Bomb Grade

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘One of the excuses why there’s so little action. Along with about a hundred others, a lot of which I’ve forgotten.’

  ‘Which is why you’ve never bothered with a mug shot comparison from any of the clubs?’

  ‘They all laugh at me, Lyneham particularly, for running around in circles. But there are some circles that even I won’t waste my time revolving in.’

  A barman stood demandingly before them and their empty glasses. Charlie, who reckoned he had enough for just one more round, nodded. To Kestler he said, encouragingly, ‘Things seem a little easier between you and Lyneham in the last few days?’

  ‘He’s OK,’ defended Kestler, loyally. ‘Just cranky, sometimes. Haemorrhoids or something.’ He regarded Charlie with sudden intensity. ‘Say, you don’t jog, do you? I run most mornings. We could do it together!’

  Charlie winced at the idea. ‘No, I don’t jog.’

  Kestler shook his head. ‘No, I guess you don’t.’

  Charlie watched the departure of his last $200. The situation between Kestler and Lyneham was not one for him to become overly concerned about, but definitely not one to be overlooked: squabbling children often upset their dinners over innocent bystanders and the way things seemed to be going Charlie was reconciled to having to stand pretty close to both men in the foreseeable future.

  Charlie ended the evening having spent $850 but with carefully pocketed discarded till receipts of others as well as his own amounting to $1,200, a vague headache from drinking fake whisky and a difficulty in deciding what the evening had actually achieved. In positive terms, very little. But in the long term, perhaps a worthwhile investment. By itself – and essential to validate the expenditure – he had a lengthy report to London about the apparently blatant openness of organized crime in the city, which had genuinely surprised him. And an equally lengthy query to Jeremy Simpson in London to confirm the weakness of anti-crime legislation in Russia.

  It meant he was fully occupied the following morning, although he managed to finish early enough for a brought-forward lunch with Umberto Fiore. Wanting to acquire as much as possible for the following day’s report, he fixed dinner that evening with Jurgen Balg.

  ‘I think I should come up!’ insisted Natalia.

  ‘You already know everything. But it’s your choice, obviously.’

  ‘I want to see for myself. Meet Oskin and this man Lvov.’

  Popov had dutifully maintained the promised contact, calling her as often as three times a day – once five times – but as the indications had hardened of a genuine and large-scale theft, Natalia had grown increasingly frustrated by the feeling of being on the sidelines.

  ‘I’m sure they’re right about Kirov and Kirs being infiltrated by Mafia informers,’ said Popov.

  ‘I wouldn’t go anywhere near any of the plants themselves. Or the regional offices.’

  ‘Having got this far we can’t risk a mistake which would ruin everything.’

  ‘Don’t you want me to come up?’ demanded Natalia.

  ‘Don’t be silly!’ said Popov, the quick irritation showing in his voice. ‘This isn’t a question of what I want or don’t want. It’s a question of what’s best in an operational situation.’

  ‘So what’s best in this operational situation?’

  ‘I think you should come up to Kirov,’ said the man. Then he added, ‘I’ve missed you. And Sasha.’

  Because the routine worked so well Stanislav Silin again personally met the Berlin flight for them to talk in the car, which of course was not the identifiable, bullet-proofed and interior-partitioned Mercedes in which he customarily travelled, but the same anonymous Ford as before. This time the Dolgoprudnaya chief turned south on the outer ring road, satisfied he didn’t have to stress any more loyalty reminders.

  ‘All the banking sorted out?’ asked Silin.

  Instead of answering, the man handed the deposit books and validating identification documents across the car.

  ‘When are you bringing the others in from Berlin?’ asked Silin, accepting the package.

  ‘Over the next two to three weeks.’

  ‘They all know what they’re supposed to do?’

  ‘Absolutely. What about Sobelov?’

  ‘He made a public apology at the last Commission meeting.’

  ‘That must have hurt!’

  Silin said, ‘Not as much as a lot of other things are going to hurt!’ and they both laughed. Silin added, ‘I’m letting him be in charge of the interception.’

  The other man frowned. ‘You sure that’s a good idea?’

  ‘It amuses me to let him have his last delusions of grandeur.’

  ‘The date is definite then?’

  ‘It’s got to be geared to their timetable. We’ll be ready when your people get here.’

  chapter 11

  Natalia thought Kirov was small for a provincial capital and odd in the way it clung to the umbilical cord of the Vyatka. From their room she could see over the low dockside warehouses and timber yards to the sluggish river on which even slower boats hauled daisy chains of connected, lumber-laden barges with occasional fussy tugs encouraging the procession from the rear. Beyond the port complex the Stalin era apartment blocks stood in line, grey skittles all in a row. Only vaguely visible through the uncleared midday mist, the far-away fir forests that provided the town’s wood industry had no colour either, deep black outlines against the dull skyline. Apart from the apartment blocks and the abrupt domed towers of the isolated cathedral everything was uninterestingly flat, as if the place was boxed up ready to be moved somewhere else.

  By contrast, Popov’s room gave an impression of permanent residence. He’d had to tidy the bathroom cabinet to make space for her things and rearrange the wardrobe for her clothes. He’d had an extra table moved in, for papers and two spread-out maps and his open briefcase was on a bordering chair. A glass held several pencils and a pen: other glasses from the same set ringed a half-empty vodka flask on a side table and a jacket was draped carelessly over the back of another chair. Two pairs of shoes were neatly arranged but outside the wardrobe, and the bed was made but bore the impression where he’d lain on top, before Natalia’s arrival.

  Incongruously, a small sled was upturned on its runners against the wall behind the door. A box was beside it. Seeing Natalia’s look, Popov said, ‘For Sasha. There’s a whole farmyard of wooden animals in the box, as well. Do you think she’ll like them?’

  ‘I’m sure she will,’ smiled Natalia. He really did treat Sasha as if she were his own.

  ‘Who’s looking after her?’

  ‘The matron at the crèche. There’s an arrangement. I’ll call, later.’

  Popov had kissed her, almost anxiously, when she’d arrived and he came close again at the window, folding his arms around her from behind with his face at her shoulder. ‘I enjoyed telling the receptionist you were my wife. You didn’t want a separate room, did you?’

  ‘Is there really a need for an explanation?’

  She felt him nod, into her shoulder. This is genuine: I’m convinced of it. So I’m not taking any chances.’

  ‘When do I meet Oskin?’

  ‘Tonight. Dinner. He’s chosen the restaurant.’

  ‘Lvov?’

  ‘Tomorrow. We’re going out to Kirs.’

  Natalia pulled away from the man. ‘So tell me about it.’

  Popov took the larger of the two maps from the table, tracing by pencil the curved road to Kirs. ‘The nuclear plant is on the outskirts of the town itself. It’s being decommissioned: a lot of the technical staff have been transferred already. There are four silos, each holding an ICBM. And a warhead storage facility. There’s also about 250 kilos of cassium and plutonium 239, most of it weapons graded. That’s what they’ve told Lvov they want.’

  ‘Who’s “they”?’

  ‘He’s met four men, so far. He’s sure two, at least, come from Moscow.’

  ‘Names?’

  Popov snorted a laugh
. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Not even talking among themselves?’

  Popov shook his head. ‘The first approach was from just one man; Lvov thinks he’s local. There’ve been two further meetings since. That’s when the others turned up. Each time there’ve been threats about what will happen to his family if he doesn’t do what they want.’

  ‘What do they want?’

  ‘Guaranteed access. A plan of the facilities, with the storage complexes marked with what each contains. Code systems, to get into the complexes. Guard rosters and manpower strength. And complete details, including the electrical circuitry, of all the alarm systems.’

  Natalia let out a deep sigh. ‘They don’t seem to have overlooked anything.’

  ‘They haven’t.’

  ‘Any positive date?’

  Popov shook his head. ‘The one thing we haven’t got. And can’t do anything without. He’s stalled them so far by saying it’s difficult to get all they demand. They’ve given him two weeks, as of three days ago.’

  ‘How do they meet Lvov?’

  ‘He’s never warned. It’s one of the reasons he’s so frightened. They’re just there, unannounced. The first time was a Saturday. He was shopping and the man he thinks is local stopped him in the street. The second time he found people either side of him in the trolley car, going home from work. They made him get off to meet the other two in a park. The last occasion – that was three days ago – they arrived at his apartment when his wife was out, at the cinema with their daughters. They obviously watch him, choosing their moments. He says he feels like an animal, knowing it’s being hunted but not when it’s going to be shot.’

  ‘It sounds as if he is.’ Natalia looked down at the map, noticing a series of pencilled crosses between Kirov and Kirs. ‘What are these?’

  ‘Nonsense, for the benefit of curious hotel staff. I’m supposed to be a mining engineer, surveying possible mineral deposits.’ Popov didn’t smile at Natalia’s amused grimace. ‘It accounts for my staying here, for so long. And for driving around the countryside.’

  Natalia was suddenly seized by a feeling of unreality going beyond that prompted by near-theatrical subterfuge and accounts of mystery men stalking a frightened nuclear security officer. She’d undergone the obligatory operational training during her long-ago KGB induction but never been called upon to use it. The major part of her previous career had been debriefing and interrogating potential defectors and sometimes recalled Russian field operatives whose psychological stability had become suspect. So all her experiences of practical danger and the fear it engendered had been second-hand, recounted and sometimes exaggerated by others. Now she was involved, living part of the subterfuge. She had secretly to meet men genuinely terrified of being murdered and hear and assess their story. And then to approve, in her name and under her authority, a way to defeat a robbery which, if it wasn’t prevented, could potentially end with the slaughter of hundreds. Or even thousands. The feeling was more than unreality. Natalia was frightened. And not solely, or even predominantly, at the risk of failure, disastrous though that would be. There was an unease at the fear of the unknown, of being physically hurt, even. Natalia positively stopped the mental drift. She was being ridiculous. She was in no physical danger, meeting Oskin or Lvov. Aleksai would be with her: Aleksai, a Militia colonel who’d worked the streets and conducted criminal investigations and had six commendations for bravery that he didn’t boast about, one of them involving a shoot-out in which a hostage-holding murderer had been killed. She smiled at him as he looked up from his map.

  ‘What is it?’ he frowned.

  ‘Nothing.’

  He smiled back. ‘Yes,’ he said, wrongly guessing what she was thinking. ‘There is a lot of time before we have to meet Oskin. Hours. And it has been a long time for a hard-working mining engineer who’s missed his wife.’

  Natalia held her smile but wished he hadn’t misunderstood. Of course she loved him and of course she wanted to go to bed with him and for him to make love to her because it was always so good because he was such a consummate lover and Natalia liked sex. But not now, not at this moment in these circumstances. She hadn’t understood enough; been told enough. It would have been better later, when she’d settled in after the flight from Moscow and asked all her questions and met Oskin. But she was meeting Oskin, she realized. He was Aleksai’s source and it was probably better if she heard everything herself from the regional Militia chief rather than entering the conversation with preconceived impressions from what Aleksai told her.

  Aleksai was a consummate lover. Natalia couldn’t remember a time when he’d failed her and often, like now, there was surprise as well as excitement because lovemaking to Aleksai was a complete pleasure to which he gave himself completely, arousing her to total abandonment. He loved her with his mouth and she loved him the same way and when she tried to pull him into her he held back until she mewed with frustration and slapped at him, hard, and said she was coming but still he refused. When he did, finally, she exploded almost at once and he did as well but he didn’t stop and she came again and then clung to him, exhausted, panting ‘bastard’ over and over again into his ear, slapping him again, although not so hard, when he laughed back at her.

  They slept as they lay and Natalia would have missed the meeting with Oskin entirely if Popov hadn’t awakened her. As it was, she had to hurry to bath and repair her love-bedraggled hair. In the reflection of the mirror when she was doing that she saw Popov check the clip of the Markarov and settle the gun comfortably in the rear waistband of his trousers. She thought the gun looked enormous and felt another flicker of fear.

  Popov became aware of her attention and looked back at her, in the mirror. ‘It’s best. Just a precaution. Nothing’s going to happen.’

  ‘If you say so.’ Natalia was authorized to carry a weapon but had never done so and was glad her rank had for years now freed her going through the once-required range practice. She’d hated the noise and the weight of a pistol she could never hold properly or fire without squinting her eyes closed at the trigger pull, so that her score rate had always been appalling.

  The restaurant was virtually in the shadow of the Uspenskii cathedral and their last three or four hundred metres were slowed by people making their way to the evening service. Natalia, who had followed her religion even under communism, hoped she would have time to go there before returning to Moscow.

  Popov parked some way away, although there was space far closer, and further bewildered her by fully circling the square and even stopping to look into the window of a hunting equipment shop instead of going directly into the restaurant. Which was unexpectedly good, an ancient lopsided and crannied place with a main eating area dominated by a huge central fireplace open on both sides with the chimney mouth hung with hooks and grids to smoke the meat and fish.

  They were late because of the straggled churchgoers and their meandering approach but Nikolai Oskin was not there. Their reservation was at a corner table furthest from the main door. Popov ordered a flask of vodka for himself and Georgian wine for Natalia and told the waiter they’d delay ordering because there was a possibility of their being joined by someone else.

  ‘Possibility?’ queried Natalia.

  ‘Oskin won’t come if he thinks we were under any sort of special attention.’

  ‘He was watching us?’

  Popov nodded. ‘There’s a public kiosk near the hotel. If he doesn’t show up tonight he’ll phone there at eleven tomorrow.’

  Natalia didn’t smile, like she had at the criss-crossed map to account for his being a mining engineer. For several moments she stared fixedly at the door, at people following them in. ‘Where was he?’

  Popov shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘How do we know he isn’t being watched? He’s far more likely to attract attention than us, isn’t he?’

  ‘We don’t. And yes he is. All this is for his benefit – and peace of mind – not ours.’

&n
bsp; ‘But if he doesn’t come it means …’

  ‘… Nothing. He and I have been very careful: had our meetings like this all the time. So I’m absolutely sure no one has linked us, in any way. If he imagines anyone outside that’s exactly what it will be, imagination …’ He smiled, sadly, at her seriousness. ‘We’ll laugh about it when it’s all over. But at the moment it’s got to be done his way. Their way.’

  It was a further thirty minutes before Nikolai Oskin came into the restaurant. He remained unmoving just inside the door and Popov’s warning touch upon her arm enabled Natalia to study the man. He was extremely short and his fatness made him appear even smaller. Oskin’s approach, having located them, was a strut of quick, jerky steps. He wore civilian clothes, of course. The suit had no tailored crease but was bagged and shiny from wear and neglect. The shirt was reasonably clean but did not appear to have been ironed. Natalia tried to remember the man from his Moscow headquarters posting but couldn’t, although she knew from his personnel records, which she’d read before coming to Kirov, that he had served at Ulitza Zhitnaya until eighteen months earlier. He stood politely and virtually to attention during Popov’s introduction and appeared surprised when Natalia offered her hand. It was only when she did so that Natalia realized he was deferring to her with the respect befitting the absolute head of his department. He sat, at her invitation, and accepted the vodka Popov offered. They did not attempt any conversation until they had ordered. Natalia disinterestedly chose quail, without any appetite.

  ‘No trouble, then?’ opened Popov.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Oskin. Then, hurriedly, ‘No. None at all. I made sure.’

  Natalia wondered if he normally spoke in such a high-pitched voice or whether it was another indication of nervousness. He wasn’t sweating now but as close as he was, Natalia could smell that he had been, very recently. And badly. She moved to speak, stopping just short of referring to her deputy as Aleksai. Instead she said, ‘Colonel Popov believes there is going to be a genuine robbery attempt?’