Dewar hadn’t been exaggerating about the torque needed to undo them. Richter could feel his chest tightening with the effort, and stopped. ‘Here,’ he said to one of the troopers. ‘You’re a bloody sight stronger than I am. You do it.’
‘Me?’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll tell you exactly what you have to do.’
The trooper took the ratchet, pulled apparently quite gently, and the first bolt began to turn.
‘Good,’ Richter said. ‘I’ll unscrew it the rest of the way. Now undo the bolt diagonally opposite to that one.’ With the full force of the trooper’s impressive shoulders behind the ratchet, the first four bolts shifted easily. ‘Now,’ Richter said, ‘we come to the tricky bit.’
‘Yes?’
‘There are now only two bolts holding the trigger in place. We have to remove those, but we must hold the trigger steady. If it moves sideways, it could detonate the weapon.’
‘Understood.’
The trooper inserted the Allen key in the fifth bolt head. Richter wrapped his hands around the trigger and nodded. The trooper pulled, and the bolt gave. ‘Don’t unscrew it yet,’ Richter said. ‘First loosen the last one.’
The trooper repeated the process, then unscrewed each bolt a half-turn at a time, until they were only finger-tight. ‘Right,’ Richter said, and took a firm grip on the trigger. ‘Take both of them out, all the way.’ The trooper bent forward and began to unscrew the last bolts.
Trushenko’s face was set with concentration as he identified the device he wished to trigger and entered the first authorization code. As a fail-safe, two authorization codes had to be entered before any weapon could be activated, and the mainframe computer requested the second immediately after acceptance of the first.
Trushenko looked at the screen and paused for a few seconds. He thought about Gibraltar – a place he had never visited – and of the unsuspecting thousands of people there, sleeping, working, making love or whatever. People he had never known, and now would never know. Then he thought about
‘You can’t,’ he muttered, ‘make an omelette without breaking eggs.’ Trushenko referred back to his book and carefully entered the second authorization code. Then he logged off and switched off his laptop computer. The system had been exhaustively tested, and Trushenko knew that detonation of the weapon would take place in less than ninety seconds.
Anton Kirov
The trooper pulled the last bolt clear, and Richter rotated the trigger assembly very slightly, just to ensure that it hadn’t got stuck in position. ‘Nobody say anything, nobody move.’ As Richter began, millimetre by millimetre, to ease the trigger out of the bomb casing, Ross pointed silently at the back of the assembly. An orange light had just illuminated. Richter glanced at the Cyrillic script below it. ‘Oh, shit,’ he said. ‘That’s the start of the detonation sequence. Someone’s activated the weapon.’
The trigger unit seemed longer and heavier than the one in the London weapon, but Richter knew it wasn’t. He moved faster, and the unit was almost halfway out when the red light illuminated.
‘What’s that?’ Ross asked, his voice hoarse with fear.
‘Preparation for firing,’ Richter said. The green light came on the instant Richter pulled the trigger clear of the casing, and with a metallic clang the four recessed bolts slammed into the fully extended position. The force was so great that he dropped the trigger, but it fell harmlessly beside the bomb casing.
‘If anyone,’ Richter said, slumping down beside the bomb, ‘wants to change their trousers now, that’s fine by me.’
On the Mole, chaos reigned. The noise of the small arms’ fire and stun grenades had echoed round the harbour, and the Ministry of Defence police, two fire engines and an ambulance were in attendance. So, too, were the crews of most of the other vessels moored along the North Mole. Three of Ross’s troopers were standing in line abreast, a silent threat, their sub-machineguns pointed in the general direction of the crowd. An MoD police inspector was standing in front of one of the troopers, making a lot of noise and demanding to see identity cards, weapon permits and authorizations, but nobody was actually listening to him.
Ross and Richter walked down the gangway. Colin Dekker was waiting for them at the bottom, sitting on a bollard.
‘SITREP?’ Ross asked.
‘We lost Carter,’ Dekker said, standing up. ‘He took a head shot from the Russian on the bow when we boarded. Flemming was hit at the same time, but his vest saved him – he’s walking wounded. We’ve got five other injured troopers, all minor.’
Colin Dekker looked at Richter. ‘Is it done?’
‘Yes,’ Richter said. ‘It’s done.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
Thursday
Richter sat on a pile of wooden boxes on the North Mole and called London on his mobile telephone. Simpson was asleep on a camp bed in his office, but was in on the conference call within two minutes. Richter felt bone-weary, and it showed in his voice. ‘The Gibraltar weapon is disarmed,’ he reported.
‘Any casualties on our side?’ Simpson asked.
‘Yes. One dead and half a dozen minor injuries. The opposition,’ he added, ‘came off rather worse than that.’
‘I’m sorry about this,’ Simpson said, after a pause, ‘but we need you back here as soon as possible. We have another problem.’
‘What problem?’ Richter asked.
‘Not over an open line,’ Simpson said. ‘Your friendly RAF pilot is waiting for you at the airfield – we got him out of bed half an hour ago. Get back here as quickly as possible. There’ll be a car waiting for you at Northolt, and you can come into the building at the back, through the secure garage.’
‘Colin,’ Richter said, putting the phone in his pocket, ‘I have to go.’
‘OK,’ Dekker said. ‘Come and do the Fan Dance next time there’s a Selection.’
Richter smiled at him and shook his hand. ‘Not, if I can help it,’ he said.
Reilly was waiting at the airfield when Richter got there ten minutes later, and he had the Tornado airborne fifteen minutes after that. They landed at Northolt fifty-three minutes later. Richter climbed into the waiting Rover, still wearing the g-suit, leaned back in the seat, and closed his eyes.
The President was dozing in the leather armchair in the corner of the bunker when the message came through. ‘Mr President,’ the Army colonel shook him gently by the shoulder.
‘What is it?’ The grey-haired man was instantly awake.
‘A secure telex message from CIA London, sir.’ The Colonel handed over the flimsy. ‘Yesterday the British intercepted a nuclear weapon in transit through France which was intended for positioning in London, and about an hour ago they also located and disarmed another weapon in Gibraltar Harbour, aboard a Russian freighter.’
‘Did they now?’ the President said, scanning the paper quickly.
‘Perhaps more importantly, sir, an attempt was made to detonate the Gibraltar weapon by remote control, presumably by the Kremlin. The trigger was actuated as the British were removing it from the weapon.’ The
