south to Casablanca. We have cargo in the holds for Piraeus, Durres and Tunis, and we have scheduled cargo collections at Tunis, Marseille and Tangier for delivery to Rabat and Casablanca. The return voyage is much the same, with cargo to be collected in the western Mediterranean for delivery to Sicily, Greece and Crete.’
Zavorin nodded and studied the chart for a few minutes. ‘Well, Captain,’ he said at last, ‘there will have to be some changes.’
Bondarev grunted. ‘I expected that.’
‘The first change,’ Zavorin went on, ‘will be an additional stop to collect cargo – actually special equipment for my men – before we reach Istanbul.’
‘Which port?’ Bondarev asked.
‘I don’t know yet,’ Zavorin replied. ‘This mission was undertaken at short notice, and the equipment will take time to assemble. My guess is Constanta, but it could be Varna or Burgas.’ He tapped the names of the three ports, on the Black Sea’s west coast, with a pencil.
‘No problem,’ Bondarev said. ‘And after Istanbul and the Bosphorus?’
Zavorin looked thoughtful, and used a pair of dividers to measure distances on the chart. ‘I want to keep to the ship’s programmed route as much as possible, to avoid attracting attention. Piraeus should not be a problem, but we will not be able to make Durres or Marseille if we are to keep on schedule. Yes,’ he said. ‘Have your navigator prepare a new course from Istanbul to Piraeus, then Tunis and Tangier, and signal the authorities in Durres and Marseille that the
Bondarev was in no doubt that this was an order. ‘And after Tangier?’ he asked, jotting a note on a pad.
Zavorin smiled. ‘I don’t think we will make Tangier,’ he said. ‘The ship will develop engine trouble and will be forced to put in to Gibraltar.’
Bondarev bristled slightly. ‘My ship has never had engine trouble.’
Zavorin nodded. ‘I know. That is one reason why this vessel was selected. But on this voyage, it will develop engine trouble and we will put in to port to get it rectified.’
‘Why Gibraltar?’ Bondarev asked.
Zavorin shook his head. ‘You do not need to know that, Captain. Let me just say that we will be collecting another item of cargo there – an item of crucial importance to Russia.’
There was a knock on the door. Bondarev slid it open and took the signal from the radioman – one of Zavorin’s men – who stood there. He read it and then passed it to Zavorin. ‘Good,’ Zavorin murmured. ‘The equipment will be ready for us at Varna in four hours.’
Bondarev bent over the chart. ‘We are now about six hours out of Varna,’ he said.
‘Excellent, Captain,’ Zavorin replied. ‘I will go and brief my men.’
John Westwood leaned back in his chair, poured himself another cup of coffee and rubbed his tired eyes. The jet lag was starting to catch up with him, he thought, stifling a yawn. Abrahams sat silently, digesting what he had been told. ‘You see the problem?’ Westwood asked.
Abrahams nodded. ‘Yeah. One, your top-level source in Moscow tells you that a covert assault by the CIS on the West is in progress. Two, you can’t find any trace of preparations for any kind of assault, anywhere. Three, an attack by the CIS makes no sense in the current political climate. Four, the Russians might have developed a kind of super neutron bomb. Five, if they have, and they deploy it, the weapon will actually favour the Western alliance in any future conflict.’ He looked across at his former chief. ‘Is that about it?’
‘Pretty much,’ Westwood nodded.
‘That’s complete nonsense, so we must be missing something. Somewhere there’s a key that will lock that lot, and tie everything together. Right. I understand the background, but what exactly do you want me – or rather CIA London Station – to do about it?’
Westwood looked across the table. ‘Nothing much. We’ve talked the tail off this, and we’ve got exactly nowhere. What we really need is more data, more information about whatever the hell is going on in the Kremlin or the SVR or GRU or wherever. In short, we need a lead. Do you,’ he asked, ‘have any contacts with the British Secret Intelligence Service, or MI6 or whatever they’re calling themselves these days?’
Abrahams nodded. ‘Of course we have. That’s one reason why we’re here.’
Westwood shook his head. ‘Sorry, I’m not explaining myself. I know about the official contacts and information exchange. What I meant was unofficial contacts. Someone who is sufficiently well placed to find out if SIS has any agents-in-place in Russia who could find out what the hell is going on.’ As Roger Abrahams looked at him quizzically, Westwood continued. ‘Look, at the moment I don’t want this on an official level. It could all be some disinformation scheme by the SVR to get us chasing our tails, running round all the Western intelligence agencies, and generally looking like klutzes. That’s what I hope. Or it could be real, and RAVEN could be genuine, in which case we have to try to protect him as well as stop this assault. In either case, the last thing we want to do is to start officially involving allied intelligence services. They’re still leaky, and if the threat is real and word gets back to the Kremlin that we’re on to it, this could turn from a covert assault to an overt one real fast.’
‘OK, we might be able to help. I know a guy called Piers Taylor – we meet socially as well as professionally. He’s deputy head of Section Nine of SIS.’
‘Which is?’ Westwood interrupted.
‘Responsible for Russian affairs,’ Abrahams concluded. ‘I’ll try and set up a meet.’
The Jaguar driver tried to steer to the left, which was the way his car was heading anyway, then realized that was what Richter wanted, so he turned the wheel right. He was too late, much too late. The Jaguar hit the verge, metal screamed against metal, and Richter pulled away, spinning the wheel hard right. The XJ6 bounced off the verge and on to the road, but the tail of the Granada caught its offside front wing and slammed it back to the left.
Richter braked the Granada to a stop fifty yards in front, twisted round in the seat and stared back at the Jaguar. Then he slowly reversed back, ready to take off at the first sign of any hostile movement. The Jaguar wasn’t going to move under its own power for a long time. A concrete plinth housing a manhole cover had done most of the damage, and Richter could see that the radiator had gone, steam pouring from the crumpled bonnet.
The driver was unconscious, lolling forward in his seat and still belted in securely, but with blood pouring from a bad head wound. Richter guessed he’d probably hit the door pillar. There was no sign of movement from the back seat, so Richter got quietly out of the Granada, leaving the engine running and the door open, and walked cautiously towards the Jaguar. About halfway there, he picked up a good-sized rock, about six or seven pounds in weight, and took a careful grip of it with his right hand. Then he walked to the Jaguar and peered cautiously through what was left of the rear side window.
The passenger was lying on the floor, moaning softly and shaking his head. His pistol – a Colt .45 automatic – lay on the floor beside him, within easy reach of his right hand. Richter knew he’d have to act fast, before the man cleared his head and started shooting. He took a deep breath and pulled open the nearside rear door with his left hand.
As the door opened, the man inside looked up, then grabbed for the Colt, moving much faster than Richter had anticipated. He twisted round, brought up his gun hand and squeezed the trigger. But Richter had been expecting it, and the gunman hadn’t been expecting the rock.
Richter parried, the shot tore through the roof of the Jaguar, and with all the force of his right arm Richter brought the rock down on the side of the gunman’s head. He dropped, and the gun dropped too. For good measure Richter picked up the rock again and brought it down on the back of the driver’s head.
Richter backed out of the car, deafened by the noise of the shot, and shook his head slowly, then took the rock over to the Granada, where he wrapped it in a road map and put it on the floor mat in front of the passenger seat. He reached into the glove box and pulled out a pair of thin leather driving gloves and put them on. Then he took the demisting cloth, walked back to the Jaguar and wiped the door handle where he’d touched it.
Richter picked up the Colt, set the safety catch, and put the pistol in the waistband of his trousers. The man
