Timebomb : A Thriller (9781468300093)

by Seymour, Gerald

  ‘Do I have your attention?’

  The eyes, glazed, stared back at him.

  Lawson spoke briskly: ‘I’m not getting into a debate about your state of mind. Neither will I tolerate some navel-gazing examination of what we’re about and where we’re going. I will, however, remind you of one thing. You were a volunteer.’

  He saw his man stiffen and anger glowed in the eyes. Better.

  ‘It’s not acceptable, if you didn’t know it, to be Volunteer Man on Monday, everyone gets to speed on Tuesday, and become Quit and Run Man on Wednesday. There is a team behind you, good men and women at the top of their game, but your response is to hunker down in a doorway and snivel. You happy with that?’

  A fist clenched and the body, Lawson thought, was coiled with anger.

  ‘Right now you’re pathetic. You’re a disappointment, at acute level, to those working with you. So the going’s rough. Well, sonny boy, you volunteered. Get up off your backside, start walking, and walking fast – oh, and before that, tell me, words of one syllable, about dinner at Reuven Weissberg’s, and when the move out is scheduled for.’

  He had to strain to listen, but his man was now standing. Lawson leaned close, had an arm on the shoulder, felt the tightness of the muscles, and heard the story of the evening.

  ‘Right, that’ll do for a start. We’re here, think on it, in your wake – and think also that you’re one cog, just one, in a complex but dedicated machine. Not least yourself, you’ve let down many people this evening, this morning. It cannot happen again. When the pace quickens, you may have cause to cringe in a corner, but not now. Now we’re barely started. On your way, young man.’

  Lawson was shouldered off the step, and nearly fell. He had to grope for the wall, where there was a brass plate, to steady himself. He had felt the aggression as the shoulder had buffeted him aside. Aim achieved.

  His man, November, shambled a few paces, then stopped. Lawson watched. He saw November kick out a leg, then almost march forward, as if a decision had been taken. Lawson breathed hard. Saw him reach the corner, shoulders thrown back, turn into the next street, and lost sight of him.

  From behind, Davies hissed, ‘That was pretty unnecessary, about as savage as anything I’ve ever seen, and—’

  Lawson said evenly, ‘Well, you’re young, inexperienced, and have seen very little, so your comment is quite simply inappropriate.’

  ‘—was brutal and vicious, and I feel dirty to be part of it. Have you made a career of walking over people and—’

  ‘Keep your toys in the pram.’ Suddenly so bloody tired. He started to go, slowly, back up the street towards where the surveillance men were. She skipped up to be alongside him. Little Charlie, the cuckoo girl, matched his step and her head bobbed by his elbow. Yes, so bloody tired.

  Matter-of-fact, she said, ‘I’ve been putting it together, Mr Lawson, the little bits and pieces that drop from your table, what you’ve said for us low-life to hear, and what’s happened. If the people I work with knew what you’d done they’d be standing in a line to kick your head in. It’s all very clever, Mr Lawson. I suppose that winning, to you, justifies everything.’

  He did not say that losing was unacceptable. If he was right in his judgement, and a warhead was now travelling overland towards some damn place on some damn border from faraway Sarov, for purchase and collection, then – indeed – losing was not an acceptable option.

  ‘How did it go, Mr Lawson?’ Adrian asked him.

  ‘He’s fine.’

  ‘Stiffen his spine, Mr Lawson?’ Dennis asked him.

  ‘Did what was necessary.’

  He slid into the car’s seat, was bloody near asleep as soon as he did so.

  He kissed the cheeks of his wife gently so that she wouldn’t wake. Then, in stockinged feet, the Crow went out into the corridor and along it. He pushed open the door to the children’s bedroom, went to each bed and kissed the forehead of each child.

  In the hall he put on his shoes, lifted his bag and hitched it on his shoulder. He left nothing behind him, no mobile phone or laptop computer from which evidence might later be taken. He unlocked the front door, and the first smear of dawn was coming from across the Gulf sea. In the middle distance, he could see the crane on the building site. A taxi waited for him. He did not know when, if, he would return home to his wife and children. He hoped to, but did not know if it would be possible.

  The taxi drove away. If he never again saw his wife, whom he loved dearly, or his children, if he took delivery of the weapon and was successful in moving it on to the target zone, he believed the sacrifice of his family would be easy.

  The taxi took the Crow to the airport.

  His mind churned with the implications of what he was committed to, and Sak had not slept. In the narrow single bed, he lay on his back and the thoughts rampaged.

  If, when he had embarked on his journey, he was suddenly aware of men round him with guns, would he run or would he stand and raise his hands? Would they give him the chance to raise his hands or would they shoot him down? He had seen himself, in the night, spreadeagled on a pavement with a pistol barrel crushed against his ear, or crumpled, with blood flowing from the bullet wounds and a crowd gathered at safe distance from him.

  Also in his mind, intruding, were the images and voices of his visit to Summers, the chief security officer. Your clearance to work here is, with effect today, withdrawn and security and the safety of the nation demand, in these difficult times, that we make hard decisions; he doubted, now, that any at Aldermaston remembered him, that any recalled seeing him walk like a zombie from the headquarters building to the hostel, clear his room and pack his bags, and that any spoke of his going to the main gate, feeding his card into the machine, knowing it would not be returned, and going to the bus stop. He had fear, but had hate to counter it.

  The house was quiet. He yearned to sleep but could not. The thought jolted him.

  At his journey’s end he would not be a lowly technician in a school physics laboratory. He would be a man of importance, substance and stature, integral to the plan of those who had recruited him. Could hold his head high, yes, because the examination he would make and the utilization of his expertise were not for money. He was not owned by greed, avarice, could tell himself that his acts were governed by principle.

  Igor Molenkov did not sleep. Beside him, Yashkin slept after a fashion, but the rhythm of his breathing was punctuated by groans.

  Every muscle in Molenkov’s body ached, every joint had pain locked in it, and every time he moved, it got worse. The floor on which he sat was concrete hard, and the two blankets they had been given were too thin to offer decent protection against the cold. At least the noise had stopped and the mechanic’s work was finished.

  They had been – he did not know how many hours before, had lost count – on the final stage of the run into Bryansk. The countryside, flooded fields, flooded rivers and flooded forests, had been behind them. They had reached the lines of factories on the approach to the city and – of course – it had been raining when the engine had died, without a cough of warning. It was as if it had simply given up the ghost and gone happily, but inconveniently, to the arms of St Seraphim. It was twenty-four years since his beloved wife had passed on – twenty-four years, one month, two weeks and four days, never forgotten – and she had gone like that. She had been in the hospital bed, listening to his awkward talk, had turned to the window, where the rain lashed the glass, and had died, without warning. They had pushed the Polonez at least three-quarters of a kilometre, him at the back where the fucking useless heap was heaviest, and Yashkin at the side with his hand through the open window, manoeuvring the steering-wheel. Traffic had built behind them, horns had blasted, but no one had helped. They had pushed the Polonez half the length of Komsomolskaya Street, almost reached the city, when Yashkin had wrenched the wheel and they had been on the forecourt of a small garage.

  Molenkov had sagged against the car’s roof and gasped fo
r breath.

  Yashkin had negotiated. Of course, the men were about to finish their day. Cash had oiled the palm of the chief mechanic.

  Molenkov had heard the man say that the Polonez would be repaired and ready for the road by morning – the description of the engine’s death indicated an electrical malfunction, and the two old gentlemen should find lodging for the night.

  And he had heard Yashkin say that they would sleep on the floor with their car. The chief mechanic had suggested that the Polonez be unloaded, the weight in the back taken out, before the car was pushed on to the ramp above the pit, and Yashkin had refused, with vehemence, then winked, as if he were an old thief moving stolen goods, or contraband. More money had been passed. More than a half of the cash they carried between them had slid into the back pocket of the chief mechanic, the fucking criminal.

  They couldn’t have gone together to find a café and food. Molenkov had lumbered off into the night in search of rolls, cheese and an apple each. They had eaten, then lain down on the floor, with the dirt and the sump oil.

  An hour ago, Molenkov had heard the engine started, and the old girl had run, he’d admit it, sweetly. He had tried to wake Yashkin to tell him that the repair was effected, but he had been sworn at and Yashkin had rolled over on to his side, away from him.

  He shifted again. The bones of his buttocks dug into flesh. No respite to be found on the concrete floor. A night light, dulled, had been left on. He saw it. Was not certain, at first, of what he saw, then had confirmation. A rat quartered the oil-covered floor around the edge of the pit.

  He looked across and saw the tail of the car weighed down.

  He thought of what the car carried – lost all hope of an hour’s sleep in the last hour of the night – its weight, what he did, and what Yashkin did, and— A convulsing cough broke next to him. Yashkin shook, his head jerked up, and his hands rubbed hard at his eyes.

  Yashkin grinned. Then he punched Molenkov’s shoulder and chuckled. The pain in his body was sheer and clear-running, and Yashkin chuckled.

  Yashkin said, ‘I wouldn’t have believed it. In all this shit, on the floor, I slept like a baby. As good a night’s sleep as I can remember. What’s the matter? Didn’t you sleep?’

  Molenkov had been awake to think of guilt.

  Yashkin’s arm was round the shoulder where his punch had fallen. ‘I can sleep anywhere. I feel refreshed. You know, Molenkov, it could have been worse.’

  Molenkov stood up, went to the pit, reached up, lifted the tail door and removed his bag. He unzipped it and took out his razor, some soap and the shaving-brush. He went towards the back of the workshop where there was a stinking lavatory and a grimy basin.

  Yashkin called after him, ‘We should face the new day with confidence. What a team we make.’

  He came out of the bathroom. Carrick had run the shower at full power as hot as he could bear it, and his skin tingled. He thought he had put some warmth back into his body. He had towelled himself with aggression, every word spat at him and every nuanced gesture from the night’s actions and encounter alive in him. He stepped over the sodden suit, shirt and shoes that littered the carpet.

  The alarm went. He had reached the hotel some fifteen minutes before, had shown his guest card to the night porter or would not have been admitted. In the room’s mirror, he had seen himself half drowned, dishevelled, and had stripped. He had put on the TV. God alone knew why – maybe for company.

  Carrick killed the alarm. He stood naked in the centre of the room, grimaced, and let his fingernails scrape into the skin of his palms, as if that would purge him of what he had done. He blanked out the insults spat quietly at him. The TV showed commercials. He took a plastic laundry sack from the wardrobe and dumped his clothes and shoes in it. He wrote his name and room number on it, as if his work still had a future ahead of it. He dressed. Had only the one change. A weather forecast played on the TV. He buttoned a shirt, knotted a tie, smoothed his hair, buffed his second shoes with a handkerchief, pocketed his wallet and the mobile phone, had everything, and was three minutes away from changeover time.

  He left his laundry outside his door. Went the few paces down the corridor. Knocked. If the surveillance hadn’t tracked him, if the bastard hadn’t come to the step in the doorway on Fuggerstrasse, he wouldn’t have been at the outer door of the anteroom now, and it would have been over. Damp passport in a damp hand, taken from a damp jacket, offered at Tempelhof, and a flight home, telling himself he didn’t give a damn, a bus into London and a walk to a Pimlico street: ‘Sorry and all that, George, but I wasn’t up for it. Anything else on the horizon?’ The door was opened and he saw Viktor.

  Carrick thought the man studied him. He thought the eyes covered his hair, his face, his tie knot and the clean shirt, the well-pressed suit that had been hung long enough in the wardrobe to lose the bag’s creases, the shoes.

  Carrick was hit by it. Why did a man coming on guard duty at four in the morning, to lounge for four hours on an anteroom settee, shower and shave as if it was party time, put on a clean shirt and suit and change his shoes? Couldn’t answer it, and didn’t know whether Viktor asked. And didn’t know whether the Russian, an hour or two back, had come out of the anteroom, gone to his door, rapped on it and not been answered. Viktor had on scuffed shoes with the laces undone, crumpled trousers, a shirt open halfway to his waist and no tie. No comb had been through his hair. When Viktor turned to fetch his jacket, Carrick saw the pistol in his belt.

  ‘Is there anything I should know?’ he asked.

  He thought Viktor smiled but could not be certain of it, then shook his head.

  ‘What’s the programme for the morning?’

  Now Carrick was sure Viktor smiled, and was gone.

  Chapter 10

  13 April 2008

  They drove out from the new centre of Berlin.

  Carrick had come off duty in the anteroom. He had missed breakfast and had been on his bed for perhaps an hour. Then Viktor rapped hard on his door and told him to be dressed, ready to leave in ten minutes. He had sensed a different mood in the man; something smug, contented, as if a decision had been taken.

  Viktor was at the wheel and Carrick was beside him, the Bossman on the back seat. No talk. Viktor concentrated on traffic, the tail end of the rush-hour, but they were going away from the commercial district of glass, steel and concrete towers, and went through old streets. Many of the signs there were in Turkish, and a street market, a long line of stalls that backed on to a canal, had appeared. The day was starting up. Clothing was being hung on rails, meat was being displayed, vegetables and fruit carefully heaped in pyramids. Music wailed from radios and speakers. Carrick did not know where he was because he had no knowledge of Berlin. Neither did he know where they were headed because he had not been told; it was not right for him to ask. He sat beside Viktor, eyed the pavements and acted the role of bodyguard.

  He thought his Bossman was subdued and that, in contrast, Viktor had found confidence. He reckoned that the route and destination had been agreed by Josef Goldmann and the minder, but he was not inside the loop.

  Carrick sensed growing danger, but could not identify it so could not respond. It was what they talked about endlessly in SCD10. The sensing of danger and the response to intuition were subjects they chewed at daily. It was an unwritten law, at SCD10, that the safety of the officer was paramount – but he’d thought the law had no writ over Golf, who had lectured and humiliated him in the office-block doorway. At SCD10, there was a laid-down tactical approach of specifics and generalities. The agent was not expected to hazard his security in pushing an investigation the extra mile. Where possible, meetings with targets should be in public places, restaurants, bars and hotel lobbies, so that the back-up could be close enough to intervene; and there were those dark times of uncertainty when an eyeball view of the agent was not available, and it was said that those times, for the handlers, were like the old space shots when the returning capsule was on re-entry and rad
io contact was lost, and they must wait for the call sign to be given, the sight again of their man. They also said, in the Pimlico office, over tea and coffee, that the first rule for an undercover was to hatch an idea of his exit route. Where was the door? Where did it lead to? Carrick didn’t know, now, where there were firearms in close support – whether they even existed – and he had no idea of where his exit route should be, but his sense of danger cut the silence in the car.

  They had gone past the street market.

  The buildings around him were more dilapidated.

  There was the greyness of neglect. Shadows fell further and deeper.

  Women, kids, old men wearing caps, fags hanging from their mouths, stared at the big car crossing their territory.

  Then they were beyond the blocks and the rain fell harder on the windscreen, the wipers working faster.

  Into a cul-de-sac. There were steel security railings topped with spikes and rambling coils of razor wire. A gate was open. A man stood by it and waved Viktor inside. Carrick could not see the man’s face because he had a scarf across his mouth and cheeks. In the mirror, the gate was closed after them. The first rule of the Pimlico office was to know the exit route: he did – it was that gate set in a spiked, wired fence. He thought that, behind him, Josef Goldmann’s breath came faster and, beside him, that Viktor smirked. The car braked in front of an old brick-built warehouse. Some of the windows were open to the elements, the glass panes smashed, and some were boarded up. Water cascaded from two useless gutters, and grass grew from the space under the eaves. A small door was set in the brickwork where Viktor had stopped the car

  They walked through, his Bossman first, then Carrick and Viktor … Guys came to SCD10 and lectured. A few were from the FBI but most were older men who had packed up doing undercover for a living. Some dealt with it – what was going through Carrick’s mind and louder than the alarm beside his bed – and some spoke of it only when questioned. Yes, they all looked for exit routes. No, they had never used the cop-out and run. Yes, they had all felt the instinct of danger. No, they had never quit, thrown that bloody lamp through the window, or made an excuse, gone out through the door and turned their back on the business. The last FBI man to come to Pimlico had used the word ‘iced’ to describe an undercover pulled out because the danger was thought too great … No chance that the head honcho, Golf, would lift him out – no damn chance.