the present political climate they would not have dared over-fly our landmass just to photograph a
weapon test site. To risk the possible political implications, they must have had some overwhelming reason. However, the Americans cannot have detailed information about
Podstava
, otherwise
they would not have had to risk the flight at all.’

Modin nodded again. What the Minister was saying exactly matched his own opinion. ‘I have already taken steps to try to identify the traitor, assuming that there is one.’

‘Oh, there is a traitor, General, of that I am sure. What have you done?’

‘I have instructed General Grigori Sokolov to review the files of everyone with a working knowledge of
Podstava
,’ Modin replied. ‘He has authorized mail intercepts and
telephone taps, as well as physical surveillance.’

‘Do you expect that to yield anything?’ Trushenko asked quizzically.

‘Frankly, Minister, no,’ Modin said. ‘But it will effectively prevent the traitor from sending any further communications to the Americans. That is the best we can hope
for.’

‘Agreed. Now, if the British had known about
Podstava
, we would have had to begin the immediate implementation of the plan. The leak to the Americans is less critical, as that
component has already been completed. Nevertheless, I cannot risk letting
Podstava
run to the original timetable, in case the Americans do decide to confide in their European
allies.’

‘You are advancing the schedule?’ Modin asked.

‘Yes,’ Trushenko replied. ‘Complete implementation of Operation
Podstava
will now take place on the eleventh of next month.’

‘That’s only twelve days from now,’ Modin said, glancing across at his desk calendar. ‘It leaves very little margin for error or delays.’

‘Actually, it leaves no margin at all for error or delays, General. As you know, I was tasked by the Politburo with the planning and execution of Operation
Podstava
, and until now I
have been content to simply oversee the various phases. Now, because it is clear that some details of the operation have been leaked to the Americans, and because time is so short, I have decided
to take over personal control of all aspects of
Podstava
, including supervision of the assembly of the final weapon and, of course, the actual implementation. Additional security measures
will be imposed. No communications of any sort concerning
Podstava
are to be made to any person who has not already been fully indoctrinated. This includes your superiors and subordinates in
the SVR, and even Politburo members.’

‘Your previous orders forbade any contact with all non-authorized personnel,’ Modin pointed out. ‘From the beginning of the project you instructed that all communications with
the Politburo were to be channelled through you.’