Bomb Grade cm-11

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘I think there should be something more public: that his embassy be told.’

  ‘No,’ refused Natalia, feeling the ground firmer under foot. ‘Making the rebuke public would give the episode an importance it doesn’t have. His embassy – or more likely his people back in London – might expect him to try something like this…’ She smiled for the first time. ‘With luck he might have even told them he was going to try it. Having to admit failure to them himself would be far more humiliating than our making an official complaint. That would make me look stupid.’

  ‘And you’re going to let her keep that?’ he demanded, nodding to the doll the near-sleeping Sasha still held.

  ‘Aleksai! It’s a toy! You expect me to throw it away? Or send it back to the embassy? Come on! This was a silly little incident of no importance.’

  The atmosphere, of Popov’s making, lessened and finally died during the evening. They opened a second bottle of wine during dinner and there was no reserve at all when they made love, but then Popov never made love with any reserve. Afterwards, when she thought he’d drifted into sleep, he suddenly said, ‘I overreacted, earlier. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Let’s forget it.’ How much I wish I could, she thought.

  chapter 17

  D uring the subsequent forty-eight hours Natalia only saw Popov, and almost always among a crowd, by going along their communal corridor to his suite, into the adjoining dressing room in which he had a cot moved to avoid quitting the building at night.

  The suite itself was transformed virtually into a war room. The map and chart display boards were brought from the conference hall and the double doors to an ante-room thrown back both to enlarge Popov’s normal quarters and to accommodate the radio link equipment. The command helicopter went to Kirov as soon as the phoney army manoeuvre camp was established for a series of test transmissions, all of which worked flawlessly. The spetznaz commanders were invariably with Popov, as well as various people from the Foreign and Interior Ministries, usually accompanied by the permanent secretaries who had attended all the planning sessions. Nikolai Oskin was also in constant attendance, as well as Petr Gusev, head of the Moscow Militia under whose authority Oskin was being transferred. Natalia reassured the Kirov commander of his protective transfer and issued instructions for temporary Moscow accommodation for his family. It was only when she was personally discussing the agreed move with Oskin that Natalia learned it would be impossible to bring Valeri Lvov to the promised security of the capital until after the raid: at the meeting at which its precise date and timing had been established Lvov had been told by the men terrorizing him that he had to be at the plant to enable their unimpeded entry. If he wasn’t there his wife and daughters would be killed by other gang members watching their apartment.

  ‘I’ve already organized a spetznaz unit to look after them,’ promised Popov, when she raised it with him at the end-of-the-day review session.

  ‘They won’t be able to go anywhere near the apartment until after everything has begun.’

  ‘I’ve thought of that, too,’ guaranteed Popov. ‘Our people will be in an enclosed van, less than a street away. With a radio tie-in to me. Everything will be secured before there’s a chance of anyone getting harmed.’

  Natalia felt the latest threat to Lvov proved the wiseness of her banning Popov from the actual interception but didn’t remind the man. She was glad he hadn’t after all officially protested her ruling, which was why she in turn didn’t question the constant reviews and replanning sessions Popov repeatedly conducted. She personally felt some were unnecessarily excessive, like living in the ministry building was excessive, although she conceded such attention to detail made their planning virtually foolproof. She actually felt pride-by-association, too, in how it personally established Popov not just in their own ministry but in the higher echelons of the Foreign Ministry, as well.

  The frantic activity was not confined solely to Moscow. Kestler’s long explanatory message why he had to provide the Russians with two supposed warnings to Washington – both false and one backdated – on the need for total security prompted a series of urgent and direct personal telephone calls from the nervously unsettled Director himself. Fenby initially forbade either being sent. When he fully realized the commitment Kestler had already and publicly made – confirmed unarguably by the faxed transcript of the planning meeting at which Kestler had given the undertaking – Fenby insisted on revising both messages to include Kestler’s supposed doubt about how the British would utilize the atomic smuggling information. When Kestler, uncomfortably reminded of his confrontation with Charlie and Lyneham, honestly protested he had no such doubts, Fenby snapped that it was an order that had to be obeyed. After getting the hopefully absolving cables entirely to his satisfaction, Fenby fabricated responses in which he gave apparent assurances from both the FBI and the State Department that the information would not be dispersed or shared to any other organization and most certainly not with any third country. Fenby’s second faked reply pointedly referred to the doubt about Charlie Muffin he’d had Kestler introduce into his cable. Only then did he return the courtesy of Peter Johnson’s earlier warning by calling the deputy British Director at home to advise what he had done.

  In Moscow, Kestler complained to Lyneham, ‘Everything’s being dumped on the Brits.’

  ‘That it is,’ agreed the local Bureau chief, more interested in how far he was from any firing line. Lyneham was personally very sorry but professionally acknowledged that life – their life – was more frequently a bowl of dog dirt than a bowl of cherries.

  ‘That’s not fair. It was my fault,’ moaned the younger man.

  ‘I keep telling you fairness hasn’t anything to do with anything,’ reminded Lyneham. ‘If you feel that bad about it, ’fess up to the Director and resign. That way you get a squeaky clean conscience without a single Hail Mary.’

  Sometimes, thought Kestler, the fat slob tried just a little too hard for the cynic-of-the-year award. ‘You know I can’t do that. It wouldn’t make anything right, anyway.’

  ‘Then shut up and do what you’re told and accept what’s known as political reality. I would have thought you’d learned all about that from your uncle.’

  ‘What’s my uncle got to do with anything?’

  Lyneham’s eyebrows came close to his hairline. ‘You work it out! It’s all too complicated for me!’

  By comparison, the forty-eight hours for Charlie were relatively uncomplicated. He had, of course, to prepare the bogus security restriction messages to comply with the Russian demand but his explanatory memo to Rupert Dean simply needed cross-referencing with his earlier complaint about the American, which he specifically ensured it did. His ostracism by Balg and Fiore, jointly designed to frighten him into realizing how great his isolation, if he didn’t include them, saved him the chore of lying to them any more: during one of their regular telephone conversations, Kestler told Charlie he was averaging two calls a day from both the German and the Italian. Kestler swore he’d said nothing.

  Popov’s expanded office, which Charlie recognized from their introductory encounter, was crowded when Charlie and Kestler arrived precisely at the time stipulated by Popov before his departure to Kirov. There were about half a dozen women, the rest men. Seating was directed towards the radio bank at which two head-phoned operators sat, their backs to the room. The equipment glittered with power and sound level lights and there were several dial needles twitching in unison, like heart beat monitors, but there was no sound. In Popov’s absence, it was Natalia who resolved the doorway uncertainty, guiding them to seats once more separated from the general grouping. She did so quite detached, not looking directly at either of them or saying anything after the initial, automatic greeting until they got to their seats. There she indicated an open side door through which they could see long, white-clothed tables with attendants behind. There were urns and cups and saucers and salvers of sandwiches, with a gap separating wine and vodka and glasses.<
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  ‘If you wish,’ she said, with stiffly correct politeness, and then walked back to her own seat in the very front without waiting for either to respond. Apart from the open door, the hospitality room was distinctly separated from where the events at Kirs were to be relayed and was deserted, although a few people sat with glasses they’d carried back into the main office. Charlie and Kestler ignored the invitation.

  With flashing lights and flickering needles the only other diversion, Charlie and Kestler were momentarily the objects of curiosity. Although it had minimal practical purpose, Charlie inherently gazed back even more intently, trying to fix faces for later indentification from embassy photographs to advise London who the audience had been.

  When the sound did come a lot of people jumped, even though it was what they were waiting for.

  ‘Sighting!’ Popov’s voice was very clear, without any distortion, although slightly too loud.

  One of the operators made an adjustment.

  ‘Definite sighting!’ A pause. ‘Timed zero one twenty-three.’

  Instinctively several people checked their watches. The room hushed into utter silence.

  The unreality heightened for Charlie. It was like – it was – listening to a radio drama where everything was real but you still had to create your own mental imagery. Charlie’s was of blackness: black figures in black forest, then the installation a dazzling blaze of light. A perimeter fence, of course. More likely walled than impermanent wire. But barbed wire somewhere. Maybe control towers. A gate. Large, big enough for large transporters.

  Popov’s commentary was staccato, pared to essential words solely for their benefit. The detailed conversations between the man and the military units were being separately recorded for transcription later.

  ‘ Three lorries. No, four. Four lorries and two cars. No lights.’

  Right about blackness, wrong about people: black vehicles in black forest. Moving slowly. Unseen road. Drivers straining for the illumination of the plant. No one talking in the cars or lorries. Silence, like here.

  ‘ Halted. Lead car going on alone. Mercedes. Driver and one other man.’

  Cautious. Checking security, entry codes.

  ‘ It’s the unmanned gate. Inside unit alerted. Kirov group on standby.’

  Nerves wire-tight. Both sides. Hunters and hunted. Listening, looking. Charlie’s hands were wet, squeezed tight.

  ‘ Gate’s opening. Flashlight signal. Convoy moving. Lorries are canvas-covered: indications of men inside, impossible to count how many. Last vehicle is another Mercedes. Four men. Everything going into the complex.’

  End of the outside visual surveillance. How long before the internal changeover? Minutes, according to the planning sessions.

  ‘ In view of inside unit. Straight to storage depot. Men in each lorry. Sixteen… twenty… twenty-five. Twenty-five including cars. Outside unit closing in. Kirov round-up group launched.’

  Nothing rational now; legs, arms, minds, bodies all automatistic. Value of rehearsal and training. Movement without thought. Macabre dance.

  ‘ Back-up unit in. Gates sealed. Engagement! Kirov seizure squads meeting resistance. There is shooting! There is shooting.’

  A chair scraped. Hisses for silence. A cough. More hisses. Charlie realized he was breathing shallowly, as lightly as possible.

  ‘ Engagement inside! Automatic fire! Grenades. Grenade response. Storage facilities penetrated, providing cover. Casualties! There are casualties! Casualties inside the installation and at Kirov.’

  Charlie saw Natalia was tensed towards the flat-voiced, emotionless commentary, her neck corded, hands clasped on her lap. Tensed for her lover. Worried.

  ‘ Surrender! There is isolated surrender inside the plant! Still resistance. Medics going in. All known Kirov addresses secured. There are casualties. Medics moving in at Kirov.’

  Practically all over. Too quick. After so much time and planning it seemed all too quick. But successful. Casualties were inevitable but the robbery had been prevented. Natalia had eased back in her chair, relieved.

  ‘ Inside resistance over. Full surrender. Fifteen dead. Some severe casualties. Lev Yatisyna among those detained. Eight dead in Kirov. Some severe casualties.’

  The room was relaxing now. Chairs scraped without hissed protest. People coughed. Began smiling to each other. Nodding. Charlie’s feet hurt. His shoulders and neck ached, from the tenseness with which he’d held himself. He stretched up, trying to ease it. Beside him Kestler did the same.

  ‘ Plant 69 and Kirov targets totally secured. The robbery has been prevented with the seizure of all involved. Timed zero two forty-five .’

  The initial applause was isolated but quickly became overwhelming. The self-congratulatory charade of people scarcely involved degenerated embarrassingly into handshakes and even back-slapping. Natalia stood apart but smiling, nodding effacingly at the personal praise and appearing discomfited having to accept the offered hands. By common consent the room began to empty into the hospitality area. Charlie watched Natalia become intently engrossed in a closed-circuit radioed exchange with Popov: she held the earphone pad to one side of her head and smiled all the time.

  ‘They did it!’ enthused Kestler. ‘Wrapped the whole thing up and tied it in a ribbon! Guess we should celebrate, too.’

  ‘I guess we should,’ agreed Charlie.

  Natalia was moving ahead, oblivious to them, but Charlie manoeuvred them closer so they arrived inside the adjoining room virtually together.

  ‘Congratulations.’

  She actually appeared surprised to find him beside her. ‘Thank you.’

  Some attendants were standing with already poured champagne. Kestler hurried to get glasses for them, momentarily separated Charlie and Natalia from everyone else and Charlie said, hurriedly, ‘You must understand everything’s going to be all right…’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Please!’

  ‘No!’

  Kestler bustled back, champagne flutes cradled between entwined hands. ‘It was a first-class operation,’ he congratulated, raising his glass.

  ‘By Colonel Popov,’ qualified Natalia.

  ‘By everyone,’ insisted the American.

  One of the few women who’d been in the audience came up behind Natalia, familiarly cupping her elbow and smiling apologies to guide Natalia towards a waiting group of officials.

  Kestler looked around the developing party, where most were drinking with the traditional Russian throw-away-the-bottle-cap abandon and said, ‘Gonna be a lot of sore heads tomorrow. And why not?’

  Charlie, who didn’t like the acidity of champagne, moved his tongue over his teeth and decided to change to vodka for the next drink. ‘Why not?’ he agreed, disinterestedly. Outsider in the planning and outsider at the party, he decided: his contribution – their contribution – amounted to absolutely fuck all. Late though it was he decided to make up lost ground by calling both Jurgen Balg and Umberto Fiore before they heard from anyone else. They’d imagine they’d frightened him into line, but he didn’t give a damn about that. He was keeping doors open for himself, not pushing them ajar for them. As he went towards the bar Charlie saw one of the radio operators whisper briefly to Natalia, who frowned and followed him immediately back to the radio equipment. Charlie kept his attention on the connecting doors as he returned to Kestler with fresh drinks.

  Natalia reappeared at the doorway but stayed there, seemingly uncertain. Finally she clapped her hands, calling out in a cracked voice for attention. Haltingly, in disbelief, she said, ‘There’s been a robbery… from Kirs… it could be as much as two hundred and fifty kilos.’

  She finished, looking directly at Kestler and Charlie, and Charlie guessed the sudden wide-eyed consternation was at her realization, too late, that she shouldn’t have made the announcement in front of them.

  chapter 18

  C harlie knew their expulsion was only minutes away: the taller of the two known ministry men actually started to
move towards them. Charlie was later to decide Fred Astaire never danced a quicker quickstep than the fast-footed verbal performance he staged that night.

  ‘Use us! Don’t exclude us!’ A chameleon adapter to the concealment of crowds, Charlie abruptly found himself in the unaccustomed and uncomfortable position of addressing one, not hiding in it. The room was still hushed, people unmoving; even the ministry man stopped, uncertainly. Natalia remained gazing at him.

  ‘You can’t exclude us!’ challenged Charlie. ‘From this room and this ministry, of course you can. But we know! And we are going to have to act upon what we know, although it isn’t sufficient to advise Washington or London properly. If something’s gone – however it’s gone – then it’s going into the West. Where, with proper cooperation, it still might be possible to stop it. For something to be done! But not with each of us working separately, no one knowing what the other is doing. The only outcome of that will be chaos…’ He still had them! Maybe only just, but there was still complete silence and no one was moving and they were listening to what he was saying. ‘If anything like this quantity of nuclear material has gone, then recovering it or stopping it supersedes any national pride. It’s a simple choice: responsibility or irresponsibility…’

  For several moments there was a complete hiatus, everyone suspended in a time warp of indecision, a lot of other-way looking for the escape – for anything – of higher authority. Charlie’s concentration was upon the official he knew and who had started out towards them. The man moved again, finally, but not in their direction but to a crinkle-haired, thick-set man whose slightly bloated bull-necked appearance Charlie had earlier registered for the embassy photograph comparison. The man made a dismissive hand gesture and people moved away to create a confidential cordon for the two to talk.

  It was a very brief exchange, with a lot of head movement, the thick-set man for emphasis, the ministry official of acceptance. It was impossible to anticipate anything from the blank-faced approach of the official. ‘You are to wait.’ Behind him the room was emptying back into Popov’s office, very obviously now at the command of the thick-set figure of authority.