Bomb Grade

by Brian Freemantle

  Good enough, conceded Charlie. ‘How many helicopters?’

  Popov deferred with a gesture to the taller of the two commanders, a shorn-headed, chisel-featured man whom Charlie guessed would resent being professionally questioned by a Westerner, certainly by a non-military Westerner.

  ‘Adequate. The Kamov Ka-22 has a one hundred-man capacity,’ said the man, dismissively.

  Charlie said, ‘“Adequate” was the word used in the official report into the failure of the American operation to get their embassy hostages out of Teheran. Or rather “inadequate” because they didn’t allow back-up for accidents or engine failure.’

  There was a brief and huddled consultation between the two officers before the taller man said, ‘There are allowances for a standby Kamov for rapid redeployment. And four smaller Mi-24 reconnaissance machines.’

  Charlie thought they’d made that provision up on the spot but it didn’t matter, providing they made the addition. Across the other side of the room Natalia thought don’t, Charlie; don’t compete.

  ‘There will be a lot of radio traffic, once the operations begin,’ intruded Kestler. ‘And there will be delays no matter how simultaneously everything is coordinated. How secure …’

  ‘Totally,’ cut off the second, shorter officer, in impatient anticipation. ‘The liaison between the two separate forces and with the ministry here in Moscow will be over a restricted military wavelength, sealed against any outside interference or eavesdropping.’

  ‘Everything is to be confined to Kirs and in Kirov?’ demanded Charlie.

  Popov frowned again, more in rebuke at the apparently repetitive question than in confusion. ‘I don’t understand.’

  Charlie went from the bearded man to the ministry officials among whom Natalia was sitting and then back to Popov. ‘I fully accept all the obvious reasons – Russian legal jurisdiction being the most obvious – but has any consideration been given to letting the robbery run?’

  ‘Run!’ echoed Popov, the frown more genuinely one of confusion now.

  Charlie tilted his head towards Kestler. ‘Nuclear smuggling is an international crime, that’s why he and I are here. An interception at source blocks that source, admittedly. But it doesn’t destroy the intermediary couriers or the European middlemen or expose the recipient countries.’

  It was one of the unnamed ministry men who responded, incredulously, ahead of anyone else. ‘Are you seriously suggesting letting two hundred and fifty kilos of radioactive bomb-making equipment out of one of our facilities and then attempting to follow it across Europe?’

  There were smiles and open sniggers from every Russian in the room except Natalia. She thought stop it, Charlie; for God’s sake stop it!

  ‘No,’ answered Charlie, quite relaxed. ‘Two hundred and fifty kilos of something that looks like radioactive bomb-making equipment. You’ve got until Thursday before a robbery by people who won’t be nuclear experts: their proof that what they’re stealing is genuine is simply that it’s in a nuclear facility. Why not substitute the real thing with something that’s phoney and which won’t matter if it does get lost while we try to follow it? Why not play the same con game that the villains play all the time?’

  Natalia felt the inward tension ease away, recognizing the familiar Charlie deviousness. To prevent the Kirs theft was going to be sensational enough. But to extend those arrests throughout Europe and expose the purchasing countries would turn it into a truly spectacular international coup. It wouldn’t happen, she knew. From the ministry men flanking her and from others with whom she’d discussed Kirs in detail and nuclear smuggling more generally Natalia knew – like Popov knew – that Moscow was determined that this operation was going to be an all-Russian affair entirely confined to Russian legal authority and for Russia to be internationally eulogized for its commitment to smashing the illegal nuclear trade. Which put political cynicism higher than the commitment but which would be lost in the general euphoria.

  ‘It would be unworkable,’ dismissed Popov, although no longer condescending. ‘There are at least three hundred kilos of weapons-graded material stored at Kirs. Because we don’t know which they’d steal, we’d have to switch all of it. We don’t have sufficient time or alternative, safe facilities to which to transfer it …’ The man paused, looking to the nervously shifting Nikolai Oskin. ‘… We also have grounds for believing that the people who are attempting this robbery have informants inside the plant: there has to be, for them to have stipulated to our informant precisely what they want. It would be impossible to replace the material without it becoming known to those planning the robber)’. The operation has to be carried out this way.’

  Quite independently, both Charlie and Natalia had thought Popov had been going to conclude his rejection by saying ‘my way’ instead of ‘this way’.

  There would have been safe alternative storage sites at Kotelnich and Murashi, Charlie remembered. But the time limit and the security inside the Kirs plant were valid enough objections. But created another, in his mind. ‘Half the interception force is being moved into the plant before the attempt. If internal security is that bad, they’ll be warned ahead of their attempt. And not make it.’

  Popov hesitated and then went sideways for a huddled conversation with the two spetznaz officers and Charlie was sure it was a danger they hadn’t anticipated. Across the room Natalia had the same suspicion.

  Popov said, ‘The installation will be sealed, from the moment our forces go in. No employee will be allowed out. Nor will any outgoing telephone calls be made.’

  ‘Won’t that cause a problem in itself?’ came in Kestler, discerning the weakness. ‘Regular workers will be expected home at regular times. When they don’t arrive, people are going to start asking why.’

  ‘Unsupervised outgoing telephone calls,’ qualified Popov. ‘Communication specialists will be among that initial entry force, to take over the switchboard. Incoming as well as outgoing calls will be monitored.’

  Not a bad recovery, Charlie gauged. He hoped Natalia didn’t imagine there was anything personal in the exchange: something else he’d have to make clear to her when the chance arose. He had her telephone number as well as her address but he’d left Leninskaya without any talk of their meeting again. Certainly not until after Thursday. She wouldn’t welcome any distraction and he had to concentrate on what he was officially in Moscow to achieve.

  Beside him Kestler was trying to establish their own logistics for Thursday, arguing Washington’s gratitude for the degree of cooperation so far to justify their being allowed close access to what happened at Kirs. It was the man whom Natalia had identified as a representative of the Foreign Ministry who responded.

  ‘There has been some discussion today about security,’ said the sparse-haired, square-featured official, looking first to the note-takers to ensure everything was being recorded and then directly across the room at Kestler and Charlie. ‘Just as there were understandings about security at our first meeting. Since which time there have been a number of enquiries to our embassies in both Rome and Berlin concerning nuclear shipments into Europe.’

  Inheriting the mistakes of others, Charlie recognized: a problem in which he had no intention of getting caught up. Kestler was the one who couldn’t keep his mout shut. So let the eager little bugger talk his way out of the obvious suspicion. At once came the contradiction. Neither of them were on their own: Charlie only wished they were and that he didn’t have Kestler around his neck, like an albatross. The Foreign Ministry man had pitched the inferred accusation very cleverly, clearly making it an accusation but leaving it very general, for Kestler or Charlie to condemn themselves by their own reactions. Quickly Charlie said, ‘The information we passed on, about the Ukraine and fuel rods, emanated from Germany and Italy. I would have expected both countries officially to be in contact with you.’

  ‘The enquiries weren’t about Ukraine shipments or fuel rods,’ refused the second ministry man.

  Shit! thoug
ht Charlie. Separation time, he decided. The alternative was to be sucked down in a swamp of obvious lies and Charlie had no intention of letting that happen. ‘At our earlier meeting I gave an undertaking. Which I have kept. I have discussed nothing of that meeting, nor will I of this briefing, with anyone other than my superiors in London. Certainly not with any representatives here of either Germany or Italy.’ In the old days the permanent surveillance would have logged his encounters with Jurgen Balg and Umberto Fiore, making that insistence impossible to sustain even though it was true. Charlie hoped the old days were well and truly over. He wanted very much to see how Kestler was visibly responding but to turn would have indicated complicity. He’d given the younger man a way out, for Christ’s sake! All he had to do was take it hopefully to save both their asses! Lie a little, mentally urged Charlie, at once correcting himself. Not a little: lie a lot.

  ‘I also gave undertakings at that meeting,’ began Kestler, strong-voiced. ‘And I kept them. The only people to whom I communicated anything were those at FBI headquarters in Washington …’

  Go on! thought Charlie; don’t stop!

  ‘… I made the need for security quite clear to Washington, even though it should have been obvious. I do not believe rumours could have leaked from there. But I will today reinforce my earlier warning …’

  ‘We are proving our commitment to cooperation by making transcripts of our meetings available,’ reminded the Foreign Ministry man, heavily.

  ‘I will, of course, provide a copy of today’s memorandum,’ undertook Kestler. ‘And of my earlier message.’

  The attention switched to Charlie. ‘Of course,’ he accepted, at once. It wouldn’t involve much work, revising and backdating a few phoney messages to London. Which was what they’d expect him to do, after all. But they’d have a provable official piece of paper, that ever-essential bureaucratic asbestos.

  There was a momentary, uncertain silence. Then the Foreign Office official who’d clearly been appointed their chief accuser said, ‘If there were to be a problem with this operation my government would consider the fault to be external, not one originating from within the group we’ve assembled to prevent it.’

  Everything was getting a bit heavy footed, Charlie decided. Unctuously he said, ‘Having had the preparations outlined today, it’s very difficult to foresee how anything could go wrong …’ He allowed the pause for the oily words to sink in. ‘But there is still our unresolved logistical position?’

  ‘Here, at the Interior Ministry,’ announced Natalia.

  ‘What was that crack about the American failure in Teheran?’ demanded Kestler, on their way back from the ministry.

  Charlie, who usually accepted American transport to make taxi-fare profit on his expenses, looked across the car at the younger man. ‘It’s a fact. Teheran was a fucked-up mission.’

  ‘What about this one?’

  ‘I’ll tell you on Friday morning.’

  Kestler looked across the car to Charlie. ‘You sure as hell don’t seem very enthusiastic about this!’

  You’ve got enough – and more – enthusiasm for both of us, thought Charlie. ‘Don’t you have an expression in America – something about nothing being over until the fat lady sings?’

  Kestler appeared to consider the question. ‘I’m not sure it fits.’

  ‘That’s always the big worry, something that doesn’t fit.’ Charlie couldn’t think of anything the Russians had overlooked or failed to make allowance for. But his feet ached worryingly.

  There had been a secondary conference after the departure of the Westerners, the outrage at their inclusion strongest from the two spetznaz commanders unable to comprehend any reason for Western outsiders being involved. Close behind came the antipathy of Aleksai Popov, fuelled by the anger at being wrong-footed by some of Charlie Muffin’s demands: he was fairly confident he’d covered himself from most of the people in the room but knew he hadn’t with Natalia because they’d discussed and analyzed every preparation he’d made in advance. The Foreign Ministry man’s weak and personally unfelt justification of political necessity for the Western involvement didn’t placate any of them. The belief that the leak to Germany and Italy had emanated from Moscow was virtually unanimous.

  Popov arrived at Leninskaya earlier than Natalia had expected, less than half an hour after she’d returned with Sasha. He held the towel and helped dry the child after her bath and afterwards solemnly examined the animals she’d drawn that day to accompany the letters of the alphabet she’d been taught at the crèche and declared they were the best he’d ever seen. He sat easily at the kitchen table while Sasha ate.

  ‘There was a lot of posturing today,’ said Popov.

  From everyone, thought Natalia. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I said it was a mistake to include them, didn’t I?’

  ‘It hasn’t proved to be, not yet.’

  ‘It’s something we should give serious consideration to in the future.’

  How much I wish I knew what was going to happen in the future, thought Natalia. ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘You all right?’ he demanded, suddenly. ‘You seem … distracted about something.’

  ‘I am thinking about Thursday,’ avoided Natalia, easily.

  ‘When you handled him before … Muffin, I mean … was he this arrogant?’

  Not then. Nor today, Natalia thought. Every point Charlie made had been valid, although she remembered being unsure at the beginning. ‘The first time he was acting a part.’

  Sasha scrambled down from the table and disappeared into the corridor. They remained where they were. ‘Why did you suggest they come to the ministry on Thursday?’

  ‘To ensure we knew where they’ll be,’ replied Natalia, at once.

  Popov smiled, approvingly. ‘That was very clever.’

  Sasha re-entered the kitchen loudly demanding they look and Natalia was glad that Popov did because it prevented his seeing her alarm at the sight of the doll Charlie had brought the previous day.

  ‘Anna,’ announced Sasha, proudly, offering it for Popov’s closer inspection. ‘My baby.’

  Natalia watched helplessly as Popov accepted the doll, still smiling. ‘A very pretty baby.’

  ‘The man gave it to me,’ said Sasha. ‘The man that made Mummy cry.’

  Unthinkingly holding the doll on his lap as he would have held a real child, Popov frowned across the table. ‘What …?’

  ‘The man who talks like you and Mummy do sometimes. Funny talk.’ She giggled, involved in a grown-up conversation.

  Popov seemed to become aware of the doll. He handed it back to Sasha, all the time looking steadily at Natalia, waiting.

  Natalia had to plumb the absolute depths of the debriefing expertise that had taught her how to respond instantly to a situation while at the same time remaining in control of it, knowing the essential requirement was to minimize the lie as much as possible. ‘He came here, yesterday. Unannounced …’

  ‘WHAT?’

  The fury roared from Popov, even making Natalia, who expected it, jump. Sasha gave a tiny shriek of fright and then a whimper, like she had the previous day. She clutched out for Natalia, who lifted the girl on to her lap. Calm, Natalia told herself: she had to feign just the right amount of affront, at Charlie Muffin’s impudence, but above all stay calm. ‘Their embassy obviously have records on us, like we have upon their sensitive people. He had the doll for Sasha. His excuse was having been here before. To Moscow …’ Desperately she tried to remember every detail of the sanitized records she knew Aleksai had read far more recently than she had. ‘… He wouldn’t have known, of course, that it was me who exposed his defection as a deception. He said he hoped I hadn’t been caused any trouble. That it wouldn’t affect our working relationship now …’ Enough! Don’t lie too much or say too much!

  Popov stayed staring at her, unspeaking, for so long that Sasha made another tiny mewing sound and clawed up to bring her mother’s arm tighter around her. ‘Natalia!’ said the ma
n, finally, his voice whisper-thin. ‘How did he know you had a daughter!’

  The abyss opened before her, black and bottomless. ‘The same records where he got this address from, I suppose …’ She strengthened her voice. ‘I didn’t bother to find out! I asked him to leave and he did. It obviously had nothing whatever to do with the past. Apart, perhaps, from his thinking he might be able to use it to get an advantage the American hasn’t got. Which would have been ridiculous …’ Inspiration came abruptly to her. ‘But then you were surprised today by his arrogance, weren’t you?’

  There was another long silent appraisal. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  Gentle mocking, she decided: a reminder of priority. ‘Darling! It happened yesterday evening! Immediately after which we got the definite date for the robbery. Which meant people had to be told … the military summoned. And today’s conference arranged. Don’t you think one was just slightly more important than the other? This is when and where you were going to be told. As you are being told.’

  ‘She said you cried.’

  Natalia forced the snorted laugh, holding back from tightening her hold of Sasha and praying for the child not to understand and try to contribute. ‘She says your farmyard animals talk to her. The longest conversations are with the horse.’ Don’t say anything, darling! Just sit there without saying anything! There was no sound from Sasha apart from the occasional slurp of her sucked thumb.

  ‘What are you going to do about him?’

  Natalia forced the quizzical look, like she was having to force everything else. ‘Do? Why should I do anything? He overextended himself and ended up looking foolish … being humiliated. That’s enough, isn’t it?’