Silin shook his head, not trusting himself to speak. He was very frightened, knowing he’d totally lost.
‘I want the Moscow contacts, to the nuclear material.’
‘Go to hell,’ managed Silin.
‘That’s where you’re going. But not until I’ve had my fun. You’re going to tell me what I want, you know. You won’t be able to stop yourself.’
He wouldn’t, determined Silin. Whatever they did to him he’d beat the bastards over that.
chapter 23
Charlie was first alerted at Lesnaya by the night duty officer at the British embassy, relaying a message from the London Watch Room. He and Kestier both jammed their phones trying to reach the other until Charlie realized what was happening and left his line free, for the American’s call. Charlie said, philosophically, it had been inevitable and that he was surprised it hadn’t broken sooner. The more subdued Kestier hoped it wouldn’t screw the Russian cooperation and promised to be in touch the following day. Which he was, by nine, already at the embassy.
‘It’s incredible,’ Kestier insisted. ‘I had a round-up sent overnight. There isn’t a newspaper or a media outlet in the West that hasn’t made it their major story. The comparison with Chernobyl was inevitable, I suppose. Like the death tolls in Japan in 1945. Washington’s going to make some announcement during the day; maybe the President himself.’
Kestier was as quiet-voiced as he had been the previous night, which Charlie supposed was natural if the usually ebullient younger man believed things had reached presidential level. ‘Where did the story origininate from?’
‘Reuter. Under a Moscow dateline.’
Which wasn’t really the answer to his question but Charlie accepted, philosophical still, it wouldn’t ever be answered because the source would be impossible to trace. If the American reaction was anything like Kestier was suggesting, it would be mirrored in London with more soggy cornflakes. Despite the time difference, he should be at the embassy. ‘You tried contacting Popov?’
There was a pause from the other end of the line. ‘Still too early.’
Forcing the thought, Charlie wondered if the Russian would still be with Natalia at Leninskaya. The apartment didn’t give any indication even of overnight stays but he hadn’t seen enough of it properly to judge. ‘I’ll try him from the embassy: let you know what happens.’
‘Likewise.’
Rupert Dean’s call came thirty minutes after Charlie got to Morisa Toreza, while he was still collating the coverage from the news agency services monitored at the embassy; as well as breaking the original story Reuter had assembled a media round-up which showed Kestler had not exaggerated the worldwide reaction. Chernobyl was invoked in practically every story. So was Japan.
‘This going to create a problem for us?’ demanded the Director-General.
‘They could make it into one,’ assessed Charlie, realistically.
‘What’s their advantage?’
‘Externally, nil. Internally we’ve still got a lot of buck-passing and the resentment of that earlier business at our inclusion.’
‘What about the damned investigation?’
‘Secondary, to keeping jobs at the top. This will be used, somehow, by anyone wanting to cover themselves.’ He had to reach Natalia somehow, to find if it was being used against her.
‘This is too serious for buck passing, for God’s sake!’
‘It’s because it’s so serious that everyone’s trying to get out of the firing line.’ Dean wasn’t accustomed to bureaucracy, Charlie remembered.
‘You spoken to the Americans?’
‘Briefly. There could be a statement from Washington later, maybe by the President himself.’
‘There’s going to be a parliamentary announcement here. I need guidance, for the Foreign Office briefing.’
The uncertainty about job security wasn’t confined to Moscow, remembered Charlie. ‘Anything going to be disclosed about my being here?’
‘I don’t see any reason for there to be,’ said the Director-General.
‘Was there any voice transmission picked up at GCHQ from the American satellite?’ demanded Charlie, abruptly.
There was a silence from London. ‘What’s that got to do with what we’re talking about?’
‘Maybe a lot if I’ve got to have a reason to go on being included by the Russians.’
‘There was some audio pick-up. I don’t think it was complete; it’s being translated and analyzed now. You’ll get it before the day’s out: original text and translation.’
‘I called the Watch Room last night,’ embarked Charlie, cautiously.
‘Why?’
‘To find out if there was a voice transcript on its way,’ He allowed a silence. ‘The Watch Room said there was a Red Alert but that my control was Peter Johnson. I thought you were supervising everything personally?’
Now the silence, much longer, came from the Director-General. ‘I don’t know anything about this. It was a mistake, obviously.’
By whom and for what reason, wondered Charlie, recalling the appointment antipathy rumours and familiar enough with internal politics to know the personal danger of getting his balls caught between a rock and a hard place. ‘I’m worried about mistakes with two hundred and fifty kilos of atomic material running around loose.’
‘So am I,’ sighed Dean. ‘I’ll look into it.’
‘I am to continue to report to you?’ Was he choosing the right side, if internal battles were being fought? Upon whose side was the industrious Thomas Bowyer?
‘Solely to me.’
The stress was sufficient for a man as nuance-conscious as Charlie. It had been a comforting impression imagining a similarity between Sir Archibald Willoughby and Rupert Dean. But at the same time there’d been some things which hadn’t settled quite so well in his mind and now Charlie didn’t feel as comforted any more. He was suddenly aware of Bowyer lingering at the cubicle door. ‘I know, sir, it’s clearly inappropriate at this moment but I think we should have a detailed discussion about various aspects of my position here.’
‘I think we probably should,’ accepted the man. ‘Let’s talk first about what guidance I’m going to give the Foreign Office.’
‘How much time do I have before your briefing? And the parliamentary statement?’ asked Charlie, pitching the entire exchange as much for his hovering observer as for Rupert Dean.
‘Six hours, maximum. I’d like to hear earlier.’
The station head hurried into the room the moment Charlie replaced the secure telephone. ‘That the DG?’
‘Morning!’ greeted Charlie, brightly.
‘Was that the DG you were talking to?’ repeated Bowyer.
Charlie was a man of many dislikes: high on the list was calling things or people by acronyms or initials. ‘Who?’
‘Dean!’ capitulated Bowyer at last, exasperated. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Yes,’ said Charlie, replying in sequence. ‘Reuter broke the news of the robbery.’
‘It seemed serious,’ said Bowyer, actually nodding towards the telephone.
Which is what I wanted you to imagine, you snide little bugger, thought Charlie. ‘They’ll probably try to pin the leak on us: us or the Americans. Or both.’ He guessed Bowyer would go through the tiny office with a toothcomb and vacuum at the first opportunity.
‘What are you going to do?’
The perennial question, identified Charlie. Which naturally led to thoughts of reaction and proaction and from there to the idea which had come to him at the previous day’s briefing, adjusted and refined to Charlie Muffin rules. ‘Wait to see what the Russians do,’ he said, reluctantly.
Charlie tried to get it by telephoning Popov, but the personal number rang out unanswered on the first two occasions and on the third the woman whose voice he recognized insisted Popov was not available and she did not know when he would be. Charlie left his name. With nothing else practical to do, Charlie called the American embassy and was told
James Kestler was momentarily out of his office and wasn’t responding to his bleeper. Neither was Barry Lyneham, who was also absent from his office. Briefly Charlie considered asking for Hillary Jamieson but didn’t. Instead he retrieved the original Reuter message to dissect with a surgeon’s care. Here, as so often elsewhere, Chernobyl and Japan were mentioned but Charlie ignored the reference, expertly recognizing the cuttings library additions to expand a major story to its maximum. He also scored through the other background material and speculation about the size of the Russian nuclear stockpile, the agreements and difficulties of recovering it from former satellite republics and the smuggling trade that had followed the end of the Cold War. He was left with the barest details of the failed attempt at Kirs, with the number of arrests and the identification of the Families to which the arrested men belonged, and an equally sparse account of the successful robbery at Pizhma of a special Kirov to Murom nuclear cargo train, with the loss of nineteen containers of plutonium 239. An unknown scientific source was quoted insisting no serious or long-lasting danger had been created at Pizhma by the abandoned containers being breached.
Charlie made a careful list of what he considered the salient points, double-checking and then checking again to ensure he’d missed nothing before sitting back, quite content. By themselves what he’d itemized were insufficient proof of anything, although perhaps good enough for a defensive argument if he was called upon to make one, but Charlie felt a familiar satisfaction at isolating colours that just might match in an intricate jigsaw. He was curious if he’d find any more when he succeeded in speaking to Natalia. Although it would probably have been meaningless, Charlie shredded his itemizing list in advance of any later office search by Thomas Bowyer.
Charlie was actually about to try Popov again when his own telephone rang.
‘You want to come across, Charlie?’ invited Kestler.
‘What is it?’
‘I just got back from a full briefing at the Interior Ministry.’
‘Who, specifically, excluded me?’
‘I guess it was a committee decision: that’s the way they’re working now. All the usual people.’ Kestler was flushed, sweating slightly, moving around the FBI office more quickly than usual.
‘But who actually told you?’ persisted Charlie.
‘Popov, when he called about a meeting. Said you weren’t to be included any more …’ The younger man pulled his lower lip several times through his teeth. ‘I didn’t want to endanger our own access. I’m sorry …’
‘My decision,’ volunteered Lyneham. ‘I said he had to go ahead without telling you. Damage limitation. This way we’re still in the game. All of us.’
Charlie shook his head against the apologies. It was the only thing the Americans could have done. It would be wrong to ask outright if Natalia had been present. ‘All the usual people, except me?’
Kestler nodded.
‘No discussion about my not being there?’
‘At the beginning,’ said Kestler. ‘Popov said it had been decided the British were not being allowed to participate any more. And Badim and Fomin kind of nodded and that was that.’
‘I was not positively connected with the leak?’
‘Not by name, no.’
‘Anything said about our working together?’
‘Not in as many words. After the meeting Popov told me our continued liaison – between me and the Russians – was being reviewed.’
‘So we could be out too,’ added Lyneham. ‘My guess is that we will be. It’s a bastard.’
Not for him it wasn’t, mused Charlie. Because he wasn’t out. Through Natalia he was very much in. ‘They can’t afford to exclude us! That stuff’s on its way into the West.’
‘They don’t think so,’ disclosed Kestler. ‘That was the purpose of today’s conference. They’ve got some back and think they’re going to get the rest. So they don’t need us.’
With difficulty Charlie stifled the anger: practically a whole fucking hour before they’d told him, almost as an afterthought! ‘I’d really like to hear all about getting stuff back!’
What was so far known appeared to support Popov’s insistence that the Pizhma haul was still in the Moscow area, said Kestler. The promised round-ups of the Agayans and Shelapin Families had gone on, after the previous day’s conference and throughout the night. At 8 p.m. the previous evening – ironically around the time the Reuter story of the robbery was breaking – a combined Special Forces and Militia squad had raided an apartment block at Ulitza Volkhonka, near the metro station, where it was believed some members of the Shelapin Family lived. Three gang members had been shot dead, resisting arrest. One Militia officer had died and two more were injured, one seriously. In a basement garage belonging to one of the dead men were three containers from the Pizhma train. They were still being checked but if full they would contain several kilos of enriched plutonium. Radomir Badim was holding a press conference for the international news media that afternoon at which they hoped to display the recovered canisters. Before that, assurances were going to Western governments through the Foreign Ministry.
‘Assurances about what?’ demanded Charlie.
‘That wasn’t made clear.’
‘They talked of assurances?’ Each and every word was essential if he was to advise the Director-General properly.
‘Yes.’
‘What, exactly, was said?’
‘That Western ambassadors were being called in …’ Kestler looked at his watch. ‘… about now. To be told of the recovery before any other official announcement.’
‘It’s clever,’ admitted Charlie, begrudgingly.
‘Classical,’ agreed Lyneham.
‘You’ve got to concede it’s pretty damned good,’ suggested Kestler, misunderstanding.
‘Three from twenty-two leaves nineteen,’ said Charlie, impatiently. ‘So where’s the great recovery, with nineteen containers still missing! From the markings Hillary found in those trucks yesterday we know it wasn’t transferred anywhere near Moscow!’ To Kestler he said: ‘Didn’t you make that clear?’
The young American momentarily stopped his office wanderings. ‘They’re not accepting those marks came from a support frame. Or from any heavy lifting gear. According to Popov, and the Russian forensic report, everything could have been caused by the normal use to which the trucks were put, before they were stolen.’
‘They can’t be serious!’
‘That’s what they’re saying; what they want to believe,’ said Kestler.
‘They’ve let Hillary go to Volkhonka,’ said Lyneham. ‘That’s where I was when you called: running her there.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘Still there.’
‘The containers are sealed?’
‘I specifically asked,’ said Kestler. ‘There’s no danger.’
‘So it’s part of the smokescreen,’ judged Charlie.
‘Thicker than a donkey’s dick,’ agreed Lyneham.
‘What’s Volkhonka like?’
‘Like every other apartment block you’ve ever seen and loved in Moscow,’ said the Bureau chief.
To Kestler again Charlie said, ‘You ask about the cordon beyond Moscow?’
Kestler nodded. ‘Everything’s still in place, according to Popov.’ The man paused. ‘But the search is very definitely being concentrated in Moscow.’
The repeated phrase caught Charlie’s attention. ‘Popov appears to have done most of the talking?’
‘Virtually all of it,’ confirmed Kestler. ‘But he is the operational commander. It’s his responsibility.’
‘It’s wrong!’ insisted Charlie. ‘All wrong! Kirs was a decoy and dumping the lorries in Moscow was a decoy and finding the stuff at Volkhonka is a decoy.’
‘I’m prepared to believe it,’ said Lyneham. ‘No one else is.’ London would, determined Charlie. Sir William Wilkes would be one of the ambassadors getting the reassuring bullshit. ‘I’m going to do my best to see that a
s many other people as possible believe it.’
‘I’d like you to explain it to me,’ invited Dean. For once the delivery wasn’t staccato: instead the words were measured, spelled out to prevent any misunderstanding. The worry bead spectacles moved through his fingers. ‘I told you quite clearly that I was assuming personal control.’
Peter Johnson laughed, dismissively, settling himself languidly in the chair opposite the other man. ‘A simple oversight. Until all this business blew up he was my responsibility. I set up the Watch Room link as part of the detailed briefing, which again if you remember you asked me to complete. I simply forgot to rescind it.’
‘Forgot, about something that’s assumed the importance that this has!’
The bloody Watch Room clerk had breached regulations, but in the circumstances he couldn’t use that as the reason for dismissing him, thought Johnson. He’d have to wait for a month or two and find some other cause. ‘Assumed an importance in what, the last three days? During which time I’ve been concerned specifically about that importance, rather than a system that’s practically automatic …’ Johnson allowed the patronizing smile. ‘We’re on the same side, aren’t we?’
The Director-General stopped playing with his glasses. ‘That’s an interesting question. Why don’t you answer it for me?’
Johnson felt the first bubble of unease. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘I’m not sure that I do,’ said the shock-haired academic. ‘Because of the short time I’ve been here – and my background – I wasn’t even familiar with this out-of-hours contact procedure. With the security of our telephone system as a whole, in fact. I didn’t know, for instance, how many conversations are automatically recorded. Or that all outgoing and incoming telephone calls are logged. Would you like to tell me about that?’
Johnson shifted in the chair, no longer languid. He wasn’t going to damn himself out of his own mouth. ‘I’m not sure that I understand that, either.’
‘Our records show dated and timed telephone calls to the FBI headquarters in Washington from your office on a number of occasions during the past three months. There was one on the day we made the Moscow appointment, for instance. Another on the very day I did take over control. There are also several incoming calls logged to be from the Bureau Director: calls that did not reach me.’
Bomb Grade Page 27