Authors: James Barrington
‘No,’ Richter conceded, ‘I can’t. Don’t bother about the bodyguards; they’d only draw attention to me. If I’ve got a diplomatic passport I can carry a
weapon anyway, and there’s no need to risk anyone else.’
‘If that’s the way you want it,’ Simpson said.
Richter got out of the Jaguar and waited until Simpson had driven away. Then he walked over to the Saab, climbed back in and told Bentley they could go.
‘Is everything all right?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know yet,’ Richter replied. ‘I’ve got to go away for a few days.’
‘Where to?’
‘Home, James,’ Richter said.
‘No. I meant, where are you going?’
‘I can’t tell you that, either, but it’s between here and Spain.’
‘I see,’ Bentley said, then paused. ‘No, I don’t,’ he added. ‘Why France?’
‘I have to look in the back of a lorry.’
‘That’s it?’
‘That’s all I can tell you,’ Richter said. ‘You shouldn’t really even know that much – for your own sake.’
Razdolnoye, Krym (Crimea)
Dmitri Trushenko closed his email client software, initiated the shut-down routine for his laptop computer and leaned back in his chair. The message he had just sent,
concealed within a typical piece of junk email and bounced round a succession of servers in three different countries, just told the ragheads that he was in position.
They had no idea where he was, and they didn’t need to. The final phase of
Podstava
simply required him to be in a secure location, outside Moscow, with access to the Internet. Once
the
Anton Kirov
had arrived at Gibraltar, and the last weapon had been successfully delivered to London, Trushenko would be able to initiate the demonstration he had planned from the start
and then issue the ultimatum that he was quite convinced would instantly neuter America.
And then, as predictably as night follows day, Europe would fall. Her armies would be destroyed or simply disarmed, her governments faced with no alternative but to accept whatever demands
Moscow should choose to make. As the man who had engineered
Podstava
, Trushenko would be fêted and acclaimed and, in due course, the mantle of leadership of the Confederation of
Independent States might well fall upon his shoulders. If he wanted it, of course, and he wasn’t entirely sure that he did. Because there was an alternative, an alternative that he had been
considering more and more seriously for the past few weeks.
If the idiots in the Kremlin failed to seize the opportunity he had presented them or, even worse, decided to denounce what they could legitimately consider his treason, Romania, Bulgaria and
Turkey were all within easy reach. He could simply run, and nobody would ever find him. And the more he thought about it, the more attractive this option seemed to be.
Trushenko smiled as he walked towards the kitchen to prepare a light supper. Money would not be a problem.
Podstava
had been a long-term project, and at the very first meeting with the
oily Hassan Abbas, Trushenko had grasped both the scope of the operation and its potential for his personal enrichment. The funds the ragheads had so liberally provided had been used as they had
intended, to construct and deliver the weapons to the locations Abbas had specified, but from the start Trushenko had creamed off a healthy commission, and his three Swiss and two Austrian bank
accounts – he had never believed in concentrating any kind of asset in a single location – held between them more than enough funds to allow him to live out the rest of his life in
considerable comfort.
He had planned the final phase of
Podstava
with considerable care, and well in advance. The
dacha
he had rented for ten days – ample time – was large and spacious,
situated on the western tip of the Crimea and with inspiring views across the Karkinitskiy Zaliv, the arm of the Black Sea which lies to the south-east of Odessa. It was an ideal place to wait
during the last few days while the final weapon was positioned.
He had anticipated that sooner or later – in fact, it had been later – the Americans or somebody would discover that something was going on, simply because of the increased activity
that was an inescapable part of the last phase of the operation. In the latter stages, too, more people had had to be told about it, which increased the potential for leaks, either deliberate or
accidental. With hindsight, he wondered if he should have insisted on the above-ground weapon test in the tundra, but he had believed, and still did, that the final test was essential, if only to
confirm that the satellite firing system was working properly.
Trushenko walked back into the living room with a tray on which was a dish of
solianka
that he had prepared – meat soup with added tomatoes, cucumber, olives, onions, capers, lemons
and sour cream – and two slices of black bread. Though he rarely cooked for himself, Trushenko was competent and creative in the kitchen, and in the short period since his arrival in the
Crimea he had been indulging himself.
He put the tray on a side table, poured a glass of vodka and sat comfortably in an armchair, gazing out of the large windows and over the
dacha’s
grounds which sloped down to a
small jetty, and across at the distant lights of Port-Khorly and Perekop. He wondered how much the Americans knew, or had been able to deduce, and what they would do about it. At some stage, he
presumed, they would talk to the Kremlin, and that would be when the fun would really start, when they found out that the Kremlin knew even less about it than they did. He smiled to himself again
in the gathering dusk.
The trail he had laid so carefully in Moscow led straight to St Petersburg, and he knew that there was no surviving trace of his journey to the Crimea. From his
dacha
he could control all
of the final stages of
Podstava
, without risk, and after the Gibraltar demonstration he doubted if there would be any problems with the Americans or anyone else. His only regret was personal
– he missed dear Genady and their weekly couplings – but it was essential to have one trusted friend in Moscow to handle the communications with the ship, and Trushenko trusted no one
as he trusted Genady Arkenko.
‘Genady,’ Trushenko sighed, raising his glass, ‘I do miss you, old friend.’
Then he cheered up somewhat, and promised himself that he would watch a video from his Lubyanka collection, the pick of which he had brought with him. Perhaps the German – though that was
rather long – or maybe the Georgian. Yes, Trushenko mused, the Georgian, and he felt his body stirring with anticipation.
Wroclaw (Breslau), Poland
The first major delay the convoy encountered was about five miles west of Wroclaw, heading for the Czechoslovakian border in the early evening. Modin heard the bang quite
clearly even though the limousine was over a hundred metres behind the lorry, and as soon as he saw the articulated vehicle lurch he knew that a tyre had blown.
The limousine cruised to a stop behind the lorry, and Bykov and Modin got out. It was a typical heavy goods vehicle problem; the tyre had shed its tread in chunks, and then the carcase had
ruptured. Not a problem, just a delay that they didn’t need. The lorry was carrying two spare wheels and the heavy-duty jacks and wrenches needed to change a wheel, but Modin stopped Bykov
when he instructed the
Spetsnaz
troopers to effect the change. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Ring a tyre service company.’
‘Why, General?’ Bykov asked.
‘Because it’s safer,’ Modin replied. ‘We have a long way to go once we cross the German border, and I do not want to attract any attention once we enter the West. If we
have a problem like this there, we can attend to it ourselves, and not call on anyone for help. Here in Poland, things are different.’ Bykov nodded, acknowledging the rationale of the
decision.
The service vehicle arrived forty minutes later, but two of the nuts had jammed and fitting the new tyre to the wheel took nearly two hours in all. The convoy was not ready to move on until
almost ten thirty. Before any orders were given, Modin gestured to Bykov and the two officers consulted a map. Nilov’s schedule, and the planned route, called for the convoy to cross into
Czechoslovakia at Jakuszyce, and then route via Prague and Pilsen to Waidhaus on the German border.
‘We do have one alternative,’ Bykov suggested, pointing. ‘We could turn back towards Wroclaw and then head north-west on the E22 autoroute past Legnica.’
‘And then?’ Modin prompted.
Bykov pointed again at the map. ‘Through Boleslawiec to Zgorzelec.’
‘And into Germany at Görlitz,’ Modin finished. ‘Yes, that has some advantages, because we could then use the E63 and E6 autobahns down to Nürnberg, and that would
certainly be quicker than going through Czechoslovakia.’
Modin looked at his watch, then back at the map, considering. ‘No,’ he said finally, ‘I think we should continue as planned. This route was selected precisely so that the
convoy would enter Germany as far west as possible.’
‘Agreed,’ Bykov said. ‘That is the safest option.’
‘It’s too late to carry on tonight. We’ll drive back to Wroclaw,’ Modin finished, yawning, ‘and stop somewhere there. We will still be able to cross the Czech
border tomorrow morning.’
Middlesex
Bentley and Richter went out in the Saab just after eight that evening to buy a take-away Chinese meal, and to allow Richter to use a public call box to contact
Hammersmith. The Duty Officer, after Richter had identified himself, said simply, ‘Nine forty at the Dover Court Hotel,’ and rang off.
Monday
Ickenham, Middlesex, and Dover
Richter was awake at six, and walked stiff-legged but fully dressed into Bentley’s kitchen just after six thirty. He still ached abominably, but he was mobile, and
knew he wouldn’t have too much of a problem riding the Honda.
He was on the road by seven. He picked up the A40 within three minutes of leaving the house, and turned east for central London. Just over an hour later, he pulled the Honda into a garage on the
A2 in Bexley and filled the tank. The early-morning traffic was building up, but most of it was heading into the city, and Richter was going the other way. At Strood he joined the M2, but continued
to keep his speed low, as he had time in hand.
At nine thirty he rode the Honda into the car park of the Dover Court Hotel, and stopped the bike in a corner of the car park. He switched off the engine, removed his helmet and locked it to the
seat. At nine forty exactly he walked into the lounge, found a table and ordered a pot of coffee. Richter spotted the two FOE contacts the moment they walked in through the door, and waved a
friendly hand.
If you are organizing a meet in a public place – and the lounge of the Dover Court Hotel at that time in the morning was fairly full – it looks far more suspicious if you try to be
sneaky about it. A meeting between two businessmen who know each other, on the other hand, attracts almost no attention whatsoever. Not that Richter looked much like a businessman. The jeans and
leather jacket had already attracted one or two stares which stopped just the safe side of being hostile, and the fresh plasters on his face didn’t help either.
The two men came over to Richter’s table and sat down. Richter glanced round the lounge, and spoke in a low voice to the senior FOE officer – Tony Deacon, who ran the Far East desk.
Mark Clayton, the second FOE man, sat back in his seat, checking for watchers or listeners. ‘Do you need to give me a verbal briefing on the operational stuff?’ Richter asked.
Deacon shook his head, his eyes still fixed on Richter’s battered countenance. ‘No,’ he replied. ‘It’s all in the briefcase, plus details of your contact and
fallback arrangements. Your car’s in the corner of the car park. It’s a Granada Scorpio which replaced the last one you used, and you-know-who said he wanted it back in one piece this
time.’
He passed Richter a key fob with a label attached. ‘Here are the keys. Your diplomatic passport, ferry tickets, insurance details and Green Card are also in the briefcase, plus a couple of
credit cards and enough cash to keep you going. There’s a letter of introduction – sealed – which should stay that way until you deliver it, and a copy of the letter for your eyes
only. Read it and destroy it before your meeting. Also sealed is a copy of the operation file, fully updated, and there are seals and envelopes for you to re-seal it once you’ve read it.
There’s a suitcase of clothes in the boot, hopefully in your size.’
‘Thanks.’
‘What happened to your face?’ Deacon asked.
‘I was mugged,’ Richter said, and Clayton laughed. ‘Anything else?’
‘No,’ Deacon said. ‘You have an open return ferry ticket, and as long as you get to the rendezvous on time you can go when you like. You might like the choice of accommodation
we’ve booked for you. It proves that the Cashier’s got a sense of humour after all.’ He looked around the room, as if anxious to be away.
‘Anything else?’
‘No, that’s it. Have a good trip.’
‘Just one thing,’ Richter said. ‘I arrived here on a motorcycle. Can either of you ride it back to Hammersmith for me?’
‘I’ve got a licence,’ Clayton said. ‘Where is it?’
‘Far corner of the car park,’ Richter said, passing over the keys and eyeing Clayton’s city suit. ‘The helmet’s locked to the seat, and there’s a pair of
weatherproof coveralls in the pannier. I know it’s old, but I’m attached to that bike, so please try not to bend it.’
‘Right.’
They stood up, shook hands with Richter because that’s what businessmen do, and left. The briefcase Deacon had been carrying stayed under the table. It was a neat black leather
attaché case, complete with a handcuff and keys allowing it to be chained to the wrist. Richter wondered if he would be able to hang on to it after the job was over.
Jelenia Góra, Poland
Despite an early start, the convoy encountered increasingly heavy traffic after leaving Wroclaw. As they approached the major junction at Jelenia Góra, where the
roads from Wroclaw, Prague, Görlitz and Boleslawiec meet, they saw the reason. Two lorries had met more or less head-on, and the rescue services were still trying to cut one of the drivers
free. Although they had dragged the other vehicle to the side of the road, the junction was partially blocked, and the police were filtering traffic through one lane at a time.