Overkill (30 page)

Richter stepped inside the blow, turned to his left and placed his back against the thug’s chest. He stretched up his right hand, fingers splayed until the web of his hand contacted his
attacker’s swiftly moving right arm. Richter slid his hand down until he reached the wrist, where he clamped his fingers tight. He pulled the man’s arm down, bending sharply from the
waist as he did so. The man’s own momentum pitched him forward, and Richter’s steady pull on his right wrist did the rest. He tumbled over Richter’s body and slammed into the
ground on his back, pipe tumbling away and the breath instantly knocked from his body.

Richter kept moving. Still gripping the man’s wrist he braced his right foot against the man’s armpit and pulled, instantly dislocating his shoulder. Richter looked up. The second
man had watched his actions with a kind of dumb disbelief, but the sight of his colleague lying incapacitated on the ground prodded him into action. He raised the whippet towards Richter and began
to squeeze the trigger, but his target was already diving to one side.

The shotgun boomed, pellets hissing through the leaves, and Richter felt some tugging at his jacket as he hit the ground, but none, as far as he could tell, had injured him. But he knew the
weapon had a second barrel, and that he had to deal with the situation quickly.

He rolled once, then came up into a crouch. In a single fluid motion Richter hauled the Smith and Wesson out of the shoulder holster and sighted down the barrel. The heavy recoil from the
whippet had forced the thug’s arm upwards and back, and as Richter stopped moving he swung the weapon down again. But before he could squeeze the trigger Richter had completed his move. The
pistol boomed once, the recoil kicking Richter’s arm up, and the .357 magnum round took the thug squarely in the chest, knocking him backwards. He was dead before he hit the ground.

The noise of the shots echoed and faded and Richter knew that within seconds the occupants of the pub would be pouring out into the car park to find out what was going on. But he only needed
seconds. He stepped across to the first attacker, who was trying to sit up, moaning over the pain of his dislocated shoulder. Richter kicked his good arm from under him and the man slumped back on
the ground. For a brief moment time seemed frozen, then Richter pointed the pistol straight at the man’s stomach and pulled back the hammer, the sudden click unnaturally loud.

‘Who sent you?’ Richter asked, his voice quiet and level as he spoke for the first time since the encounter had begun.

For a moment it looked as if the man would refuse to answer, then he shook his head. ‘The people you owe money to,’ he said sullenly. It was pretty much as Richter had guessed. The
old story – a man running up gambling debts which he can’t or won’t repay, and a couple of bruisers sent to straighten him out. The only thing that surprised him was that the
Russians had stooped so low.

‘I hope they paid you in advance,’ Richter said, holstering the Smith and Wesson, ‘because if it’s by results you’re not going to make much of a living doing this.
Sorry about your boyfriend,’ he added as he walked away towards his car.

Oval Office, White House,
1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington, D.C.

‘Walter, isn’t it?’ the grey-haired man asked, rising to his feet and advancing from behind the massive mahogany desk as Hicks entered the room.

‘Yes, Mr President.’

‘You know the Secretary of Defense?’

Hicks turned and nodded towards the man sitting in one of the Oval Office’s comfortable armchairs. ‘Yes, I do. Good day, Mr Secretary,’ he said.

‘Right, Walter, let’s hear what you have to say.’

Hicks sat down and opened his briefcase. ‘This will sound unbelievable, Mr President, but we have information which suggests that an assault is about to be launched upon the United States
by Russia.’

The Secretary of Defense rose abruptly to his feet. ‘What in hell! Is this some kind of a sick joke?’ he demanded.

Hicks shook his head wearily. ‘No, Mr Secretary, it isn’t any kind of a joke,’ he replied. ‘I wouldn’t be here now if it was.’

The President was still standing, looking appraisingly at Hicks. ‘Go on, Walter,’ he said quietly. ‘What kind of assault, and what is your evidence?’

Hicks pulled out a file bearing the title ‘Ravensong’ and began to speak.

Cambridge

Richter spent a busy ten minutes on his mobile explaining to Simpson what had happened on the A10, and Simpson agreed to let the Metropolitan Police lean on the
Cambridgeshire Constabulary. The story they worked out between them was that the incident was a shoot-out between gang members, which wouldn’t be that difficult for even a policeman to
believe. When he got to Cambridge – late – Richter parked near the railway station, then took a cab to the Department of Theoretical Physics.

Expert assistance from the academic world is surprisingly often required by a variety of government departments, including what is usually called the Illegal Section. As a result, following a
covert security check known as Negative Vetting, certain leading authorities in numerous and diverse fields are approached and asked to act as consultants to the government as required, in return
for a predictably small annual retainer.

Since the Second World War, and increasingly through the sixties and early seventies, with the embarrassment caused by Burgess, Maclean, Philby, Blunt and others of their ilk, the security
forces of the Western world have greatly increased their emphasis on checking and screening people who will have access to sensitive material.

This was something that the British had never been very good at. The system’s failings could largely be laid at the door of the old school tie, and to the peculiar belief that, even if it
was perfectly obvious to anyone with half an eye that a particular individual was an habitual drunk, a raging queen with a boyfriend called Boris or Ivan and, in some cases, a card-carrying member
of the Communist Party, the fact that he had been to Winchester and Cambridge somehow outweighed all this evidence. Indeed, for some years about the only consistent qualifications for membership of
the security establishment appeared to be unusual sexual proclivities and a general sympathy with Stalin’s long-term aims.

Eventually and despite, rather than because of, the system, vetting was improved and a new breed of security man evolved – the Screener, as he is colloquially known. Screeners are usually
ex-service officers of a fairly senior rank who have shown some aptitude for what one might call ferreting, and they spend their working lives checking, cross-checking and then checking again, all
relevant details of the personnel whose files appear on their desks.

There are two types of security checking procedure which may be undertaken, and the one used depends almost entirely on the intended employment of the individual in question. The more usual
procedure is Negative Vetting, which is a covert operation. Virtually all the Screener does is to confirm that stated details are correct, by checking birth and marriage certificates, details of
the individual’s immediate family, school records and so on, and weeding out any obvious insanities like an uncle who’s the Secretary of the local Communist Party. Negative Vetting is
the normal procedure for people entering the armed forces in an officer rank, and is generally considered to provide clearance up to Secret.

Positive Vetting is required for anyone needing access to Top Secret, Atomic Secret, Cosmic Top Secret or any of the other thirty or so grades and classifications above Secret, and starts more
or less where Negative Vetting finishes. The co-operation of the subject is essential, and the process ensures that the entire life history of the individual is scrutinized, starting from
conception and ending the day before the screening started. Family and friends are interviewed in depth. Past employers are contacted and receive a visit, and even the sex life of the subject is
placed under the microscope. The process is thorough, lengthy and moderately distasteful, but it does work, which is the intention.

However, despite the fact that some of the civilian consultants used by the government work on projects which are technically of a much higher security classification than Secret, usually only
Negative Vetting is applied. The rationale behind this is that as these consultants would only have a limited view of one aspect of a project, rather than an overview of the whole thing, they do
not need to be investigated thoroughly. The truth is that it was felt that the uproar and predictable howls about civil rights which would accompany the Positive Vetting of scientists would be more
trouble than the resulting clearance would be worth, and so it is only applied in situations where there really is no other option.

Richter turned in through the open double doors, walked across to a glass-fronted booth labelled ‘Porter’, but found it deserted. On the wall beside the staircase was a list of the
building’s inhabitants, and Richter scanned rapidly down it until he found ‘Professor Hillsworth’ listed as having a laboratory on the third floor. The building consisted of a
central stairwell, with a long corridor of rooms on each side of the stairs. On the third floor Richter flipped a mental coin and chose the left-hand corridor. It would have been quicker if
he’d gone right, but he finally found the door he was looking for by dint of looking at about twenty others that didn’t have ‘Professor Hillsworth’ written on them. Richter
knocked, heard a muffled call from inside, and entered.

Richter didn’t know quite what he had been anticipating, but both the room and the man were unexpected. The room because it looked nothing like any laboratory Richter had ever been in. No
test tubes, no retorts, no Bunsen burners, not even a slide rule or a calculator. After a moment, Richter realized that he shouldn’t have been surprised; theoretical physics, and particularly
theoretical nuclear physics, could only find a very limited use for such mundane equipment. Nuclear reactions in the laboratory are not phenomena to be encouraged.

The room was oblong, one wall consisting almost entirely of large windows, giving the place a light and airy look. Underneath the windows was a built-in table, covered in books, pieces of paper
and writing implements of various sorts, and a small photocopier. At one end of the table was a sink and, adjacent to it, a kettle, mugs, instant coffee and a bag of sugar. A milk carton and a box
of teabags completed the set.

The chairs at the long table appeared starkly uncomfortable in contrast to the armchairs which comprised the furniture for the rest of the room. At the far end was a partly screened area, in
which Richter could see three computer keyboards and monitors, plus a new high-tech wipe board and rather more traditional blackboard. On the walls were three framed photographs, two of elderly and
no doubt distinguished scientific gentlemen, and the third showing the typical mushroom cloud of an atomic weapon detonation.

The professor had been sitting in one of the armchairs, a drink in his hand and looking at a copy of
Penthouse
. He stood up as Richter walked in.

‘Professor Hillsworth?’

‘The same. You must be Mr Richter, from the Ministry of Defence.’ Hillsworth was a short, tubby man, with jet black hair parted on the right-hand side and prominent laughter lines on
his face. He looked more like a stand-up comic from a working man’s club than a professor of anything, let alone theoretical nuclear physics. He was casually dressed in a tweed jacket and
grey slacks, light blue shirt with dark blue stripes and a dark blue tie bearing a motif which appeared to be a small, but accurately drawn, pig with wings. He waved Richter to a chair.
‘First things first. How do you like your tea?’

‘Coffee, if possible. White, no sugar,’ Richter told him, and Hillsworth busied himself with the kettle, cups and a packet of shortcake biscuits for a couple of minutes.

‘Now,’ he said, when Richter had tasted the drink and declared it to be to his liking, ‘what can I tell you?’

‘What were you told on the telephone, Professor?’

‘Only that a Mr Richter from the Ministry of Defence would be along this afternoon, and that it would be appreciated if I could make myself available. That I have done.’

‘Fine,’ Richter said, and launched into the rather pompous spiel which Simpson had provided in the pink folder inside his briefcase. ‘If I may, I’ll just sketch out the
background for you first. The Ministry of Defence, as you are no doubt aware, keeps a watching brief on numerous topics not directly connected with defence. We’ve recently received
information which suggests certain developments have been taking place in the field of nuclear research which could have a pronounced effect on our defensive capability. I’ll return to that
topic a little later, if I may. First of all, I would be grateful if you could establish the ground rules, as it were, by giving me a brief run-down on the way an atomic weapon works.’

‘Certainly, Mr Richter. Before I start, could you please show me your identification, just in case I trespass into classified areas.’

One point for the professor. Richter pulled out his wallet and selected a card which he passed over to Hillsworth. He looked at it carefully, confirmed Richter’s likeness to the
photograph, and then handed it back. ‘Where did your scientific education stop?’

‘At school,’ Richter replied. ‘GCE – Ordinary Level Physics. I passed,’ he added.

‘Well, I suppose that’s something,’ Hillsworth said, doubtfully. He settled back into his chair, drew out a long curved pipe from his pocket, and began filling it from a
leather pouch. ‘Let me,’ he said, ‘begin at the beginning.’

Kutuzovskij prospekt, Moscow

Genady Arkenko replaced the telephone receiver carefully, and walked over to the table. He was becoming very concerned. Despite all of Dmitri’s assurances,
Podstava
kept on changing. The last message he’d received meant that the planned arrival date of the
Anton Kirov
in Gibraltar had been advanced yet again. Even more worrying was
the fact that he hadn’t seen Dmitri – hadn’t even spoken to him on the telephone, apart from repeating the messages – since Monday. Arkenko hoped, desperately, that Dmitri
was all right.