Lacomte looked at Giraud, and then both of them looked at Richter. ‘The one piece of hard evidence that is available,’ Richter said, ‘is the one that I do not have at present.’
‘The lorry?’ Lacomte prompted.
‘Exactly,’ Richter said, ‘the lorry. When that is stopped, if the back only contains the collected works of Lenin, or whatever the Russians have put on the manifest, then I will apologize humbly and take my delusions home to bed. But I’m quite certain we’ll find a nasty little nuclear weapon in a steel box, with a delivery address of Harrington House, 13 Kensington Palace Gardens, London, W8.’
‘Which is?’ asked Lacomte.
‘The official residence of the Russian Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary to the Court of St James.’
There was a short silence, broken by Giraud, speaking English for the first time. ‘So,’ he said, ‘you have to stop the lorry?’
‘Yes,’ Richter replied, ‘we have to stop the lorry.’
Anton Kirov
Zavorin pushed open the steel door leading to the engine room and walked in ahead of Bondarev. He slid quickly down the steel ladder to the deck below, and strode across to the starboard side. Three of his men were assembled close to the starboard fuel pump, around which had been packed a selection of oil-soaked rags and paper.
‘Is this really necessary?’ Bondarev asked, his voice almost plaintive.
‘Yes, Captain, it is,’ Zavorin replied. ‘We do not know whether or not the staff at Gibraltar will insist on helping us. If the engine room shows no sign of damage, we would not be able to allow them on board, which would look suspicious.’
Zavorin looked at the troopers. ‘Ten minutes, no more,’ he said, ‘then douse the flames. Make sure you leave fire-extinguisher foam around the pump, and snap the input pipe.’ He nodded to the second trooper, who was holding a gas lighter. The man snapped the lighter open, kindled the flame and ignited the paper. ‘Now,’ Zavorin said, looking with satisfaction at the growing flames, then turning back and glancing up at Bondarev, ‘we have some real damage we can show them.’
Ansbach, Germany
The convoy had picked up the autobahn just beyond Hartmannshof and taken the route to the south-east of Nürnberg. Just south of Ansbach, Modin called a halt in a rest area for refreshments and a driver change. Again, he and Bykov consulted the map.
‘I think we will make one small change, Viktor,’ Modin said. ‘We were to route through Stuttgart, which is the most direct route, but I think that will take longer than staying on the autobahn.’
‘Yes, I agree,’ Bykov said, tracing the route on the map with his finger.
‘So,’ Modin continued, ‘we will continue heading west, through Heilbronn and up to Walldorf, and then south past Karlsruhe and Baden-Baden to Strasbourg. Brief the drivers.’
French Ministry of the Interior, rue des Saussaies, Paris
Giraud turned to one of his aides and spoke rapidly in French, then after listening to the reply he turned back to Richter.
‘This, Mr Beatty, is the situation as I understand it. You have what you believe to be compelling evidence that a section or sections of the Russian security forces are attempting to blackmail America and then force Europe to submit to what amounts to a non-military invasion from the east?’ There was nothing wrong with Giraud’s English, or with his grasp of the situation.
‘Correct,’ Richter said.
‘But neither you nor the American CIA can offer any independent support for this interesting theory, other than what amounts to some circumstantial evidence which is possibly indicative of something going on?’ Richter nodded. ‘And the only hard evidence that can possibly be provided is in the back of a lorry which is about to make its way through France?’
‘Yes,’ Richter said.
‘A lorry which will, unless I’m very much mistaken, be travelling under the legal protection of diplomatic status and, probably, with the physical protection of armed couriers, who will also be carrying diplomatic passports? Is that a fair summary?’
‘Yes,’ Richter said, ‘but—’
Giraud ploughed on relentlessly. ‘You are doubtless also aware that any interference with such a vehicle is tantamount to a severance of diplomatic relations with the originating country? And that there would be most severe – I say again, most severe – international repercussions if your theory turned out to be a fiction?’
‘Yes.’ There wasn’t anything else Richter could say.
Giraud fixed him with a penetrating look, then turned to Lacomte and spoke briefly in French. Richter glanced over at Tony Herron and shrugged his shoulders. Giraud turned his attention back to Richter. ‘I suppose your Special Air Service personnel are already en route?’
‘Er, yes,’ Richter said. ‘Actually, they are, or should be.’
‘We expected that,’ Lacomte said, nodding. ‘With the time-scale you have outlined they would have to be about to leave, or have already left, Hereford.’
‘I had to make some assumptions,’ Richter said. ‘I had to assume that you would give permission. They can be stopped, of course, probably before they reach Calais.’
‘I wouldn’t do that, Mr Beatty,’ said Giraud. ‘I think that you probably will need their help to stop that lorry.’ He favoured the group with a wintry smile, gestured to his aides and stood up. When the four men had left the room, Lacomte relaxed visibly.
‘What made him agree?’ Westwood asked.
‘The possible diplomatic repercussions, I think,’ said Lacomte. ‘If he had refused permission for the lorry to be stopped, and it later turned out that you had been right, his career would be at an end.’
‘Everyone else’s career would probably also be at an end,’ Tony Herron interjected.
‘Quite,’ said Lacomte. ‘But by allowing your SAS to participate, if it all goes wrong he can claim that it was some sort of a British cowboy action that he knew nothing about. In fact,’ he continued, ‘he has instructed me to ensure that the SAS personnel take charge of the assault on the convoy, and that French involvement is to be kept to a minimum.’
‘To make it more deniable, of course?’
Lacomte smiled. ‘Of course.’
‘Machiavellian old devil,’ Richter said.
‘Yes. That is his reputation.’ Lacomte rubbed his hands briskly and gave instructions to one of his colleagues, who left the room. ‘To business,’ he said. ‘Let’s start with the convoy.’
‘Right,’ Richter agreed, and opened up the file again. ‘First, the route. Orlov wasn’t completely certain about it, but the point of departure was almost certainly going to be Minsk. It will have travelled through Poland, probably Czechoslovakia, and then into Germany and should enter – or have entered – France at Strasbourg.’
Lacomte glanced at his watch. ‘I don’t think it has entered France yet,’ he said. ‘I gave instructions this morning for a total watch operation to be put in place on all French overland borders apart from that with Spain, for obvious reasons, and for any vehicles demanding diplomatic immunity to be delayed as much as possible without making it obvious.’
‘Thank you,’ Richter said, nodding approval.
‘We have heard nothing, so I think we can be sure that the convoy is still in Germany. What time-scale did Comrade Orlov give you?’
Richter referred back to the file. ‘He said that the London weapon was scheduled for positioning the day after tomorrow.’
‘Right, and with point of entry Strasbourg. I think the roadworks at Strasbourg are going to cause the convoy some delays in getting on to the autoroute. I think we can guarantee that it won’t reach Reims until tomorrow mid-afternoon at the earliest.’
‘And are there roadworks at Strasbourg?’ Westwood asked.
‘There will be in less than an hour,’ Lacomte replied, and gave instructions in French to the remaining DST officer. As he left, the other DST man returned, arms laden with maps of northern France, which he spread out on the conference tab
le.
‘And after Strasbourg?’ Lacomte asked. ‘What route then?’
‘Orlov believed the convoy would stay on the autoroutes as much as possible, so it will probably route from Strasbourg either to Metz or possibly Châlons-sur-Marne and then on to Reims. After that there’s not much scope for diversions. It will almost certainly pick up the A26 autoroute to St Quentin, and then route past Cambrai to Calais for the Channel crossing to Dover. The crossing will certainly be from Calais, and they’re probably aiming for a night sailing, tomorrow.’
Lacomte had been tracing the possible routes on the map while Richter had been speaking. When he stopped Lacomte smoothed out the central section and looked at it with interest. ‘So where do we stop them?’ he asked.
‘To be perfectly honest,’ Richter said, ‘I haven’t got that far yet. I was thinking about faking a diversion off the autoroute, and hitting the truck on some quiet road somewhere. I thought maybe the assault team could pose as French truck thieves.’
Lacomte looked at him. ‘I won’t pretend that we don’t have gangs who specialize in stealing entire lorries, but it would, I think, be a very optimistic or very stupid gang which took on a diplomatic-plated lorry and two or three cars full of armed couriers. No, I think we apply a bit of cunning here.’ He thought for a few moments. ‘I like the idea of the diversion,’ he said, ‘but let’s do it backwards.’
‘Backwards?’ Richter asked.
‘Instead of diverting the convoy off the autoroute, we divert everything else off it, except the convoy.’
‘That’s sneaky,’ said Tony.
‘It’s brilliant,’ Richter said. ‘That gives us plenty of room to work and a complete absence of eyewitnesses. Can you fix it?’
‘Of course,’ said Lacomte. ‘We’ve done it before.’ He took a pencil and paper and drew a rapid sketch. ‘First,’ he said, ‘we choose a section of autoroute without service areas, and we flush all vehicles out of the parking areas on both carriageways. Then, we wait for the convoy to pass here,’ he said, drawing a parking area to the south of the section he had marked, ‘where we will position one of our vehicles with a radioman. As soon as he signals confirmation of the convoy’s position, we prepare for action.’ He pointed at the drawing of an intersection. ‘As soon as the convoy passes this junction, we block the inbound access and erect barriers across the carriageway to divert all the following traffic on to the national roads. The convoy will be slow, and they should soon be the last vehicles on the northbound section. If any other vehicles do lag behind it, we will have them stopped and detained by gendarmes.’
Lacomte was warming to his theme.
‘As soon as we close the northbound carriageway we will also close the southbound section, two junctions to the north, to ensure there are no witnesses to the operation. Then, when all the traffic is clear, your SAS men and our assault forces will stop the truck.’
If you said it quickly, it sounded easy. It could even work, but Richter wasn’t certain it would be quite as simple as Lacomte seemed to believe. ‘Fine,’ Richter said. ‘I have no problems with any of that. But stopping a lorry isn’t that easy. If the driver simply decides to keep going – and he will probably have orders to do exactly that – what then?’
‘We arrange an accident,’ Tony Herron said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘We have to allay their suspicions. The Russians will probably notice the absence of traffic heading south, and the fact that nothing is overtaking them going north, and they will be expecting trouble of some sort. So we arrange an accident – a big one, one that blocks the northbound carriageway altogether – and put rescue vehicles on the southbound side. Lots of flashing lights and confusion, people running about.’
‘Yes,’ said Lacomte. ‘That should work.’
‘The convoy will have to stop, and with all the vehicles stationary it should be fairly easy to immobilize the escort. Perhaps a gendarme could approach the cars and ask if anyone is a doctor, or demand their first-aid kits or something. Something to distract their attention.’
‘That’s good,’ Richter said, and turned to Lacomte.
‘Can you organize that?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘We’ll take two articulated lorries and jack-knife them across the carriageway, as if they collided when one was overtaking the other. It happens often enough in France,’ he added.
‘We can leave the details of the actual assault until I have spoken to the SAS officer,’ Richter said. ‘But we should identify the location of the operation now so you can prepare.’
Lacomte nodded and turned his attention back to the maps. The other DST man returned to the room and advised them that a main water pipe had burst just outside Strasbourg and that access to the autoroute for all heavy goods vehicles was very slow. Private cars, he added with a smile, were able to get through without too many problems.
Half an hour later they had identified the site. The operation would take place between Chambry, junction number 13, just to the north of Laon, and the Courbes junction, number 12, on the A26 autoroute between Laon and St Quentin. There was even a convenient military camp just south of the autoroute between Vivaise and Couvron-et-Aumencourt, which could possibly be explained away as the origin of any small-arms fire which might be heard.
‘Who will you use for the assault?’ Richter asked.
‘Gigènes,’ Lacomte said, ‘GIGN – Groupe d’Intervention de la Gendarmerie Nationale. They have a base in the south-east of Paris, at Maisons-Alfort.’
The GIGN was formed on the 3 November 1973, principally in response to the siege of the Saudi Arabian Embassy in Paris that year. The force has always laid great store on personal marksmanship, and this was vividly demonstrated at Djibouti in February 1976, when GIGN snipers simultaneously shot at and killed five Somali Coast Liberation Front terrorists who had seized a school coach containing thirty children aged between six and twelve. The marksmen had to wait over ten hours for a clear shot at all the terrorists at the same time. The only casualty was a little girl who was butchered by a sixth terrorist who boarded the bus after the shooting; he did not survive the subsequent storming of the vehicle by GIGN personnel.
‘We thought,’ Lacomte continued, with a smile, ‘that your SAS men might like to experience working with true professionals.’
It was after six when Richter and Herron emerged from the Ministry and climbed into the waiting car. Westwood waved a hand and walked away towards the avenue Gabriel. Back at the British Embassy, Herron looked through a sheaf of signals, including one from Stirling Lines – the signal address of the SAS Headquarters at Hereford – which he passed over to Richter. It confirmed that the unit requested would arrive no later than 2359 GMT that evening. No date, no place, no names. Typical SAS brevity.
Marne-la-Vallée
At ten minutes to midnight there was a gentle double tap on the cabin door. Richter pushed everything into the briefcase and locked it, eased the Smith out of the shoulder rig and gently pulled the curtain away from a window. Outside was a white Transit van with ‘Uxbridge Vehicle Hire’ printed on the side and a handwritten sign in one of the windows advising any interested onlooker that the occupants belonged to the Rotary Club (Pinner, West London, Division). With the Smith held out of sight behind him, he unlocked and opened the door. Richter almost didn’t recognize him in his suit and tie, but Colin Dekker knew Richter instantly, despite the state of his face.
‘Paul Richter,’ he said. ‘I might have guessed.’
‘Come in, Colin,’ Richter replied.
Dekker stepped up into the cabin, and watched Richter put the Smith back in its holster. ‘This looks serious,’ he said. ‘You don’t normally carry a piece.’
‘I don’t and it is,’ Richter agreed. ‘Where are your men?’
‘Out there,’ he gestured with a thumb. ‘Making sure we aren’t disturbed or overheard. So what’s this all about? Nothing to do with British lamb and French farmers, I hope.’
‘Fuck a duck,’ Colin Dekker said, and sat down.
Chapter Twenty
Wednesday
Marne-la-Vallée
Colin Redmond Dekker, Captain, Royal Artillery, and nearing the end of a three-year detachment as Commander, Troop 3, D Squadron, 22 Special Air Service Regiment, sat in an easy chair and watched a film of the Main Street Electrical Parade, with commentary in German, on the Disneyland Paris resort closed-circuit television system.
Richter put the kettle on and sat down opposite him. ‘You’d like a drink, I take it? What about your troop?’
‘Yes, thanks, and they would too,’ Colin Dekker said. ‘I’ll leave one man outside just in case, but I think we should be safe enough here.’ He opened the door, stepped outside and whistled softly. A figure approached silently, murmured to Dekker and then stepped inside. A second followed him. A third man approached, talked briefly to Dekker, then melted into the darkness. Colin Dekker walked back inside and stood beside the two newcomers. His stocky, compact figure looked smaller than Richter remembered, but it might just have been the contrast with the size of the other two men. ‘Introductions, I suppose. This is Trooper Smith, and that is Trooper Jones. As you can probably guess, the man outside is Trooper Brown.’
Richter nodded. Standard SAS procedure.
‘Troopers,’ Dekker began, ‘this gentleman is a member of Her Majesty’s Secret Service, but that’s a secret, so don’t tell anyone.’ The two men smiled politely but disinterestedly. ‘Before you both dismiss him as just another desk jockey with delusions of adequacy,’ Colin Dekker continued, ‘you should also know that he has been through the full course at Hereford, starting with the Battle Fitness Test and finishing with the Fan Dance.’
The Fan Dance is named after Pen-y-Fan, the highest peak in the Brecon Beacons. It’s a twenty-four-kilometre run over the Beacons. You start at the bottom of Pen-y-Fan, run up to the top of the mountain, down and around another mountain called the Crib and along a Roman road to the checkpoint at Torpanto. Then you turn round and do the whole thing again in reverse. The memory of it still gave Richter occasional nightmares.
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