Overkill pr-1

by James Barrington

  ‘I do know what the acronym stands for, Mr Beatty,’ Bykov said.

  Richter nodded. ‘I thought you probably would,’ he said.

  ‘So why are you telling me this?’ Bykov asked, looking puzzled.

  ‘I’m telling you so you realize that the operation has involved people of two different nations who don’t share a common language. Because we don’t speak the same language, we have had some problems with communications. None of the organizations involved in this matter have filed their reports yet,’ Richter continued, ‘but when they do they will probably all incorporate a recommendation that any future joint operations include interpreters. That way, unfortunate accidents and misunderstandings might be prevented.’

  ‘I really don’t understand what you’re talking about. What unfortunate accidents and misunderstandings?’

  ‘Well, that rather depends on you,’ Richter said, after a short pause. ‘If, for example, you give me some answers – preferably truthful answers – to a few simple questions, then in a couple of hours you and your colleague can get back in your comfortable limousine and continue your journey, or return to Mother Russia, or go wherever else your whim or your conscience dictates. We’ll even,’ he added, ‘pay for four new tyres for you.’

  ‘And if I refuse?’ the Russian demanded.

  ‘Well, that’s the problem,’ Richter said. ‘I really do need to get some answers from either you or your colleague. If you refuse to talk to me then I have to hope that he will be sensible. What I might have to do is arrange for you to be, say, shot while trying to escape, to encourage him to see reason. That’s the kind of unfortunate accident I’m worried about.’

  Bykov’s glare was still defiant, but his face seemed a shade paler. ‘You wouldn’t dare. That would be murder, simple cold-blooded murder.’

  ‘It certainly would,’ Richter agreed, ‘but I’m sure you’ve done worse in your career.’ Bykov opened his mouth to speak, but apparently thought better of it. ‘France,’ Richter said, ‘is a civilized country, where all citizens are subject to the rule of law. Please believe me when I tell you that in this parking area the rule of law has been temporarily suspended. Here, we can do exactly what we like.’ He pointed out of the window at Trooper Smith. ‘You see that man there? He’s a member of 22 Special Air Service Regiment. He has spent all of his adult life in the British armed forces, and he is now a member of arguably the most professional and proficient elite Special Force in the world – not excluding your Spetsnaz.

  ‘I have a story which might interest you. In December 1974 a four-man IRA gang took a couple hostage in Balcombe Street, Marylebone – that’s a district in London. The gang was well armed – in fact, they had sub-machineguns – and showed no inclination at all to come out. The Metropolitan Police believed they faced a long siege, which might conceivably end with the killing of one or both of the hostages and general mayhem and havoc. However, before any major actions were taken by either side, an enterprising police officer leaked a fictitious story to the BBC and one of the national daily newspapers. The story stated that operational control of the incident was about to be transferred to the SAS. Do you know what happened when that news was broadcast?’

  ‘No, of course I don’t,’ Bykov snapped.

  ‘The gang surrendered. Immediately and without conditions. And do you know why?’ The Russian shook his head. ‘Because they knew perfectly well that if the SAS took over the siege, their chances of getting out alive were nil. Zero. More recently, in April 1980, a group of six terrorists seized the Iranian Embassy in London. When they started killing hostages, the SAS stormed the building, with the press of half the world watching. When it was over, five of the six terrorists were dead, and the sixth only survived because he pretended to be a hostage and was only properly identified outside the building after the SAS had cleared it.

  ‘What I’m trying to tell you,’ Richter went on, ‘is that the SAS don’t take prisoners. The Regiment is our force of last resort. They are sent in when all other remedies have failed, when the only sensible course of action left is to blow away the bad guys. All their training, all their tactics, are geared to that objective. You are undeniably a bad guy. Compared with what you had planned to do, the Iranian Embassy terrorists were just a bunch of naughty schoolboys.’ Richter paused. ‘Now, bearing all that in mind,’ he said, and pointed again at Trooper Smith, ‘what do you think he would do if I dragged you out of this van and told him to shoot you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Wrong,’ Richter said. ‘You do know. He would shoot you immediately, and without question. The only consolation you would have is that it would be a quick death – the SAS only shoot to kill, never to wound.’

  ‘You’d never get away with it,’ Bykov spluttered.

  ‘Wrong again,’ Richter said. ‘My report would say that Trooper Smith acted instantly to protect a senior officer – that’s me – from an assault by a Russian terrorist – that’s you. Trooper Smith and I would both know that the truth was somewhat different, but if you think either of us would lose any sleep over it you’re wrong. The reports filed by our French colleagues standing over there—’ Richter pointed at a group of Gigènes near Erulin’s Renault ‘—would say exactly the same, because they wouldn’t have understood anything I said to Trooper Smith or he said to me. That’s the problem with not having a common language.’

  Richter leaned forward, his eyes cold and hard. ‘Here and now,’ he said softly, ‘we are the law. Anything I do to you can be justified, because anything I could do is totally insignificant compared to what you tried to do. Please believe that, because I’m going to ask you the same question now that I asked ten minutes ago, and if I get the same answer you’re leaving here in a pine box. And that’s a fact.’ Richter stared at him, and Bykov’s eyes shifted from his gaze. ‘Right, Comrade Bykov, we start again. Can I please have your full name?’

  The Russian looked at Richter and said nothing. Richter picked up the passport and opened both rear doors of the Transit. He had got one foot on the ground when he heard the Russian’s voice. ‘Bykov,’ he said, with a sigh. ‘Viktor Grigorevich Bykov.’

  Fifteen minutes later Richter helped Bykov out of the Transit – his wrists were still tied – and led him to the stone picnic table, where he could remain under the watchful gaze of Trooper Smith. The older Russian stood up as they approached. Richter nodded to him. ‘Just a few questions, please.’

  As they walked away Bykov spoke – a single sentence that caused Richter to turn and look at him again. ‘It’s not over yet, Mr Beatty,’ he said.

  The Kremlin, Krasnaya ploshchad, Moscow

  The Moscow traffic police began stopping vehicles long before the approaching cars could be seen or the sirens even heard. The motorcade – two of the huge ZIL limousines still favoured by some Russian officials, and accompanied by four police outriders astride BMW motorcycles – swept across Teatral’nyj proezd and swung right into Manezpaja ploshchad. They crossed ploshchad Revoljucii, passed the massive fourteen-storey-high red granite and white marble Moskva Hotel, and on into Krasnaya ploshchad – Red Square. The long, wide, red wall of the Kremlin extends down the right-hand side of the Square in a straight line, the ground sloping away. Opposite the Kremlin wall, the huge Gothic building which is the GUM department store fills the whole of the other side of the Square.

  The motorcade drove on into the Kremlin complex through Saviour’s Gate, the principal official entrance, in the left corner of the Kremlin wall. The Kremlin is a city within a city, occupying a seventy-acre site high above the Moskva River in the centre of Moscow. Basically a three-sided fortified citadel with a north-facing point, dominated by the Sobakin Tower, it is completely surrounded by a wall some fifty feet high reinforced by eighteen towers and pierced by four gates. There are three buildings in the northern section of the Kremlin. To the east is the smallest, the Kremlin Theatre. Half concealed behind the Theatre is the building of the Council of Ministers, ostensibl
y the home of the Russian government.

  The third building is also the biggest; an extended rectangle pointing north and lying along the western façade of the Kremlin, behind the spiked outer wall and overlooking the Alexandrovsky Gardens. In the southern end of this building is the Armoury Chamber or Arsenal, a museum renowned for its collection of antique and pre-Revolutionary weapons, highly jewelled icons, delicate clocks and jewellery. Immediately behind the Arsenal all the interior walls are solid, and there is no internal access to the upper floors of the building. To reach those floors, visitors must pass through the tall wrought-iron barrier that guards the space between the Arsenal and the Ministers’ Building.

  The upper Arsenal forms a hollow rectangle, four storeys high. Inside the building is a narrow courtyard aligned north–south that divides the area into two narrow sections. On the third floor, about halfway up the eastern block, overlooking the courtyard and hidden from prying eyes, is the Meeting Room. About fifteen metres long and eight metres wide, it’s decorated in the heavy, ponderous style which characterizes most Russian government buildings. In this room, every Thursday morning, the Politburo – the exclusive group of men at the pinnacle of the Central Committee of the Russian Communist Party and still the real power in Russia – meets and sits at the long green baize-topped table to discuss the government of the three hundred million citizens of the Confederation of Independent States. Adjoining the Meeting Room is the more intimate Walnut Room, with a smaller table and more comfortable seats, which is used for meetings when the full Politburo is not present.

  The motorcade stopped beside the western end of the Council of Ministers building. The motorcycle outriders parked their machines in a protective circle around the cars and waited. At a signal from one of the outriders, both limousine drivers leapt out and opened the rear doors of their cars. Three men emerged from the first ZIL, and two from the second; all five walked briskly through the gateway and were quickly lost to sight.

  Fifteen minutes later, a black Mercedes limousine stopped outside the building. One man got out and walked through the gateway.

  Autoroute A26, vicinity of Couvron-et-Aumencourt

  The older Russian followed Richter to the Transit without comment and sat down where he indicated. Oddly enough, he seemed relatively cheerful, bearing in mind what he’d been through that afternoon. ‘Let’s begin with some identification,’ Richter said. ‘My name is Beatty, and I am an agent of the British government.’

  The Russian’s lips twisted in a gentle smile. ‘You seem to be a man of many names, Mr Beatty,’ he said. ‘Despite your somewhat battered appearance, I seem to recognize you from a slightly blurred photograph. But the name you gave then was Willis.’

  Richter smiled back at him. ‘You have a good memory,’ he said, ‘and perhaps the cameras at Sheremetievo need adjusting. I used that name on my last visit to Moscow. May I ask who I am addressing?’

  ‘You have seen my passport, Mr Beatty.’

  ‘I know, but my question stands,’ Richter said. ‘Who are you? I don’t,’ he added, ‘really want to trawl through all our file photographs of GRU, KGB and SVR agents and officers. Apart from anything else, that would delay your release considerably.’

  The Russian looked at him appraisingly. ‘Very well, Mr Beatty. My name is Modin, Nicolai Fedorovich Modin, and I am a senior SVR general.’

  ‘What are you prepared to tell me about the operation?’

  Modin hesitated. ‘I should not really tell you anything,’ he said, ‘but the fact that we are sitting here means that you obviously know almost everything already. I also have no doubt that Bykov provided a good deal of information.’

  ‘I do know most of it,’ Richter replied, ‘but getting anything out of Viktor Bykov was very hard work, and there remain some details that I would like you to clarify. You will also notice that we are alone in this vehicle, and I assure you that nothing you say will necessarily be passed on to any third party.’

  ‘So you say, Mr Beatty. So you say.’ Modin didn’t sound even slightly convinced.

  ‘Was it,’ Richter asked, ‘a Group Nord operation?’

  Modin shook his head. ‘No. In fact, Group Nord has been disbanded for several years. Operation Podstava – you would probably translate the word as “provocateur” – was directed from the start in great secrecy by Minister Dmitri Trushenko, acting on the direct orders of the Politburo. The plan was executed by a joint task force of SVR and GRU personnel.’

  ‘Isn’t that rather unusual?’ Richter asked. ‘A joint SVR–GRU operation?’

  ‘No, Mr Beatty,’ Modin said, ‘it’s not unusual – it’s unheard of. But, if I may mix my metaphors, desperate situations make for strange bedfellows. We needed facilities that only the GRU could give us, and if the plan was to work, we had to work with them. It was not a particularly edifying experience.’

  Richter changed tack. ‘Why are you in France? Wasn’t that something of a risk for a man in your position, even carrying a diplomatic passport?’

  Modin nodded. ‘It was a risk, yes, but I had been instructed by Minister Trushenko to witness the placement of the weapon myself. Viktor Bykov came with me ostensibly because he has been posted as the London GRU rezident, a post I cannot now imagine him occupying. In fact, he has been the principal GRU liaison officer on this project since its inception.’

  ‘You said “ostensibly”,’ Richter asked. ‘Why did you use that word?’

  Modin smiled, then actually laughed. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, ‘I will explain. First, may I ask you a question?’

  Richter nodded. ‘I can’t promise to answer, but you can certainly ask,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you,’ Modin said. ‘Have you discussed this matter with the Americans?’

  ‘Yes,’ Richter replied. ‘In fact, we have a senior CIA officer here as an observer.’

  ‘Perhaps it might be better, Mr Beatty, if he was present before I say anything else.’

  ‘Why?’ Richter asked.

  ‘Because it will save time, and time is something you don’t have a great deal of.’

  Richter thought for a few moments. ‘OK,’ he said, opened the rear door of the Transit and called John Westwood over, taking care to use only his Christian name. ‘General Modin, this is John, from the CIA. John, this is General Nicolai Modin of the SVR,’ Richter said.

  ‘Did you,’ Modin asked Westwood, ‘tell the British that you had developed a source – I believe you would call it a “walk-in” – in Moscow? A high-level source?’

  Westwood looked somewhat sheepishly at Richter, then nodded. ‘We did,’ he replied, ‘although only very recently. We were trying,’ he went on, ‘to clarify the situation without involving our allies. That was possibly a mistake.’ Richter nodded in agreement.

  ‘We knew about the “walk-in”,’ Modin said. ‘I briefed a colleague to try to identify the traitor. He spent a great deal of time and effort in trying to find anyone who could have passed information to the Americans, but he was not successful. However,’ Modin added, ‘he and I both agreed that the most likely candidate was Viktor Bykov, which is the real reason why Bykov was with me and why he was travelling to take up a post in London.’

  Richter looked puzzled. ‘I understand that, General,’ he said, ‘but you seem to find it amusing that Bykov has been suspected of being a traitor. What’s funny about that?’

  Modin’s grin grew wider. ‘It is funny, Mr Beatty,’ he said, ‘because Bykov is not the traitor that my colleague believes him to be.’

  ‘How do you know?’ Richter asked.

  ‘Because, Mr Beatty,’ Modin replied, ‘I was the “walk-in”, not Viktor Bykov.’

  The Walnut Room, the Kremlin, Krasnaya ploshchad, Moscow

  The door opened and a short, slim, elderly man with thick grey hair walked in. He looked round the room and nodded respectfully to the five figures seated at the table. At the head sat the Russian President. Flanking him were Yevgeni Ryzhkov, Vice-President of the Supreme Sovi
et, and Anatoli Sergeyevich Lomonosov, Chairman of the Council of Ministers. At the far side of the table sat Yuri Baratov, Chairman of the SVR, and his deputy, Konstantin Abramov. The President gestured the newcomer to a seat at the end of the table.

  ‘General Sokolov,’ the President rumbled in his gravelly voice, ‘we have a problem.’

  Grigori Sokolov sat down and looked enquiringly up the table, but said nothing. He was far too experienced to speak until he knew exactly what was going on, and the peremptory summons he had received had given him no clue.

  ‘Where is General Modin?’ Baratov asked, his voice quietly penetrating.

  Whatever Sokolov had been expecting, that wasn’t it. ‘General Modin?’ he murmured. ‘You know where he is, Comrade Baratov. He is on his way to London.’ Sokolov watched Baratov’s face carefully as he replied, and as soon as the words were out of his mouth, Sokolov realized that Baratov did not know, and had not known, where Modin was. None of the men at the table knew, and Sokolov suddenly understood that something was very, very wrong.

  ‘Why,’ the President asked, ‘is he going to London?’

  Sokolov stood up and bowed his head. ‘Comrade President,’ he replied, stammering slightly, ‘I will assist you in any way that I can, but I do not think I am the person to whom you should be speaking.’

  ‘Then who should we be addressing?’ Ryzhkov asked.

  ‘Minister Dmitri Trushenko,’ Sokolov replied. ‘General Modin and I have been carrying out the Minister’s specific instructions. General Modin believed – and I believed – that the Minister was properly following Politburo directives.’

  ‘And what instructions did Minister Trushenko give?’ the President asked.

  Sokolov straightened and looked directly at him. ‘Minister Trushenko has been co-ordinating Operation Podstava,’ Sokolov said quietly. ‘Operation Podstava was designed to neutralize America and let our forces walk into Western Europe without a fight. General Modin,’ he finished, ‘is overseeing the final phase of the operation.’