Bomb Grade cm-11

by Brian Freemantle

  And then there was a shot.

  There was a lot of noise from overhead aircraft and no one noticed it but then there was shouting and several more shots and a thump against the door from the outside, as if someone was banging to get in. Inside there was brief but absolute panic. All the Russians except Sobelov had guns, mostly Markarovs, and began to move towards the door but then stopped, looking back to be told what to do. The elderly man, still holding the Geiger counter but no longer bent over the cars, said something shrilly to Turkel who babbled back, just as hysterically. Sobelov looked at Charlie and said, confused, ‘What is it?’ not accusingly but as a question to be answered.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Charlie but the words were lost beneath a sound much louder than any aircraft, even far away but it didn’t stay far away but grew ever louder, the whining, low-geared roar of a huge engine and then there was an echoing, ear-pounding crash against the door, which shivered and dented inwards but held. The roar went on, the tone fluctuating between gears and there was a second and a third and then a fourth crash against the door. It began to buckle, not from its central tree but from the side hinges, to the left. One of the Russians fired at it and the bullet ricocheted bee-like off the steel lining.

  Sobelov had recovered but Charlie couldn’t hear what he was shouting and doubted anyone else could, either. The Russian had a gun now and gestured with it for one of his men to bring a car from the back. The rest were actually crouched around the rear of one of the BMWs. Charlie didn’t know if it was the one in which he’d unscrewed the cylinder tops. Turkel was going back towards the cars, too, herding the cowering nuclear experts ahead of him.

  Charlie couldn’t decide what to do. He wanted to be down by the door when it collapsed, quickly to get out, but that would put him literally in the crossfire when the shooting began. And if he fled back to the neatly parked cars he’d set himself up like a funfair target in a shooting gallery to the people who’d within minutes be pouring through the now sagging door. Still safer at the back, he determined, remembering his thought as he’d come into the warehouse: not in a car but behind it. To hide until the shooting stopped. As he got to the rear of the building, two of the cars surged forward, isolating him with the remaining vehicle. Turkel was driving one and Charlie wondered how his feet reached the pedals.

  With a groaning crash the doors finally gave way, lopsidedly, under the battering from what looked like a tank equipped not with a gun and turret but with a bulldozer scoop. Black-suited commandos surged in. They all wore helmets and Charlie realized why when the first stun grenade reverberated. It made his ears sing, deafening him, but it didn’t knock anyone unconscious and neither did the second because to be effective the space had to be enclosed and the building was too large. To think of escaping by car had been panicked and stupid. Both Mercedes had slewed to form a barrier with the BMWs and the windscreens and windows of every vehicle shattered under the concentrated automatic fire. Glass burst all over Charlie from the car he was sheltering behind. Four commandos dropped, despite their protectively metal-padded suits, and four men – Charlie couldn’t tell if they were Russian or Iraqi – went down as well, one screaming. He saw the tiny Turkel crawl from his bullet-pocked car and, still on his hands and knees, scurry to the back. There he sat on the floor with his back to the vehicle and the invading soldiers with his eyes closed, as if everything would stop and go away if he didn’t look at it. A man Charlie did recognize to be Russian suddenly threw his hands up and tried to run towards the assault group and Sobelov shot him, twice, in the back and then brought down a commando who’d stopped firing to accept the surrender. But then Sobelov was hit, in the shoulder but not badly, spinning him also to the back of a car where he slumped, shocked, in a sitting position close to Turkel. There seemed to be a lot of bodies around the cars and without either Sobelov or Turkel the resistance became sporadic. Although his ears were still blocked by the grenades, Charlie heard the amplified loud-hailer demands in Russian that they give up and guessed it was the same message in Arabic. The firing did stop, although the men remained crouched behind the cars and Sobelov began scrabbling, crab-like, to get up.

  And then others came in, too quickly, behind the assault group. Charlie saw Roh and Schumann first, then Popov ahead of Gusev. And then Kestler. They all had guns – Roh a machine pistol – but only the Germans had flak jackets. Sobelov was on his knees now, levering himself up, hidden from them like three other Russians to whom Sobelov spoke were hidden.

  Charlie came from behind the car, waving his arms high for identification and yelling for them to stop, pointing to the hidden Russians, too deaf properly to hear his own voice. The warned Roh saw one of the ambushing Russians as the man rose to shoot and the burst from the German’s machine pistol sprawled the man, chest blown open, over a BMW bonnet. Sobelov turned at Charlie’s warning and levelled his gun and Charlie realized he was going to be shot and there was nowhere to hide and that he was too close for Sobelov to miss. There was an explosion but no pain and Sobelov’s head disintegrated. Charlie saw Schumann on the far side of the car, hunched in a marksman’s crouch, gun still outstretched after the shot.

  And he saw Popov behind Schumann. The Russian was edging along the car, but snatching looks inside, and appeared to see the slumped Turkel and Charlie at the same time. For a moment the gun wavered and then he brought it back to the Iraqi and Charlie screamed ‘No!’ and heard himself well enough that time. Kestler reacted first, seeing what was happening and yelling ‘No!’ as well and throwing himself forward, so that he was directly between Popov and the tiny man when Popov fired, at point-blank range, directly into the American’s chest.

  It was one of the concealed Russians who killed Popov. That was also virtually at point-blank range, from the other side of the car. The shot hit Popov full in the face, hurling him into Gusev, who stumbled backwards but still managed to hit Popov’s killer, high in the shoulder to knock him sideways and down. And Gusev’s gun kept moving, less undecided than Popov, but as it swung towards the cowering Turkel, Schumann put his pistol directly against the side of the Russian’s head and said, ‘Don’t,’ and Gusev didn’t.

  To Charlie, Schumann said, ‘I had to stop Sobelov killing you. I was too slow here.’

  ‘You were quick enough,’ said Charlie, gratefully.

  ‘We lost Popov, so it wasn’t a good idea.’

  ‘One’s enough,’ said Charlie.

  chapter 38

  C harlie had known for a long time that for personal reasons it was going to be the worst resolve to anything in which he’d ever been professionally involved, except obviously what had happened to Edith, which was more personal than professional. There’d been vindictive satisfaction destroying the killers who’d shot Edith. There wasn’t satisfaction now, at Aleksai Popov’s killing, although neither was there the slightest regret at the man, who’d used Sasha like he had and Natalia like he had and who’d clearly intended killing him, being blasted faceless. That perfectly fitted Charlie Muffin’s eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth interpretation. Charlie’s compassion was for Natalia.

  Like it was for James Kestler’s death. The young American had been brash and gauche and unthinking and at the very beginning a total pain in the ass who’d caused a lot of inconvenience and even been a professional encumbrance, but it had all been forgivable – even the encumbrance – and Charlie had long ago forgiven the man. He’d liked him. Kestler would never have been a brilliant agent, perhaps not even a good one, because at the bottom line he’d been too genuinely decent and nice and honest. Charlie still didn’t have a clear idea of what his FBI problem had been – just that he’d been the shuttlecock and that Rupert Dean had somehow taken the racquets away – but Kestler would have been a coerced player. He guessed Kestler would have considered his silver-spoon Washington connections an embarrassing disadvantage, not a benefit.

  All of which were personal feelings. Charlie knew that publicly everything would all be massaged into an overwhel
ming success. The Germans would have their sensational trial – maybe more than one – after throwing diplomatic niceties out the window, and Iraq would be the pariah and the whole Middle East trade would be further disrupted by the trial evidence of Ivan Raina. Russia’s foremost Mafia Family was wrecked, although it would rebuild over time, like all established organized crime groups. They still didn’t know precisely how much nuclear material had been lost – although they might after the interrogation of Petr Gusev that was shortly to start – but it was nothing like the original estimate of two hundred and fifty kilos. And according to the telephone conversation Charlie had insisted upon with Rupert Dean in London, before agreeing to be medically checked by a doctor for the unfelt lacerations from shattered glass, the department’s FBI-functioning future – and his in it, in Moscow – was irrevocably established.

  Charlie winced through the administration of antiseptic and refused the offered tranquillizer although shock was still shaking through him, because he needed to remain clear-headed.

  ‘It’s a mistake not to take them,’ insisted the doctor.

  ‘This one I can avoid,’ said Charlie. There were a lot he hadn’t, but then there usually were. One day, perhaps, he’d get everything right the first time.

  He was certainly determined to get everything right – answer the outstanding questions – with Petr Tukhonovich Gusev. He’d been surprised the Germans had agreed to his leading this virtually instant interrogation, although after Dmitri Fomin’s official intercession they needed an immediate admission to keep the Militia colonel in custody. It had been Schumann who’d been Charlie’s advocate – like he’d pressed Charlie’s idea of supposedly involving the two Russians at Schonefeld, expecting them to make incriminating errors – arguing Charlie was the best person to achieve the necessarily quick confession, because of his complete knowledge of the investigation, in every country.

  Dmitri Fomin had insisted on attending the interrogation as an observer, just as he had insisted upon talking to Gusev in his cell upon arriving thirty minutes earlier. Charlie had hoped the presidential aide would have watched through one of the mirrored screens but the tall, aloof man followed Gusev into the same interrogation cell in which Ivan Raina had been questioned, where the recording equipment was still installed. Because they hadn’t expected a fourth person there was a delay while another chair was brought in.

  Even before he sat, the head of the Moscow Militia said, ‘I would like the recording equipment started,’ and when Charlie obliged, went on, ‘I want officially to protest my arrest and detention. It is totally without justification and I demand my immediate release.’

  There’d been a lot of holding cell rehearsal between the two Russians, Charlie realized. He looked at Fomin and wondered if the investigation was going to be completely solved. Charlie said, ‘Working with Stanislav Georgevich Silin, the former boss of bosses of the Dolgopmdnaya Mafia Family, and with Aleksai Semenovich Popov, operational commander of the antinuclear smuggling division of the Russian Interior Ministry, you organized the robbery of a nuclear transport train at Pizhma and were responsible for the theft of approximately two hundred and fifty kilos of highly enriched, weapons-graded plutonium 239. You are also responsible for or involved in a number of murders. Just as you were prepared at Schonefeld today to kill a man known as Ari Turkel, believing he could identify you in connection with the Pizhma theft.’

  Gusev spluttered an incredulous laugh. ‘That is total and absurd fabrication.’

  Fomin shook his head. ‘I demand proof of these ridiculous accusations. Unless it’s produced immediately I demand the release of Colonel Petr Gusev.’

  Unspeaking, Charlie offered the single sheet of paper to Gusev.

  Fomin said, ‘What is that?’

  ‘The record of a deposit account at the main office of Credit Suisse, in Zurich, in the sum of $8,000,000,’ identified Schumann. ‘It’s a joint signatory account, in the names of Petr Tukhonovich Gusev and Aleksai Semenovich Popov. We have bank-guaranteed examples of the signatures of both. It was opened three weeks before the Pizhma robbery by Stanislav Silin, who held another account there, jointly in the names of himself and Ivan Raina, whom as you know we have in custody on charges of smuggling plutonium from that robbery. In accordance with Swiss banking practice for accounts held by overseas clients, the Popov-Gusev records also list passport numbers. We have already compared Popov’s passport, which we took two hours ago from his body at Schonefeld.’

  Fomin stared sideways at Gusev, switching his outrage. ‘Explain this!’

  ‘I did not…’ began Gusev, spiritedly, but then he coughed, as if something abruptly jammed his throat, and then he sagged for a brief moment, no more than seconds, but Charlie thought the man had ingested a poison and that they were going to witness a suicide but Gusev coughed again, clearing the obstruction, but the false protest drained from him. ‘It was so good, so perfect,’ he said. ‘But we misjudged too much: we believed Silin could stay in control of the Dolgoprudnaya, which he thought he could if the robbery was a success. And then there was the satellite…’ He looked bitterly at Charlie. ‘… the satellite and how you used it. Realizing akrashena meant there had to be official involvement… That frightened us most of all.’

  ‘Is that why you never challenged me on it, to avoid drawing attention to yourself? Hoping I’d think it came from the military.’

  ‘Aleksai Semenovich said it would never be traced to us: that too many other people knew so we should just ignore it.’

  If they were going to get a confession it might as well be a full one, Charlie decided. ‘What was more important, carrying out the robbery? Or using it to discredit myself and the American…?’ Charlie paused. ‘… And General Fedova?’

  Gusev looked at Charlie warily. ‘The robbery, for me. Both, for Aleksai Semenovich. He had it all worked out.’

  Charlie thought he had now, too. He’d been guessing, making assumptions, but it was clearing in his mind. He still needed more guidance, to avoid making a mistake. ‘Tell us the sequence. Starting with you and Silin.’

  ‘We’d known each other for years. Worked together: his territory was my area. It was a good arrangement. I knew Silin had traded nuclear: he had a contact at Gorkiy. We didn’t interfere: we got our share. Then Aleksai Semenovich started to talk of getting into the business ourselves: becoming millionaires. That’s how it began, just a nuclear robbery but a big one…’

  ‘Which is why Oskin was posted to Kirs?’ interrupted Charlie, wanting to get it all.

  Gusev nodded. ‘Aleksai Semenovich was in charge of nuclear operations: he knew all the plants that were being decommissioned and chose Kirs. So he sent Oskin to Kirov, to do the groundwork…’

  ‘… And Oskin put Lvov into the plant?’ anticipated Charlie, confidently.

  There was a further nod from the Russians. ‘It was they who decided it would be easier to stop the train at Pizhma rather than attack Plant 69. Which it was. But then you were appointed. Popov didn’t like that. He didn’t think much of the American but he said he knew all about you…’ There was a contemptuous snicker. ‘And he did. He said everyone would start setting up if you had any success. So you had to be made to look stupid.’

  What was there for Popov to know all about him? It would be wrong to break the flow now, but he wouldn’t forget it. ‘So the phantom robbery was set-up?’

  There was another snicker. ‘Actually by Popov, the man supposed to be stopping it. That’s what he went to Kirov for and then took the woman up there and made her think she was part of something important, like you all thought you were part of something important and it was all bullshit, absolute bullshit.’

  The woman, picked out Charlie, offended. ‘Like the interrogations were all bullshit, people knowing nothing, so whatever General Fedova did would fail?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ agreed Gusev. ‘Like we thought we could make your ridiculous sting idea fail, putting people around you to tell us all you were doing.’
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