The Kremlin Device (24 page)

Our earlier visits had shown that there were people about until quite late in the evening, and we reckoned that 10.00 p.m. would be a safer time to kick off than 9.00. That meant we'd have nearly an hour to kill.

For the tunnel team I'd nominated Toad, Pavarotti and myself. Rick would man the head of the shaft: with his reasonable Russian, he might be able to bluff his way through if anyone accosted him while we were down. During our recce Whinger had stood off in the car, and this time I wanted him in command on the surface once again; but we were going to need two vehicles, because we would never fit five guys and the Apple components into one of the Volgas. That meant I had to detail Mal as our second driver, leaving only Dusty, Johnny and Pete in barracks.

I was worried by the knowledge that the guys back on the base had no vehicle in which they could come out and recover us if anything went wrong. In fact I was worried by a hell of a lot of niggling possibilities – which all seemed to become probabilities as the day ground on. We'd get a puncture driving out of the Embassy gates, with Apple on board (we'd had three punctures already). We'd meet hostile natives in the churchyard. We'd drop one of the heavy components down the access shaft and wreck it. We'd crack the casing of the SCR and absorb fatal doses of radiation. We'd find the tunnel booby-trapped. We'd find the tunnel flooded along its whole length. We'd run out of oxygen while making final excavations at the site. We wouldn't be able to lift the device into its resting place. It would turn out that the two components were incompatible. The satellite wouldn't pick up signals from the SCR . . .

Before we left I put through a call to Hereford and confirmed that we were under starter's orders. Until then I'd been economical with information about our progress. I'd reported our successful recce of the Apple site but I hadn't told anyone what we'd done with the devices. Now I simply said that it should be possible for Washington to make contact with Apple from 0200 next morning.

At last 8.00 came, and it was too late to agonise any more. I rode passenger in the black wagon, with Mal driving and Toad in the back. Whinger drove the grey car, with Rick and Pavarotti as passengers.

Unfortunately it was a still evening. The noisy gale that had blown up during the Mafia hit would have suited us fine, but tonight we had to make do without.

As we headed into town we passed one GAI team who'd set up a temporary check-point on the other side of the road: they'd got three of their little blue-and-white Gaz jeeps set out to form a funnel, and were pulling in about one driver in three. Sasha had told us that by the end of each month these traffic police were frantic for money, and imposed instant fines for any offence they could dream up – as he put it: ‘
for
documents,
for
speed,
for
lights,
for
breaking rules,
for
not having seat-belts done up.'

We had our documents, we had roubles, we had dollars . . . but luckily tonight there was no purge on vehicles going in our direction.

The route was familiar by now. Over the bridge, swing down on to the embankment, head west. We made one precautionary drive-past in the black car while the grey one stood off out of sight; then we came back round the block, joined forces, and both turned into the Embassy compound at 8.55.

So far, so good. But from that moment things persistently went a little bit wrong. The first shock came when, as we pulled up in the Embassy's rear yard, the Chargé himself came out to greet us. I'd assumed he'd be off duty by now.

In fact Allway was harmless enough – he'd obviously had a couple of drinks, and was braying in a loud, hearty voice that he'd only emerged to wish us well. But his mere presence outside the lock-up was a pain.

‘How are you doing?' he boomed. ‘All tickety-boo?'

‘Yes, thanks.'

‘Getting enough to eat out there? Hope they're not starving you.'

‘No, no. We're fine. Just come in to pick up a couple of items of kit.'

‘Ah! Some of those ammunition boxes, what?'

‘Those are the ones.'

‘Want a hand?'

‘No thanks. We'll manage fine.'

‘Well – any problems, just let me know.'

‘Thanks.'

I thought the bastard was going back indoors, but he turned and said, ‘Oh, by the way, the security forces had a big success against the Mafia the other day.'

‘Is that right?'

‘Caught several of the godfathers in a flat, right here in the middle of town. Killed four or five of them. It was on the news next day. Surprised you haven't heard about it.'

‘No . . .' I shook my head. ‘We've been pretty busy – don't have much time for watching TV.'

‘Maybe the Russians are getting better at Mafia-hunting, what? Maybe they don't need you fellows so much after all. Or maybe you've taught them something already? Well – ta ta!'

I took several deep breaths, forcing myself not to utter a sound until the door had closed behind him. Then I just whispered, ‘Jeeesus Christ! Let's get moving.'

Unless you were colour-blind there was no way of muddling the components, because Apple's three pieces were all marked with a light green circle, Orange's with orange. We backed the black Volga as close as we could to the cellar door and carried the three green-marked cases out, four men on each of the heavy ones. Once again they pushed the car right down on its springs. Toad removed the Rat from its lair and clipped it on his belt.

As soon as we'd secured the up-and-over door of the cellar, we drove off. I'd felt as if my exchanges with the Chargé lasted for ever, but still we had fifty minutes to kill; so, rather than hang about in the area, we followed our plan and drove up to the terrace in front of the univerity, on the edge of the Sparrow Hills. Sasha had taken us there during our first visit, and I remembered it as a favourite view-point, popular with tourists and sightseers, where strangers hanging around wouldn't attract attention.

If you ever want to get your adrenalin going, try driving through Moscow at night with a nuclear bomb in the boot of a rickety, underpowered car. Every traffic light spelt possible disaster, every vehicle that overtook seemed certain to be full of Mafia gunmen bent on a hijack.

‘What we do
not
want,' I said grimly, ‘is to be stopped by the fucking GAI with this lot on board.'

‘Nah,' said Pavarotti. ‘They don't seem to operate much in the centre – more out on the highways.'

Luck favoured us. With me map-reading we managed to avoid the cops and find the way, and soon came out on to the huge, level esplanade, where one can park and walk forward to look out over the city. Whinger, following at a distance, pulled up some fifty yards to our right, and a couple got out of each car to take in the sights.

The prospect was spectacular, I had to admit. Behind us, the monstrous skyscraper of the main university building towered into the sky, topped by a slender spire that gleamed golden in its spotlights. On either side of it the lower towers sprouted pinnacles, and hundreds of lighted windows made the campus look like a city on its own.

In front of us, immediately over the wall was a steep drop, with a couple of rickety-looking ski-jumps – not yet in use – poised over it. Below them, the centre of Moscow was laid out in a million more lights. It reminded me of the view from the top of Block B – except that here the illumination was far more varied and concentrated. Close in the foreground was a large stadium; farther out, the floodlit buildings of the Kremlin glowed magnificently. We could also see the White House. I remembered Sasha telling us of how it had been rebuilt after the coup: apparently the workers had stayed in the nearby Kiev Hotel, and their demand for whores was so phenomenal that busloads of extra women had had to be imported from out of town.

I glanced around. There were a few other people up here, but nobody close to us. Away to our right I could see Whinger and Rick, also looking over the wall, but correctly keeping their distance.

‘I feel that hepped up, I reckon if I jumped off here I'd fly,' I told Pavarotti quietly.

‘Don't try it, mate. You might just keep going, never come down.'

We admired the view for a few more minutes, then returned to the car and hung around some more. As usual at such moments, our watches seemed to have gone on strike.

But at last it was 9.45, time to head down.

‘Moving off now,' I told Whinger over the radio.

‘Roger. I'll let you get clear.'

Mal turned the car and started to back-track our route – but we were hardly under way before Whinger came through again with, ‘Watch yourselves. I think you've got a tail.'

Mal said, ‘Shit,' studied his mirror and said, ‘Is it that buff Lada?'

‘Roger. It pulled out when you did.'

‘I'll watch it for a minute.'

‘Roger.'

Turning in the passenger seat to face Mal, I saw the car they were talking about. Now what? Our options were severely limited by our lack of speed and the great weight we were carrying. Shooting red lights was no good: hundreds of drivers did that anyway; the Lada would simply follow us through any crossing. And in any case we didn't want to risk a brush with the GAI. We certainly couldn't outrun a pursuer. Nor could we afford to tangle with one. We all had Sigsauer 9mm pistols, and if things turned nasty we could use them – but only as a very last resort. A collision might shunt the nuclear components clean out of the car, taking the boot lid or rear door with them, and damage the devices beyond repair . . .

‘How many on board?' I asked.

‘Three,' came Whinger's voice.

Mal said, ‘I'm going to head away from our target area.'

‘Roger.'

Before we started down through the bends of the hillside, he took a left, heading south. Then another left. The Lada followed. When a light turned red way ahead, he changed down to decelerate without using the brakes. The Lada slowed as well, keeping its distance.

‘Definite tail,' I told Whinger. ‘Can you sort them for us?'

‘I'll try.'

‘Do they realise we're a pair?'

‘Don't think so. I'm driving on sidelights and keeping well back.'

Whinger was – and is – a hell of a guy behind the wheel. He'd done a stint as instructor in special driving techniques at Llangwern, the training area in Wales, and what he didn't know about J-turns, ramming and breaking up illegal VCPs wasn't worth knowing. The trouble was that in England or Northern Ireland he'd probably have been driving one of the Regiment's souped-up intercept cars, which have extra power, armour, strengthened suspension and belly plates, and can whack anything else off the road with one flick of the rear end. Whereas here he had a lumbering, light-weight Volga with little power and no protection. I knew what he was thinking: that although it would be no trouble to knock our tail into the gutter, the last thing he wanted was to end up immobilising his own vehicle.

Somehow we'd got on to a big boulevard which my wrist-compass told me was heading south-west, out of town. At a crossroads I got a glimpse of a sign and deciphered it as Leninskii Prospekt.

The Lada was still behind us.

Shit! I was thinking. We should never have come up into this area. I've dropped a bollock here. We should just have made a loop and risked going into the churchyard early.

Then I remembered a friend of mine – Andy, a Tornado pilot – saying that a key element in training to fly fast jets was that pilots must have the ability to dump bad decisions behind them. In the air, especially at low level, events happen so fast that the pilot has to take dozens of decisions every minute, and the essential skill is to dump whatever's just happened, so that your mind's free to look ahead.

OK, I told myself. Forget that one. Now what?

‘Take that right,' I told Mal suddenly.

He hauled the wheel round. Our tyres squealed under the load. Sixty yards behind us the Lada copied our every move, turning through the crossing just as the lights changed.

‘Whinger's got through as well,' Mal said tersely. ‘Must have shot the red.'

‘I've a mind to stop suddenly and sort the bastards ourselves,' I said, reaching down to draw my Sig. At the back of my mind I knew that the very idea of opening up on unidentified strangers in the middle of the city was outrageous. In London I'd never have dreamt of it. But here in Moscow the level of lawlessness was so high that any form of self-defence seemed in order.

We appeared to be driving in orbit round the university; the colossal tower was still quite close on our right. If we stayed near it, at least we'd know where we were.

‘Right again,' I said.

Now we were on another wide boulevard, heading back towards the esplanade. The big road stretched ahead, empty of traffic. Suddenly I heard Whinger say, ‘Slow down, Mal. Come down to fifty ks.'

‘Roger,' went Mal, and eased off the accelerator. He'd been doing about sixty-five, and let the needle fall back. With one eye on the mirror he said, ‘Stand by. The Lada's closing. No – cancel that. They've eased off again.'

The next thing we heard was Whinger calling, ‘Stand by for contact. I'm going in.'

I knew what he'd done: on the long straight he'd built up speed and was coming in at the opposition on one fast run. I twisted round in my seat just in time to see a wild flare of headlights sweeping sideways, then the black silhouette of a vehicle momentarily on end, standing on its nose for an instant before hurtling off the near side of the road. Seconds later there was a brilliant flash, and flames leapt from the wreck.