‘Yes!’ Baker said loudly. ‘That’s more like it. It looks like a password request.’
‘That’s what it says,’ Richter agreed, nodding and leaning forwards. ‘Try
As Baker finished typing
Richter pointed at the screen. ‘There’s the username Karelin,’ he said. ‘So Nicolai Karelin must be an authorized user of this system, and the name he passed to Payne was his password into the computer.’
‘Excellent,’ said Baker. ‘Now we’re cooking. Let’s see what we can do. It all depends,’ he went on, ‘on Karelin’s access level.’
‘What’s an access level?’
‘It’s a means of regulating the facilities which each user can access. In a business, for example, the higher management personnel will have access to all the data files, but the accounts staff only to accounts programs and associated data, and typists just to the word processor and the letter files. You can compartmentalize the computer’s files in any way you like, but that would be a typical set-up. The most important user is the system supervisor or manager. He alone has access to everything – data and system files – at all times, and he can delete, copy or move files as he wishes, all as part of his job managing the network. What I’m hoping is that Karelin isn’t just a low-grade user. I’m hoping he’s the system administrator.’
‘Is he likely to be?’ Richter asked.
‘Probably not,’ said Baker. ‘My gut feeling is that the administrator is probably based at Yazenevo. Anyway, we’ll see in a couple of minutes.’ While he’d been talking, Baker had been studying the screen. ‘It looks like a fairly standard menu-based system,’ he said. ‘Can you just translate what these words mean for me?’
Richter looked at the screen. ‘There are only two headings,’ he said. ‘The first means Satellite Maintenance, and the second Weapon Maintenance.’
Baker looked disappointed. ‘I would have expected more than that,’ he said. ‘Still, let’s have a look inside.’ He selected Weapon Maintenance and Richter watched as a new screen of options was displayed. He ran down the list for Baker, translating each heading. Baker slumped low in the chair and shook his head. ‘These are all low-grade functions – there’s nothing here we can use to access the weapon control program. It looks as if Karelin is just a local operator, and he’s locked out of all the other options.’
‘Can you by-pass the security controls and access the weapon control functions?’
Baker considered this for a moment. ‘Possibly,’ he said, ‘but it would take a hell of a long time – days, maybe. This system’s been designed by someone who knew what they were doing, and I’d need to do a lot of playing around with it to get anywhere.’
‘The clock’s running,’ Richter reminded him.
‘I know,’ Baker said, and looked across at him. ‘I think we’re up shit creek. Unless we can find another password – a password for the system administrator or some high-level user – I don’t think we’re going to crack this.’
Captain Valentin Ivanovich Kabanov was a Ukrainian peasant by birth, and had spent all his working life in the SVR, most of it in and around Odessa. He had begun as a clerk, but his active brain and keen powers of observation had quickly elevated him, despite his lack of higher-level education, to field status.
When the alert message about Trushenko had arrived from Yazenevo, Kabanov had been directing a surveillance operation on the outskirts of Kherson, where the Dnieper drains into the Black Sea. The Odessa SVR operations room controller had called Kabanov on his mobile phone as a matter of course, but as the search for Trushenko was centred on the Crimea, there had been no obvious action for him and his team of five officers to undertake. At least, there had been no formal orders given, but Kabanov had not reached his present station in life waiting around for orders to be given.
He made two telephone calls to pull three of his team off the surveillance operation, then reached for a map of the Crimea and the Prichernomorskaya Nizmennost’ District and studied it carefully. The alert message from Yazenevo had not been very specific, but as Kabanov looked at the map, the more sure he became that the roadblocks were in the wrong place. If he had been looking for a place to hide, the island that was the Crimea would have been a long way down on his list. Unless, of course, the rebel minister had another way out.
Fifteen minutes later, Kabanov was briefing the Odessa SVR duty officer on his mobile phone as his two-car convoy sped south-east through Tsyurupinsk on the main road from Kherson to Kalanchak and Port-Khorly.
‘I have a feeling,’ Richter said, ‘that I’m missing something here.’
‘Apart from the system manager’s password, you mean?’ Baker said.
Something was bothering Richter. Something somebody had said, or hadn’t said. Like a half-remembered dream, it was lurking at the very edge of his memory. He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, willing his mind to go blank, to become as receptive as possible.
Baker looked at him curiously. He had heard a lot about Richter – staff gossip was just as prevalent at FOE as in any other close-knit organization – and Richter’s name had figured prominently in many of the stories he had heard or half-heard. Usually, the stories had involved violence of one sort or another; a mystic Richter was something altogether new.
Suddenly, Richter sat forward, his blue eyes snapping open. ‘The phone,’ he said. ‘Give me the phone.’
Dmitri Trushenko nosed the powerboat slowly through the port entrance and eased it gently alongside the jetty. It was a big boat for one man to control when mooring, but Trushenko was an accomplished boat-handler and had no difficulty. The jetty was deserted, apart from one elderly man slumped against a bollard with a fishing rod across his lap. When Trushenko looked closely at him, he realized that his eyes were closed.
Trushenko had parked the car as close as he could to the jetty, but it was still ten minutes before he unlocked the door and slid behind the wheel. The engine fired at the first turn of the key; he slid the car into gear and headed towards the centre of Port-Khorly.
On the jetty, the elderly man put down the fishing rod, sat upright and looked round cautiously as soon as he heard the sound of Trushenko’s receding footsteps. Then he climbed to his feet and walked towards the centre of the port, feeling in his pocket for some kopecks to make a local phone call. Like the KGB which preceded it, the SVR had eyes everywhere.
‘Good afternoon. American Embassy. How may I help you?’
‘Roger Abrahams, please,’ Richter said.
There was a brief pause, then the switchboard operator replied. ‘I’m not sure we have anyone here of that name.’ Standard procedure. None of the names of the CIA officers were a matter of public record, and the switchboard had standing orders to reject any caller who asked for a CIA officer by name.
‘Lady,’ Richter said slowly, ‘this is an open line, which I know you’re recording. I know Roger Abrahams personally. He’s your Agency Chief of Station, and I need to speak to him immediately. If he’s available, I would also like to speak to John Westwood, and you certainly don’t want me to tell you who he is on this line.’
There was a short silence, and then a male voice spoke. ‘Who is this?’
‘Richter. Is that you, Roger?’
‘Yup. What gives?’
Richter paused, choosing his words with some care. ‘It’s about that matter in France that John and I were
