Overkill (78 page)

The Russian stared at him. ‘You questioned him. According to General Modin, it took you several hours, and I cannot even begin to imagine the agony Newman went through before he finally
died. You can, of course, because you were entirely responsible for it.’ Gremiakin shook his head. ‘Normally, of course, we professionals accept that kind of thing as being all part of
the game, one of the risks a man runs if he gets involved in the clandestine world.

‘But Newman was different,’ Richter continued, ‘at least to me.’ Gremiakin was still staring at him. ‘Graham Newman,’ Richter said, ‘was my
cousin.’ The Russian recoiled as if Richter had hit him. ‘So you see, this is nothing to do with professional ethics or morals or anything else. This is just a simple family
matter.’

He reached into the toolbox again, took out a six-inch screwdriver and walked towards Gremiakin.

Richter left the site at a little before ten. What was left of Gremiakin was lying in the undergrowth, wrapped in the tarpaulin, and it might be days or weeks before anybody
found the body. Richter had thoroughly cleaned all the tools, and was confident that there was nothing in the vehicle that could link the VAZ either to the site or to the body. He wouldn’t
have been so certain in the West, but Russian forensic science is fairly rudimentary.

He returned to the Embassy without incident, parked the car and went to bed.

Tuesday
Moscow

Richter saw Payne the following morning, told him that his business in Moscow was completed, and asked for a car and escort to Sheremetievo airport that afternoon to catch
the British Airways afternoon flight back to Heathrow.

‘Why an escort?’ Payne asked.

‘Because I have reason to believe that I have been compromised and my possession of a diplomatic passport may not be sufficient to guarantee my safe passage out of the country.’

This burst of officialese was actually understating the case. Gremiakin had known exactly who Richter was, and his telephone call to his minders had presumably included a statement of
Richter’s identity. Even a cursory check of the departure flight schedules would reveal that a ‘Mr Beatty’ was booked on the London flight.

Reverting to Richter’s real name and genuine passport, which he had sewn into the lining of the bottom of his overnight case, wouldn’t help. Russian bureaucracy is slow but thorough
– they have, after all, had a lot of practice. Before a Mr Richter could fly out of Russia, a Mr Richter would have to fly in to Russia; the two sections of the visa have to match.

Richter’s best hope was that Gremiakin had not had time to disseminate the information properly, and that he would be able to slip out before the hunt was really under way. The escort from
the Embassy might help if this turned out to be as forlorn a hope as Richter expected.

Payne elected to come in person, together with the Second Secretary, and they climbed out of the car at Sheremetievo Terminal Two at fifteen thirty, allowing the usual two
hours before the flight’s departure time. Richter hadn’t noticed any unusual police or militia presence outside the airport, and the terminal appeared much as normal. He was beginning
to think it was actually going to work when he saw a face he knew approaching him.

‘Mr Beatty. Leaving us so soon?’ Viktor Grigorevich Bykov was dressed in the uniform of a full general, a change from the civilian suit he had been wearing when Richter had last seen
him beside the autoroute in France. In the background Richter could see two junior officers in uniform, both carrying sidearms and clearly awaiting instructions from Bykov.

‘General Bykov,’ Richter said, and forced a smile. ‘Congratulations on your promotion. Yes, I’m hoping to leave.’

‘I’m sure you are,’ the Russian chuckled, ‘and I’m here just to see you off. But first,’ he said, ‘come over here. We have some matters to
discuss.’

Richter motioned to Payne and the Second Secretary to stay close, and followed Bykov to a seating area. ‘So,’ Bykov said, ‘why did you come here? Despite your smart new tie
–’ Bykov gestured towards the silver greyhound motif ‘– you have not, I am sure, been reduced to taking a job as a Queen’s Messenger.’ Richter shook his head.
‘Perhaps, then, you came to see our famous art treasures?’

Richter shook his head again. ‘I’m not a tourist, General.’

Bykov’s smile vanished. ‘I know that, Mr Beatty. I know why you came, or I think I do.’ He paused, leaned forward and looked steadily at the Englishman. ‘I should have
you killed for interfering with our operation. It took over four years of work to set it up, to get all the weapons constructed and positioned, and you came along and ruined it in just a few
days.’

Richter shook his head. ‘I won’t say I’m sorry, General, because I’m not.’

‘I didn’t expect that you would be,’ Bykov said.

‘And I didn’t think,’ Richter said, ‘that it was entirely your operation. We were surprised when a bunch of Arabs appeared out of the woodwork with their own world
domination plan. Which,’ he added, ‘might well have worked if the American weapons had been exploded as they had intended.’

Bykov grimaced. ‘You weren’t anything like as surprised as us,’ he said. ‘They were obviously Minister Trushenko’s personal little secret, but neither he nor
anybody else here suspected their hidden agenda. In fact, for stopping them, we owe you and the Americans a debt of gratitude. And we are genuinely sorry about Abilene. You must believe it was
never our intention to actually pull the trigger – the weapons in America were just a threat, pawns, as it were, to be played in our long-running game of international chess.’

After a moment, Bykov spoke again. ‘Comrade Gremiakin has not reported for work today.’ He looked at Richter expectantly, and the Englishman could feel the net closing around
him.

‘Perhaps,’ Richter said, ‘this Gremiakin is unwell.’ Bykov looked at him appraisingly. ‘His apartment is empty, and nobody has seen him since last night. He called
his security guards to report an armed intruder, and they thought he might have been driven away in a VAZ saloon.’ He stared at Richter. ‘Where were you yesterday evening, Mr Beatty?
Doing paperwork at the Embassy, perhaps? Something like that?’

‘Yes,’ Richter said. ‘Something like that.’

‘You can produce witnesses, no doubt?’

‘If necessary,’ he replied, ‘I probably could.’

Bykov nodded. ‘I’m sure you could,’ he said agreeably. Then his tone hardened. ‘Do you know what Gremiakin did yesterday afternoon, Mr Beatty?’ Before Richter could
answer, Bykov shook his head. ‘No, of course you don’t. Let me tell you. He was instructed to terminate General Modin. The general and I were ordered by the Kremlin to fly back from
London almost as soon as we had disclosed that the weapon had been seized in France. Because of General Modin’s part in the project he knew that he would inevitably be blamed for its failure,
and he could probably guess what would happen to him.’

Holy Russia –
Rodina
– exerts a compelling pull on her children, a pull which is impossible for a non-Russian to comprehend. Time and again in the history of the country,
citizens have returned voluntarily, knowing without a shadow of a doubt that they were facing certain – and often extremely painful – death.

‘Gremiakin did terminate the general,’ Bykov continued. ‘It took him nearly three hours, and when he’d finished they had to send a squad into the cellar to hose down the
walls and the ceiling. You cannot imagine what he did to Modin, and nor would you want to.’ Bykov leaned forward. ‘Gremiakin could be unwell, Mr Beatty,’ he said softly,
‘but I hope he’s not. I hope the bastard’s dead in a ditch somewhere.’

Richter sat silent, not knowing what to say.

‘Between ourselves, Mr Beatty, you have actually done me a favour. Operation
Podstava
has failed, that we know. Like General Modin, I had my doubts, but unlike him I did not voice
them. Perhaps,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘that is why I am alive and enjoying my promotion, while he is dead.

‘Following the death of General Modin under interrogation yesterday,’ Bykov continued, ‘I was immediately promoted. The failed plan was deemed to be the fault of Minister
Trushenko and General Modin; the Minister for a totally unauthorized operation and for negotiating with, and accepting funds from, the Arabs, and General Modin for failing to realize that the
operation was not approved by the Kremlin. But no blame was attached to General Sokolov or to me.’ He smiled. ‘That is the favour you have done me, Mr Beatty.’

‘And Gremiakin?’ Richter asked.

Bykov’s face clouded and his voice dropped. ‘Gremiakin,’ he said, ‘was nothing more than an animal, a hideous example of the worst excesses of the Stalin era. The trouble
was, he was also very senior, and had powerful friends. There was no way to curb him, to stop what he called his “work”. For the removal of Gremiakin,’ Bykov concluded, ‘for
I am sure you were responsible, I also thank you.’

Richter nodded, but said nothing. Bykov looked at his watch, and stood up. ‘Come, Mr Beatty, or you will miss your flight.’

‘I thought,’ Richter said, getting to his feet, and still unsure of the situation, ‘that making me miss my flight was why you were here.’

Bykov shook his head and smiled. ‘No, no, Mr Beatty. I really did only come to see you off. Oh, and to warn you that it might be better if you stayed away from Russia for a while. As I
said, Gremiakin had some powerful friends.’

Viktor Bykov stood silent for a few seconds, looking at Richter, then held out his hand. And after a moment Richter reached out and shook it.

James Barrington is a trained military pilot who has worked in covert operations and espionage. He now lives in Andorra and this is his first novel in the series featuring Paul
Richter.

Also by James Barrington

Paul Richter series

PANDEMIC

FOXBAT

TIMEBOMB

PAYBACK

No one person ever writes a book; it’s always a team effort, and I’ve been lucky enough to find myself working with a first-class team.

I’d particularly like to thank Luigi Bonomi of Sheil Land Associates – a real writer’s agent – who saw potential where others had not, and Vanessa and Amelia, otherwise
known as The Girls In The Basement, for their success in selling the book internationally, even before its British publication.

At Macmillan I couldn’t have asked for a better editor than Peter Lavery, and I owe special thanks to him and to the talented and enthusiastic team responsible for the publication of this
book.

On a personal note, my thanks go to Bill and Barbara Vine who were, so to speak, there at the birth and who provided helpful and accurate guidance. Thanks also to Rowland, whose last name would
be known to many and is omitted here for reasons of professional embarrassment.

Unlikely though it may sound, I’d like to thank my mother-in-law, Betty Lee-Kemp, for providing encouragement and unfailing optimism, despite having to read the flocks of rejection slips
as they came home to roost. Particular thanks are due to my sister-in-law Sue Lee-Kemp for what might be termed ‘special services’ – she knows exactly what I mean – and to
my brother-in-law Paul for his enthusiasm and belief.

And in the great British tradition of saving the best until last; to my wife Sally, my first and most vocal critic, and my support for always and for ever.

James Barrington

Principality of Andorra, 2004

This book is a work of fiction, with all the usual disclaimers about people living or dead. However, the central idea is built upon a verifiable factual base, and brief
reference has been made to the real American politicians John Kennedy, Jimmy Carter and Ronald Reagan, and to a man named Sam Cohen.

Sam Cohen was employed as a strategic nuclear weapons analyst by the Rand Corporation, a military think tank based in Santa Monica, California. In the late 1950s he effectively created the
neutron bomb or Enhanced Radiation Weapon when he proposed removing the outer uranium casing of a hydrogen bomb, creating a nuclear weapon that killed people but left structures largely intact.
Details given in the book about the way a neutron bomb works and the theoretical maximum size of the weapon are accurate.

Political and public pressure meant that neutron weapons were neither used nor deployed by America, although a stockpile is still held in the States. Other nations that have stolen, bought or
developed the technology for themselves include France, China, Russia, Israel, South Africa and of course Britain.

Red mercury is a real substance, and is exactly as described in this book. It is a mercury compound that has undergone massive irradiation and which, when exploded, creates the levels of
pressure and heat needed to trigger a fusion device such as a neutron bomb, eliminating the need for access to a supply of plutonium. Red mercury is comparatively cheap and easy to produce,
especially compared to the costs of developing weapons-grade plutonium, and was sold for many years on the black market by Russia to a variety of countries including Iraq.

It is also a fact that, following the collapse of the Soviet Union, the United States began paying billions of dollars for plutonium extracted from Russia’s dismantled weapons in an
attempt to stop black market trading in the element. It is unfortunately also true that most independent surveys suggest that the Russians have actually been sending the Americans plutonium created
as a byproduct in their nuclear reactors, and not weapons-grade plutonium. This indicates that either the Russians have not been dismantling their nuclear arsenal, as they claim, or the black
market trade in weapons-grade plutonium is flourishing.

We really do live in an uncertain world.