Timebomb (Paul Richter)

by James Barrington

  ‘The Customs people will be targeting German cars,’ Simpson pointed out.

  ‘Good plan. Unfortunately, we’ve no idea if Morschel’s men will be driving German vehicles. He arrived in a car on German plates, but the vehicle itself was probably registered in Austria. Remember how Stevens was driving a French-registered hire car, so these people probably hired cars from a bunch of different locations in Western Europe – France, Belgium, Holland, Italy, Spain or wherever – and we can’t hope to stop every non-British-plated vehicle. And there’s nothing to say, either, that they didn’t fly to Britain and hire cars here to drive back to Germany. No, I don’t think we’re going to recover any of that money, and I very much doubt if we’ll see any of those guys standing in the dock.’

  ‘In short, we’ve been comprehensively pissed on,’ Simpson said acidly.

  ‘In a nutshell, yes. But we did get Morschel and the man I presume was his number two, which should please the German authorities, and we stopped them detonating London’s permanent timebomb in the Thames Estuary, so in that sense you could say we lost the battle but won the war.’

  ‘Good cliché.’

  ‘Good and, like most clichés, also true. But this isn’t quite over yet.’

  ‘You think you can find this bin Salalah?’ Simpson’s surprise was obvious.

  Richter shook his head. ‘Not any time soon, and I wasn’t actually thinking about him. I meant Gregory Stevens. I know he’s dead, but I’ve been going over what he told me – or rather didn’t tell me. We know he was a former CIA officer who “died” shortly after retirement from the agency so that he could operate undercover more easily. When I talked to him down at Maidstone, he made a remark that didn’t make much sense at the time. We were discussing this bombing campaign, and Stevens said something like “It wasn’t really Morschel’s idea.” I meant to ask him what he meant by that, but I forgot.

  ‘Now, put that together with what I learnt from John Westwood at Langley that something called The Special Group was probably involved with this operation, and I’m wondering if the prime mover in this plan was actually Stevens himself or, in fact, the man he was reporting to. In short, I think it’s possible that Morschel’s bombing campaign was orchestrated, or at the very least suggested, by somebody in Washington.’

  ‘Are you serious? Why the hell would the Yanks want to do that? Aren’t we supposed to be their staunchest allies?’

  ‘Right now, I’ve no idea. But Stevens did tell me that I wouldn’t have believed his briefing.’

  ‘So what are you going to do about it? Do you actually know who briefed him?’

  ‘He may have been a CIA officer named Richard Kellerman, but he’s dead too.’

  Richter told Simpson what Westwood had discovered about Kellerman’s murder in Washington, and his possible link to Stevens.

  ‘But if Stevens and Kellerman are both dead, that’s the end of the trail, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not necessarily. If John Westwood’s right, Kellerman was just an expendable junior officer instructed to deliver a briefing, who was then killed simply to tie up a loose end. If so, I need to talk to the man who ordered his assassination, because he was ultimately the brains behind whatever this plan was about.’

  And how, pray, can you do that?’

  ‘There might be a way.’ Richter then explained what he’d found on the sheet of coded groups that Cheltenham had decrypted for him.

  ‘OK,’ Simpson said, when he’d finished, ‘so now you’ll want to head across the pond, I suppose?’

  ‘Probably not, in fact. My guess is that this mystery man would have wanted to be in at the kill, so to speak, and I think he’s probably already over here. Once the bombing campaign finished, he would want to ensure Gregory Stevens wouldn’t be able to tell anyone what he’d been up to, because he really was the last loose end. I suspect he’s still here, waiting for Stevens to show himself, and then he’ll try and kill him.’

  ‘But Stevens is already dead.’

  ‘We know that, but I specifically asked the Kent woodentops to keep it quiet as long as possible, so most likely this guy won’t be aware of it. I hope. So I’m going to use Stevens’s emergency exfiltration code and see what that produces.’

  Simpson mulled that over for a few moments, then nodded agreement. ‘Approved. Do you need any backup?’

  ‘Yes, but I’ll arrange it myself, thanks. I think this operation has been very tightly controlled, and the last thing this man will want is a lot more people getting involved, especially if they might become witnesses to a killing. My guess is, if he responds at all, he’ll be acting by himself, or maybe just with one or two accomplices. But I’ve no doubt they’ll be bristling with weapons.’

  ‘Right. Just make sure you extract whatever information he’s got before you blow him away. No doubt that’s your intention?’

  ‘Oh, yes. This man may personally have clean hands, but he’s indirectly responsible for dozens of deaths. If I’ve got anything to do with it, he’ll be heading back to the States in a pine box.’

  American Embassy, Grosvenor Square, London

  Carlin F. Johnson had two mobile phones, only one of which was registered to him. The second one contained a pay-as-you-go chip, and he only switched it on for three one-hour periods every day. Since the operation began, it had never rung once, but that evening, at exactly seven twenty-nine, it did.

  Johnson made no attempt to answer it, just checked the caller’s identity, which was predictably unhelpful, as the phone simply reported a ‘private number’. He looked at his watch and began counting. It rang three times, then stopped. Two minutes later, it rang again and this time stopped after precisely nine rings. After that, it remained silent, but the mobile had conveyed all the information he needed. Stevens had completed his assignment, even though Johnson was somewhat disappointed with the result, and the code ‘3, 9’ meant he should ‘meet at the emergency rendezvous tomorrow morning at ten twenty’.

  And that meant he had plenty of time to make all the preparations necessary.

  Chapter Twenty

  Tuesday

  Dungeness, Kent

  It was almost, Richter thought, like a moonscape: bleak and with a peculiar other-world feel to it. Dungeness was, without question, one of the strangest places he’d ever visited. The beach, if one could call it that, was shingle and almost completely flat, with metalled roads meandering through it, an expanse dotted with what looked like large beach huts, but which on closer examination were more like small weekend cottages. In total contrast, the western edge of the promontory was dominated by the distant hulking shape of the Dungeness nuclear power station.

  He’d checked the location very carefully the previous evening. The sheet of paper the Kent detectives had found in Stevens’s hotel room, and that GCHQ had subsequently decrypted, had specified the exact geographical coordinates of this emergency rendezvous, and also a simple date and time code to be conveyed by ringing a particular mobile phone number.

  Richter had arrived there at a quarter to ten and parked the Jaguar – claiming to Simpson that he needed the car’s built-in satnav to make sure he found the place in time – at the precise location, which was simply an unmarked concrete slab just off the single-track road. In his shoulder holster he had the Browning, and resting on the passenger seat was the fully loaded SPAS-12, the best close-quarter weapon he’d ever used.

  He glanced at his watch. Ten zero five. If the man was going to turn up at all, he should arrive in about fifteen minutes. But even as that uncertain thought crossed his mind, he saw two black American Ford saloon cars approaching, the vehicles bouncing on their soft springs as they lurched over the uneven surface.

  Richter left the shotgun on the passenger seat, but pulled out the Browning and checked it yet again. Then he replaced it in the holster and waited, watching the approaching vehicles carefully.

  One Ford stopped about twenty feet away, on the other side of the concrete slab, and the second on the road
just behind it. The windows and windscreens of both vehicles were heavily tinted, and all Richter could see were a couple of vague shapes in each.

  Then a man climbed out of the driver’s side of the car nearest to him. The moment Richter saw him move, he did the same. He picked up the SPAS-12, stepped out of the Jaguar and walked round the car to lean against the passenger door. The figure who had emerged from the Ford looked American – dark suit, loafers, a light tan and dark hair cropped short – and he stared across at Richter with a sour expression. The MAC-10 submachine gun he was holding also looked American. The weapon, Richter saw immediately, was fitted with a bulky suppressor, which was hardly good news, and the man looked as if he knew exactly how to use it.

  To his left, Richter heard the sound of car doors closing and glanced round. Two other men – virtual clones of the first one – had emerged from the second car and immediately moved apart. He noted, without surprise, that each was also holding a MAC-10, and that the muzzles of the sub-machine guns were pointing directly at him.

  He was instantly outgunned and guessed that, if he raised the shotgun, now hanging loosely from his right hand, he’d be dead in seconds. But he didn’t even attempt to move because, apart from the SPAS-12, he had two aces up his sleeve.

  ‘Figures,’ the man opposite him muttered and slapped the roof of his car. Immediately, the passenger door opened. Yet another man stepped out and glared over at Richter.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ he demanded. ‘And where’s Stevens?’

  ‘Stevens didn’t make it,’ Richter said. ‘But we thought you’d want to know what happened to him.’

  ‘How did you know our emergency rendezvous routine?’

  ‘We decrypted the data sheet you supplied him, or maybe that was Kellerman.’

  ‘How the hell do you know about Kellerman? And who are you?’ he repeated.

  ‘My name’s Richter, and I work for the British government,’ Richter responded, ‘and we’ve been tracking your man Stevens for a while.’ A lie, but it could easily have been the truth. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘It’s Johnson, not that you’re going to live long enough to use that information.’

  ‘We’ll see about that,’ Richter replied. ‘We know that when Agent Kellerman was shot in Washington it wasn’t just a random mugging. Who did you order to do it, then? The chauffeur? That was Roy Craven, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Jesus, what the hell else do you know?’

  ‘Almost everything.’

  ‘So why are you here?’

  ‘I’m here because about the only thing we don’t know about this business is why. Why did you order this operation? Oh, and we don’t know who you really are either, but actually we don’t care. We just assumed you were another expendable asset recruited by The Special Group to do their dirty work.’

  The American was clearly growing more angry by the second, and Richter guessed he’d like nothing better than to order the three bodyguards, who’d barely moved a muscle since they’d climbed out of the Fords, to kill him and end this.

  ‘OK, wise guy. I don’t give a flying fuck who you are, who you work for, or what you know. This operation is over. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t shoot you right now.’

  ‘I can give you two, actually,’ Richter said. ‘This beach may look pretty deserted, but it’s not. There are two SAS snipers with rifles trained on you right now.’

  The American glanced round uncertainly, then swung back to face Richter.

  ‘You’re bluffing.’

  Am I?’ Richter asked. ‘Left-hand rear,’ he murmured.

  There was an almost instant bang from the back of the car next to the Jaguar, and the left-hand rear tyre of the Ford blew, the sound followed a split second later by the flat crack of a rifle shot.

  ‘I hope you remembered to bring the spare wheel and a jack,’ Richter said, almost conversationally. ‘Now,’ he continued, ‘what I’d like is for your three goons to drop those ugly little MAC-10s right now and then climb back into their cars and shut the doors.’

  ‘There are four of us, and one of you, plus the guys you’ve got staking out this place. Suppose I just tell my guys to open up?’

  ‘You’re welcome to try, obviously. You can probably see a small black object here on my lapel. That’s a microphone, and on my belt there’s a radio transmitter. Every word you or I say is being listened to by the snipers. The moment you try anything, two of your three men will be taken out. The good news is, they won’t feel anything. Then it’ll just be two of you looking down the barrel of this combat shotgun. So it’s up to you.’

  Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

  Ahmed bin Salalah paid the driver and stepped out of the air-conditioned cab on the outskirts of the city. He waited on the pavement until the vehicle was out of sight, then made his way swiftly down a succession of side streets, getting further and further away from the main road. He stopped at an unmarked door set in a whitewashed wall and knocked three times. After a few moments a narrow horizontal slit was opened from the inside and he found himself staring into a pair of hostile dark-brown, almost black, eyes. The slit slammed shut, and bin Salalah heard the sound of keys rotating in locks and bolts sliding back. The handle turned, and he stepped through into a narrow hallway. Two heavily built Arabs holding Kalashnikovs nodded a greeting to him and gestured for him to advance. Three doors opened off the hall, two of them closed and one open. Bin Salalah paused at the open doorway and gazed into the room beyond.

  Inside, three men sat on large cushions arranged more or less in a circle, a brass tray in the middle of the floor, coffee pots, tiny cups and plates of sweetmeats arranged on it. Leaning against the walls behind them were several assault rifles and two RPG launchers. The men stood up as bin Salalah entered and greeted him warmly. Then they sat down again and all four ate and drank while discussing everything except the immediate reason for bin Salalah’s presence. Only when they’d finished and the tray had been removed did they finally turn to the business at hand.

  ‘So, Ahmed,’ the oldest man began, ‘tell us what went wrong.’

  Dungeness, Kent

  Johnson stared at Richter, then glanced in the direction from which he thought the shot had probably come – a wide and featureless area of the beach – and then nodded to the three armed men standing nearby. Reluctantly, they lowered their sub-machine guns and placed them on the ground, then walked slowly back to their cars and got inside them.

  ‘So what now?’

  ‘I’d like some answers,’ Richter said, ‘otherwise the next bullet from the sniper will be aimed straight at you. Now, what was the purpose of this operation? Why exactly did you order Stevens to orchestrate a bombing campaign in Europe and then tell him to ensure the casualties were minimized?’

  ‘Is that what he told you?’ The American laughed shortly. ‘It was nothing like that. He was just meant to infiltrate a terrorist network, nothing more.’

  ‘Now why don’t I believe you?’ Richter asked. ‘Oh, yes, it’s because I talked to Stevens myself, and what he told me is rather different. Last chance, and your choice. I say one word and you’ll die right here, right now. Or you tell me what the hell’s been going on and then, if I believe you, you might still be able to walk away.’

  ‘Oh, shit,’ the man muttered, looking at Richter and clearly not liking what he saw. ‘OK, I’ll tell you, but just remember I’ve got diplomatic immunity. If you kill me, or my men, you’ll be in a world of trouble.’

  ‘I’ll take my chances. Go on, tell me.’

  ‘Look, originally it wasn’t my plan, but you’re right about The Special Group. That was where the idea came from. I was just tasked with its implementation. You have to understand the atmosphere in Washington. The President was getting worried about America’s place in the world. In the first Gulf War, we had the approval of almost every nation on earth. In the second, our only real ally was Britain and the President was concerned even then that British support was starting to slip away.
He saw the anti-war protests in Britain and he knew your government is basically weak and too much swayed by public opinion, and he was worried that the “Special Relationship” was starting to unravel.’

  ‘So what did he do?’

  ‘He tasked The Special Group with concocting a scheme that would ensure Britain stayed firmly on-side.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘They looked at the aftermath of the 9/11 atrocity back home, and the way the American people reacted to it. There was a lot of anger and a lot of blame directed at the intelligence community for not preventing it from happening, but the country basically closed ranks against al Qaeda and against radical Islam. Then they studied the July 7th bombings in London and saw that there was almost the same result. A lot of questions were asked about intelligence failures and why that group of men had decided to carry out the attacks, but there was no question of changes in policy or initiating a dialogue with the terrorists.

  ‘The Special Group reported these findings to the President, but he wasn’t convinced. He thought the next time America needed public support to take on one of those countries designated as part of the “Axis of Evil”, Britain might not be willing to step up to the plate. It wasn’t military support he was worried about – America can handle that, no problem – but world opinion is important. What the US can’t do is be seen to be acting all alone. We absolutely need at least one other nation to support us, and the only one that’s ever done that consistently is Britain. If Britain were to refuse, that would be a serious blow to us.’

  ‘I think I can see where this is going, unfortunately, but carry on.’