Overkill pr-1

by James Barrington

  ‘Not so you’d notice,’ Westwood grunted. ‘Flying across the pond always screws me up – you’d think I’d be used to it by now.’ He looked at the tray Abrahams had placed on the bedside table. ‘Some news?’

  ‘Yes,’ Abrahams replied, pouring a coffee. ‘We have a meet with Piers Taylor in just over an hour, hence the wake-up call.’

  Westwood nodded and reached for the cup. ‘Good. Where is it – here?’

  Abrahams shook his head and smiled. ‘No way. Taylor would want a very good reason – probably in writing – to visit the Embassy. We’re all going off to feed the ducks in Regents Park, just like characters in a John le Carré novel.’

  Westwood grimaced. ‘And I suppose we have to indulge in the usual double-speak and then work out afterwards what the hell we were really talking about?’

  ‘Yup. Anyway, eat, drink and get your pants on – the car will be here in thirty minutes.’

  Hammersmith, London

  The armourer greeted Richter with a smile and two cardboard boxes. ‘Here you are, Mr Richter. One nine-millimetre Browning, with shoulder holster and fifty rounds of ammunitions. as per Mr Simpson’s orders.’

  ‘I don’t want it,’ Richter said, shaking his head.

  The armourer looked puzzled. ‘But Mr Simpson said that—’

  ‘Yes,’ Richter said. ‘I do want a gun, but I don’t want that bloody thing. The only good thing about a Browning is that it’s got a good-sized magazine and doesn’t jam as often as other automatics. But at anything over about fifty feet you might as well throw the bloody gun at someone as soon as fire it. I want a pistol that’s accurate. I’m not interested in magazine size, and I’m not interested in speed of fire. I want a revolver.’

  The armourer looked a little taken aback. ‘But Mr Simpson said—’

  ‘I know what Mr Simpson said,’ Richter interrupted. ‘Ring him up and tell him I want to draw a revolver.’

  The armourer picked up the two cardboard boxes and retreated into his office in the corner of the Armoury. Richter was standing on one side of the three-feet-high counter, on the other side of which the department’s devices of death and destruction were kept, lovingly cleaned and polished and ready for immediate issue. Richter knew from past experience on the range that FOE held a variety of revolvers, and he knew exactly which one he wanted. The armourer stuck his head out of the office.

  ‘Mr Simpson wants to know which revolver you want.’

  ‘The Smith and Wesson Model 586 in .357 Magnum.’

  He repeated this information into the mouthpiece. Richter could hear the strangled squawk from where he was standing. The armourer’s head emerged again. ‘Mr Simpson wants to speak to you, sir.’

  Richter vaulted over the counter and took the telephone from him. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Richter? Are you sure you wouldn’t like a bazooka, or a small howitzer? What the bloody hell do you want with a gun like that?’

  ‘I want a gun that won’t jam. I want a gun that will stop a man if it has to. And I want a gun that I can fire at fifty yards and have a slim chance of hitting what I’m aiming at.’

  ‘What’s wrong with the Browning? It is the standard NATO weapon, you know.’

  ‘I do know that,’ Richter said. ‘I also know that the British Army maintains a centrally heated warehouse in Wiltshire full of bridles and tack for mules, despite the fact that they actually expect to go into the next war driving main battle tanks and three-ton trucks. Just because the Browning is the standard NATO sidearm, it doesn’t mean it’s actually any use. It’s great for making people keep their heads down, or for fights in a confined space, like a telephone box. For anything other than ultra close-range work, it’s hopeless. That’s why I want the Smith.’

  Simpson grunted. ‘OK, OK. You can have the 586. Put the armourer back on.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Richter said, and handed the phone back.

  The shoulder holster was a bulky affair. As Richter fitted the pistol into the holster and shrugged his jacket back on, he realized that he was going to have to make a conscious effort not to walk lop-sided. He put a box of fifty rounds into his jacket pocket and followed the armourer down a flight of steps into the soundproof basement. The armourer unlocked the steel door and ushered Richter into the twenty-five-metre range. He put the range lights on, and the red light outside the door, to show that it was in use, and then gave a thorough briefing on the pistol. Richter listened attentively; he always listened closely to anything that might subsequently save his life.

  The gun was big and heavy – the .357 Magnum is a cartridge you can’t fire out of a lightweight weapon – but comfortable and well made. The armourer gave Richter a box of twenty shells, and he loaded the weapon. Richter stood facing the target, held the pistol in his right hand, wrapped his left hand around his right wrist, and fired. Even with the ear-defenders on, the report was deafening, and the gun kicked in his hand like a live thing, forcing his arms upwards. Richter aimed and fired again. And again, and again, until he had fired all six rounds.

  The armourer had been watching the target through a spotting scope. ‘Not bad, Mr Richter,’ he said. ‘Six hits, with one bull. You seem to be grouping a little low and a little to the right. If you will permit me?’ Richter passed him the pistol and watched while he adjusted the rear sight. ‘This time take the target on the right and just fire three shots first, then stop. I’ll make any further adjustments then.’

  Richter loaded three rounds and fired them as instructed, then passed the pistol to the armourer, who ejected the empty cases before adjusting the sights again. ‘Elevation seems about right now, but you’re still grouping to the right. Try that.’ The last three pleased him.

  The armourer walked to the end of the range to put up two more targets, then Richter reloaded. He took the left-hand target first, and fired the six quickly, taking the minimum aim necessary – in a fire-fight, the opposition may not be sporting enough to stand silhouetted against a bright light for thirty seconds while you adopt the correct stance and take careful aim – and he was pleased that they were all hits, although the score would have got him nowhere at Bisley. The last two shells he fired at the right-hand target, taking his time.

  ‘Nice, sir. One bull, one nine.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Richter put the spent shell cases into the now empty box, reloaded the pistol from the box of fifty and slid it into the holster.

  The armourer looked on approvingly. ‘Quite right,’ he said. ‘No point in having the weapon unless it’s loaded.’ Richter followed him back up to the Armoury, signed the register for the pistol and rounds, and signed the range log to the effect that he had received a full briefing on the pistol and had fired twenty rounds.

  Back in his office, Richter examined the pistol again, loaded it and unloaded it a few times, and practised getting it out of the holster quickly. It was clear that Richter was never going to be able to out-draw Billy the Kid, but that didn’t worry him unduly – he didn’t expect to meet Billy the Kid. What he did expect to meet was a man or men armed with, probably, 9mm automatic pistols, and Richter felt more than a match for them with the Smith.

  The problem with a relatively small calibre bullet like the 9mm is that it isn’t a man-stopper. The Americans found this out years ago when they issued some of their forces with .32-calibre pistols. Field experience showed that a determined or hyped-up attacker could just keep coming, even after multiple hits with these weapons. But a .357 Magnum – or the Americans’ preferred .45 ACP – stopped pretty much anything and anyone. That was the edge Richter wanted.

  He made a mug of coffee, put the cup down on his desk, and dialled the Registry. He requested the Blackbird file, the Moscow Station files for the last three months, and the one entitled ‘Newman, Graham (deceased)’.

  Regents Park, London

  The black Mercedes – one of several non-US manufactured vehicles used by the Embassy for unofficial duties – drove out of Grosvenor Square and joined the one-way system in Uppe
r Grosvenor Street, then turned up Park Street, through Portman Street, Gloucester Place and into Park Road. At the western end of Hanover Gardens the car stopped and Roger Abrahams and John Westwood climbed out. ‘We’ll get a cab back,’ Abrahams said, dismissing the driver.

  John Westwood glanced at his watch. ‘Where are we meeting this guy?’

  ‘By The Holme – it’s on the other side of the Boating Lake. We’ve plenty of time.’

  The two Americans walked through Hanover Gardens, past the London Central Mosque, across the Outer Circle and into Regents Park itself. They followed the footpath and the footbridge which crossed the north-west end of the Boating Lake, and then turned right towards Queen Mary’s Gardens. The day was seasonably warm and Westwood found that Abraham’s brisk pace was causing him to sweat slightly. He removed his jacket and draped it over his arm. As they reached the second footbridge Abrahams touched Westwood’s arm. ‘There he is,’ he said, pointing.

  Westwood glanced to his right and saw a tall, slim figure in a light grey suit standing close to the eastern edge of the Boating Lake. As they crossed the footbridge, Abrahams chuckled softly. ‘Look. He is feeding the ducks. John le Carré’s got a lot to answer for.’

  Piers Taylor tossed the last few crumbs of bread into the water in front of him, smiling at the noisy scrambling as the mallards jockeyed for position, then folded the brown paper bag carefully and put it into his jacket pocket. He stepped back from the water’s edge and turned towards the approaching Americans.

  ‘Hullo, Piers,’ said Roger Abrahams, extending his hand.

  ‘Roger,’ Taylor acknowledged, shaking his hand firmly whilst looking at Westwood. ‘And this is?’ He left the question dangling.

  Piers Taylor, Westwood thought, didn’t look like much. He had the slightly vacant expression traditionally – and with some truth – supposed to indicate a good public school education, and he was, Westwood mentally concluded, far too young.

  ‘A colleague from home,’ Abrahams said smoothly, before Westwood could answer.

  John Westwood shook Taylor’s hand. ‘Call me John,’ he said.

  ‘It was nice meeting you, John,’ Taylor said, smiled agreeably, turned and walked off.

  ‘Piers,’ Abrahams called.

  Taylor stopped and turned back. ‘Roger,’ he said, and waited.

  Abrahams sighed and looked at Westwood. ‘OK, OK. This is John Westwood. He’s the Head of our Foreign Intelligence (Espionage) Staff, and he – we – need some help.’

  Westwood looked angrily at Abrahams. ‘Was that really necessary?’ he asked.

  Abrahams nodded, but Piers Taylor answered him, his eyes hard and his face unsmiling. ‘Yes, it was,’ he said. ‘I don’t talk to anyone until I find out who they are. I won’t ask for ID because you’re with Roger, but normally I would want a full recognition procedure. You know who I am?’

  Westwood looked again at the slight figure in front of him and nodded. He glanced round to check that nobody else was in earshot, then replied. ‘Deputy head of SIS Section Nine, responsible for Russian affairs,’ he said.

  ‘Right,’ Piers Taylor nodded, his languid manner returning. ‘Now we all know who we are, how can we assist our colonial cousins?’

  The three men turned as if by common consent and walked towards the Inner Circle. ‘It may be nothing,’ Westwood began, ‘and for the moment I want this to stay on a strictly unofficial level. Can I first ask one question?’

  Taylor nodded. ‘You can certainly ask,’ he said.

  ‘Do you – or does SIS, I should say – have any high-level agents-in-place or other well-placed sources in Russia?’ Before Taylor could answer, Westwood continued. ‘We basically need either confirmation or denial of the existence of a high-level conspiracy which might – I say again, might – be a threat to the West. If it exists, we believe it has been organized and directed by the very highest echelons of the Russian government.’

  Taylor walked on in silence for a few paces, then stopped. ‘You do realize what you’re asking?’ he said.

  Westwood nodded. ‘Yes. If you have a source at that level we would like you to task him with verifying this information. We do not, of course, require access to your source, or knowledge of the identity of the source, but we would want your assurance that he is in a position to do what we ask.’

  Taylor looked up at the sky. ‘I had thought this was going to be a good day,’ he murmured, almost inaudibly. He began walking again, and the other two followed.

  ‘Let me lay out the problems as I see them,’ Taylor said quietly. ‘First, I’m not in a position to tell you if we have such a source. Second, if we do have a source at the level you need, trying to get him to verify your suspicions might well result in him being blown to the SVR or the GRU, which is something I’m sure we’d all rather avoid.’ Taylor paused and glanced at the Americans, then continued. ‘Third, let’s look at the logic of this. You believe the Russians might have something nasty heading our way. In the current political climate I personally find that unlikely, but the information you have suggests that to be the case, right?’

  John Westwood nodded. ‘So,’ Taylor continued, ‘if our putative source starts asking the wrong sort of questions of the wrong sort of people in Moscow, it will make it obvious to the Russians that we have discovered this plot, whatever it is. What effect will that have?’ Neither Abrahams nor Westwood spoke. ‘It might,’ Taylor said, answering his own question, ‘prompt the Russians to implement this conspiracy immediately.’

  Westwood suddenly glimpsed the intellect behind the languid mask.

  ‘What do you suggest?’ Abrahams asked.

  ‘If I was in your shoes, for which I thank God I’m not,’ Taylor answered, ‘I would proceed on the assumption that the conspiracy is real and make appropriate contingency plans.’

  Westwood was silent for a few moments, then spoke. ‘That’s good advice, but there are some problems.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like the fact that we know nothing whatever about the assault. What form it will take, I mean. All we are sure about is that there is no evidence at all that Russian conventional or nuclear forces are involved.’

  ‘What?’ Taylor’s calm demeanour vanished momentarily. ‘It can’t be much of a threat then, can it?’ He laughed briefly; Abrahams and Westwood didn’t. ‘Sorry,’ Taylor said. ‘Obviously you believe it’s real, and I noticed you used the word “assault”, not “conspiracy”, which changes things. Without giving me specifics, what data do you have?’

  Westwood shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, but I can give you very little,’ he said. ‘The file classification is “NOFORN”. You’re not a US citizen, so officially I can tell you nothing about it. But,’ he added, ‘I can say that the information came from a high-level source in Moscow, and we have not been able to reach that source since we received the data.’

  ‘Hence the need for independent corroboration,’ Taylor finished for him, and Westwood nodded. Taylor walked on a few paces, right hand cupping his chin, then stopped. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘I’ll do what I can, unofficially, of course. You’ll appreciate that I’ll have to talk to some people before I can task any source we might have. And,’ he added, ‘I’m not saying that we have such a source, you understand? I can reach you through Roger, yes?’

  ‘Right,’ Westwood replied. ‘Oh, there’s one other thing that might be some help. One of the pieces of data we received was a single word.’

  Taylor looked interested. ‘Yes?’

  ‘The word,’ Westwood said, ‘was “Gibraltar”.’

  ‘That’s it? Nothing else?’

  Westwood shook his head. ‘Just the one word. We know what Gibraltar is, obviously, but we’ve no idea what it means in this context.’

  Taylor nodded slowly. ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘I’ll be in touch.’ He turned away and took a pace, then stopped. ‘One final point,’ he said. ‘If we can’t help you, what will you do next?’

  Abrahams looked a
t Westwood. ‘If you can’t help,’ Westwood replied, ‘we’ll have to try the French.’

  Turabah, Saudi Arabia

  It all, Sadoun Khamil reflected late that afternoon, seemed to be going reasonably well. The news from Hassan Abbas about the flight by the American spy-plane had been something of a shock, but the apparent absence of any other activity by the Americans – or by anyone else, in fact – suggested that the flight had not revealed anything of interest. And time was passing.

  With all the American weapons in position, and with the London bomb almost complete, as far as Khamil could see there was little that anybody could do to stop them. And there was a compelling argument that any further waiting could be counter-productive, allowing a greater chance for some Western intelligence service to penetrate the Russian operation. He had discussed this view with the al-Qaeda leadership, but they had insisted that for the plan to be unequivocally successful, it was essential that all the weapons were positioned as intended, and for the final stages of Podstava to be carried through. Only that way could total success be guaranteed.

  Khamil concurred with this view, but it still concerned him that something had happened – whether a leak from one of the Russians involved or some indication from a different source – that had prompted the American action. He worried about what they could have found out, but he worried more about what they might try to do if they discovered the full scope of the operation.

  The one thing that he and the leaders of al-Qaeda were in complete agreement about was that the implementation of El Sikkiyn – the Arab component of the plan – had to be precisely timed and executed. And for that to happen there had to be no American pre-emptive action which might disrupt it, so it was essential that they were informed immediately of any further action by the Americans.

  Khamil knew he could rely upon Hassan Abbas to keep him abreast of developments in Russia, through Dmitri Trushenko, and the best source of information about American activity was probably CNN, he reflected with a slight smile. He’d just have to start watching more television.