Overkill (17 page)

It was nearly six in the evening before he sighted the grey coach approaching the outer harbour, and he immediately called the engine room and told the chief engineer to prepare to leave
harbour. Then he descended to the deck, walked across to the harbour-side guard-rail and watched as the coach drew to a halt beside the ship.

The front and side doors of the vehicle opened and men began to file out. In front of him, his entire crew, with the exception of his chief engineer and the navigator, started walking down the
gangway and on to the jetty. They picked up their bags and formed a line near the coach. This was one voyage they were not going to make.

A tall, thin-faced man with short-cropped black hair had been the first to get out of the coach, and stood watching the new arrivals preparing to board. He was wearing a grey civilian overcoat,
but there was no mistaking his military bearing. He noticed Bondarev on deck and strode briskly over to the ship, climbed the gangway and walked over to the captain. ‘Captain Bondarev?’
he asked, politely.

‘Yes,’ Bondarev snapped. ‘Who are you?’

The man noted the angry edge to Bondarev’s voice. ‘My name is not important, Captain,’ he said soothingly. ‘I’m very sorry for having to inconvenience you like
this, but I have orders from the highest authority.’

Bondarev nodded. ‘Yes, yes, so have I. Just tell me one thing. Have any of your men actually sailed on a working vessel before?’

The tall man nodded. ‘Of course, captain. They are all experienced seamen – that’s why they were chosen for this mission. You will not have any crew problems on this
voyage.’

‘I hope not,’ Bondarev snapped. ‘This will not be a pleasure cruise. I expect to be able to sail within the hour, so I suggest you get your men aboard as quickly as
possible.’

Seven minutes later, the engine of the grey coach started and a few seconds afterwards the vehicle began moving slowly away from the
Anton Kirov’s
berth. On board, the new arrivals
moved with practised economy and little conversation, rapidly stowing their personal gear and then moving to their assigned positions for leaving harbour.

Thirty-eight minutes after the coach had departed, the
Anton Kirov
slipped away from her berth and headed slowly due east out of Odessa harbour. Once clear of the coast, the ship began
picking up speed as she turned south towards Istanbul and the Bosphorus.

Kutuzovskij prospekt, Moscow

Genady Arkenko was sitting at the dining table eating a simple evening meal of black bread and sausage when the alarm sounded on the short-wave radio receiver. He put down
the bread, hurried into the small back room, turned off the alarm and put on the headphones.

Two minutes later he removed the headphones, re-set the alarm and walked back into the living room. He walked over to the telephone, consulted a typed list, pressed a speed-dial key combination
and waited for the telephone to be answered.

‘Phase One is under way,’ Arkenko said simply, and then replaced the receiver.

In his apartment a little under a mile away, Dmitri Trushenko put down his telephone handset with a smile of satisfaction. Operation
Podstava
was running to plan. He walked across to the
desk in the corner of the room, sat down, opened his laptop computer and switched it on.

Half an hour later he pressed the ‘Send’ button on his email client software, and despatched one line of encrypted text embedded in a three-page advertising message with an addressee
list of almost one hundred. The message would apparently originate in Germany, and because of the six redirection sites it was programmed to visit would take several minutes to reach the only
address that actually mattered – Hassan Abbas’ mailbox at ‘wanadoo.fr’.

Tuesday
Joint Air Reconnaissance Intelligence Centre, RAF Brampton, Huntingdon, Cambridgeshire

RAF Brampton is near Huntingdon and usually about an hour and a half from London. It took Richter over two and a half, due to the three sets of traffic-light-controlled
roadworks he had to negotiate, and a major accident which had blocked the A1 completely and forced him to take a diversion. At least the time passed pleasantly enough in the Ford Granada Ghia that
was all that had been left in the Pool when Richter had appeared at the Transport Officer’s door clutching his authorization chit. He had been expecting one of the usual small – and
invariably old – Fords and Rovers which made up the bulk of the Pool vehicles, and which were used by the department because, as Simpson explained to anyone who would listen, they were cheap,
reliable and invisible.

The Joint Air Reconnaissance Intelligence Centre is a long, low building of one and occasionally two storeys, designed with that singular lack of aesthetic appreciation that characterizes the
work of the architects employed by the armed forces. At the main gate Richter was stopped by an armed sentry at the counter-weighted barrier, but a brief enquiry and a perusal of the Royal Navy
officer’s identity card supplied by the Documents Section produced directions to the Number 2 Officers’ Mess Car Park.

Richter parked the Granada in the only vacant slot he could see, put the pass he had been given by the Main Guardroom on the dashboard, locked the car and walked through the picket gate set in
the rusty black barbed-wire fence and into the JARIC Guardroom. Inside, a number of elderly and battered chairs were lined up against the left- and right-hand walls, with a small and equally
decrepit coffee table covered in old magazines in the middle of the room. In the centre of the wall opposite the outside door was what looked like a steel door without a handle, and to the left of
that was a board bearing the word ‘Reception’.

Under the sign was an armoured-glass panel fitted with speak slots and a small opening at the base. Behind the glass sat a bulky man wearing sergeant’s stripes and the distinctive shoulder
flashes of the RAF Regiment. Richter walked over to the panel. The sergeant gave him a neutral stare, and eyed his civilian clothes with a certain amount of dissatisfaction. ‘Can I help you?
Sir.’ The last word was an obvious afterthought.

Richter passed the ID card through the opening. ‘Lieutenant Commander Richter. I believe I’m expected.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ The sergeant looked carefully at the card, and slightly disbelievingly at the photograph. ‘What’s your Service Number, sir?’

‘C021426K,’ Richter said.

‘Thank you. Please take a seat.’ The sergeant passed the card back through the slot and indicated the ancient chairs. Richter picked the cleanest looking and sat down, as the
sergeant picked up a telephone. Richter found an antique copy of
Punch
on the coffee table, and was working his way through ‘Let’s parlez Franglais’ when the steel door
opened.

The man who entered was a squadron leader, wearing a working-dress pullover. Dark haired and stocky, and with a cheerful and slightly chubby face which suggested a constant diet to keep his
waistline under control, he was about Richter’s height.

‘Commander Richter? I’m Squadron Leader Kemp. Follow me, please.’ The steel door swung open, and Richter followed Kemp across an open compound and into the main JARIC building.
On the wall inside the door was a notice in bleak official terminology: ‘This is a restricted area. All visitors must be accompanied at all times.’ They walked down a long corridor
before Kemp stopped and opened a grey-painted door bearing the cryptic message ‘SSyO’ above the slightly more informative statement ‘Squadron Leader J D Kemp’.

Richter preceded him into the office. It was about fifteen feet square with pale blue walls, an assortment of filing cabinets in contrasting shades of brown and grey, and a large grey metal desk
behind which was a wood and black vinyl chair, showing signs of age.

‘Right,’ Kemp said. ‘The telephone call I received from a Mr, er . . .’ He paused and glanced at a notebook on his desk. ‘Here we are. From Mr Simpson yesterday
said that you wanted to see the films taken by the American SR–71A that landed at Lossiemouth last week.’ Richter nodded. ‘May I ask what your interest is in these films?’
Kemp asked.

‘Certainly,’ Richter replied. ‘Curiosity.’ Kemp looked at him expectantly, so Richter elaborated. ‘I’m curious to know why the Americans risked a major
diplomatic row, not to mention a very expensive and highly classified aircraft and crew which was, incidentally, supposed to have been withdrawn from active service some years ago, to get detailed
photographs of seven hundred miles of Russian tundra, and why they’re so damn coy about whatever it is they think is up there.’

Kemp nodded. ‘Yes, that puzzled us too. As far as we can tell from the initial analysis, there’s no evidence of any new buildings or other structures that might be of any military
significance. In fact, it’s an extremely boring bit of Mother Russia all round.’

‘I’m running a little late,’ Richter said, glancing at his watch and then rising to his feet, ‘so could I see the films now?’

‘Of course. Come with me.’

Heathrow Airport, London

John Westwood walked out into the Arrivals Hall at Heathrow Airport and looked around. After a few moments, a large black man wearing a dark suit detached himself from the
wall and walked across to him. ‘John Westwood?’

Westwood nodded. ‘Yes. And you are?’

‘Richard Barron, sir. From the Company. We have a car outside.’ Without apparent effort Barron plucked Westwood’s heavy suitcase from the trolley and led the way towards the
doors. Westwood followed, carrying his briefcase. Outside, two black American Fords carrying ‘CD’ plates waited at the kerb, engines idling and drivers standing beside them. Barron put
the suitcase in the boot of the first car, then opened the rear door for Westwood.

‘Hullo, John,’ said the man in the back seat. Westwood sat down and looked at him blankly. The thick black hair, deeply lined face, dark blue – almost black – eyes and
over-large nose were familiar, but it took Westwood a few seconds to place him. Then he smiled and extended his hand. ‘Sorry, Roger,’ he said. ‘It must be the jet lag, or just a
bad memory for faces. It must be – what – seven years?’

Roger Abrahams shook his head. ‘Eight,’ he replied. ‘Bonn. You were Chief of Station, and I was your deputy for the last six months or so before you went back across the pond
and moved up in the world.’ Abrahams looked towards the front seat of the car. ‘OK, Richard,’ he said. ‘Let’s move.’

Barron nodded to the driver, and the car eased away from the kerb and into the mid-morning traffic. Behind, the second car moved out and kept pace about fifty metres back.

‘I saw the name of the London COS back at Langley,’ Westwood said, ‘but I didn’t realize it was you. You’ve done well.’

‘Thanks,’ Abrahams muttered. ‘You gave me a good write-up in Germany, and that helped. Now, what’s the problem? What brings the Company Head of Foreign Intelligence all
the way to London?’

Westwood took a moment before replying. ‘No offence, Roger,’ he said. ‘I’d rather wait until we’re in a secure location. For the moment, let’s just say
it’s a liaison visit.’

Abrahams nodded. ‘Understood. I’ve reserved you a room at the Embassy in Grosvenor Square, but I can book you into one of the local hotels if you’d prefer.’

‘No, the Embassy’s fine.’ Westwood paused for a moment. ‘Time’s short on this one,’ he said, ‘so I’d like to get started as soon as possible.
We’ll need to use a secure briefing room, and I want to talk to you alone first.’

Abrahams nodded. ‘No problem. Do you want to sleep or eat first?’

‘No, I slept on the plane and I’m not hungry. Just a pot of coffee will do.’

‘Right.’

The two cars sped on, mingling with the London-bound traffic on the M4 motorway.

Joint Air Reconnaissance Intelligence Centre, RAF Brampton, Huntingdon, Cambridgeshire

Richter followed Kemp down a short passage which ended in a closed door bearing the legends ‘Classified area. No unauthorized personnel permitted beyond this
point.’ Kemp stopped at a small window in the right-hand wall and addressed it. ‘Squadron Leader Kemp. I’d like a visitor’s pass for Commander Richter.’ He beckoned
Richter to the window. ‘Sign here, please, and put your name and rank in these columns.’

Richter complied, after which he received a bright red card, plastic covered, bearing a large black letter ‘V’ and a rather smaller ‘4’ in exchange for his Navy ID card.
The door was secured by an electric lock actuated from the other side of the window; it clicked open and Richter followed Kemp through.

In the windowless Viewing Room, Kemp picked up a telephone and dialled a number. ‘Squadron Leader Kemp. Commander Richter is with me in the Viewing Room, and we’d like to run the
Blackbird films as soon as possible. I’d also like the principal PI officers who’ve worked on the films to attend. Oh, and rustle up some coffee while you’re at it.’ He
replaced the receiver. ‘It’ll take about ten minutes or so to set up the projectors with the films, so I’ll start off by giving you a general briefing on what you’ll be
seeing.’

‘Thanks,’ Richter replied. ‘One question before you start: I guessed from your office door label that you’re the Section Security Officer – SSyO – but you
seem quite familiar with these films and how the RAF got hold of them. Are you a PI as well?’

Kemp walked to a lectern at the end of the room and leaned on it. ‘Yes, I am,’ he said. ‘Virtually everyone here is Photographic Interpretation trained; Section Security
Officer is very much a secondary duty. I spend most of my time peering through a shifty-scope or staring at a computer monitor.’

‘What the hell’s a shifty-scope?’ Richter asked.

‘Sorry, RAF slang,’ Kemp said, grinning. ‘It’s a series of stacking magnifying lenses that you place on a photograph or negative on an illuminated table. To increase the
magnification you add another lens, and then another and so on. It can be used in both PI and photogrammetrical analysis – that’s the use of photographs in survey work. Actually, these
days we usually employ computers to analyse images. You’ll be pleased to hear that you won’t have to use either. We’ve had everything transferred onto a thirty-five millimetre
fine-grain filmstrip which we can run through a high-resolution projector, and that’s what you’ll be seeing.’