after?’
‘Mainly,’ Taylor said, ‘access to a high-level source in Moscow.’
Richter’s eyes widened. ‘They don’t want much, do they? They don’t want the keys to the Kremlin as well?’ Richter glanced round the lounge. ‘Have you such a source?’ he asked.
Piers Taylor shook his head. ‘You know I can’t tell you,’ he murmured. ‘Need to know, and all that. However,’ he went on, ‘I think you can assume that if we had such a source we would not willingly risk compromising him without very good reason.’
Richter nodded. ‘And the Company couldn’t come up with a good reason?’
‘Not good enough,’ Taylor replied. ‘Just a lot of unsubstantiated stuff about a covert assault on the West.’
Richter sat straighter. ‘Covert assault? That’s sounds serious enough to me. What data did they supply?’
‘That’s the problem. They supplied almost nothing. They claim to have cultivated a high-level source of their own in Moscow, and that source started the hare running. The whole thing is subject to a NOFORN caveat, and they can’t, or won’t, be specific about any of it.’
‘Why don’t they get their source to confirm the data?’
Taylor shook his head. ‘They can’t,’ he replied. ‘They’ve had no contact with him since he sent this assault message.’
‘Hence the reason for them sniffing round SIS,’ Richter said.
‘Exactly.’
‘Have you told them you can’t help?’
‘Not yet,’ Taylor replied, ‘but we’re going to.’
Richter delivered a negative report to Simpson.
‘So where does that leave us?’ Simpson asked.
‘No further forward,’ Richter replied. He was almost thinking aloud. ‘If Payne’s presence at Sosnogorsk was simply to service an existing source, it can have nothing to do with the Blackbird over-flight a week later.’
‘We know that,’ Simpson interjected suddenly, ‘but the Russians didn’t.’
Richter looked at him with sudden respect. ‘That’s right,’ he said slowly. ‘They didn’t. Maybe it was just a horrible coincidence. If they have got something devious going on in that area that the Americans know about and haven’t told us, and if they had identified Payne as the Moscow Station Deputy Head, his visit to Sosnogorsk could easily be interpreted as an investigation by SIS. In that case, snatching Newman, as Payne’s superior, for questioning does make some kind of sense.’
They sat silently for a moment, both considering the matter from this new angle. ‘Recommendations?’ Simpson was suddenly icily efficient.
‘Two,’ Richter said. ‘First, I think I should talk to JARIC again and see if the vehicle concentrations they noted were anywhere near Sosnogorsk. Second, I wonder if we’re missing the obvious. The Americans are the ones who started this hare running when they flew the Blackbird. I think you should talk to the CIA London Chief of Station and try to find out what the hell it is that they think they’ve found up there.’
Simpson nodded. ‘Good idea. I’ll catch him at the next meeting of the Joint Intelligence Committee.’
‘Has anything come in since about the Blackbird surveillance films – from the Americans, I mean?’
Simpson shook his head. ‘Nothing. We had a brief note – sent direct from Langley to SIS, in fact – stating that the results had been negative. That was a couple of days after we released the films to them.’
‘Did you believe that?’
‘Of course not. Would you?’
‘No,’ Richter said. ‘There’s no way that the Americans would have made an over-flight of Russian territory in the Blackbird, risking a major international incident, unless they were certain that there was something there to find. And they certainly wouldn’t then simply drop the whole thing like a hot brick and do nothing about it. Something is going on, and I get the distinct feeling that we’re about to be handed the shitty end of a heavy stick. There’s something else you should know,’ he added, ‘which may make you decide to talk to the CIA London Chief of Station sooner rather than later.’
‘What?’
‘According to Piers Taylor, the Cousins have information that some sort of covert assault is in progress, directed against the West by Moscow.’
‘Details?’ Simpson snapped.
‘That’s the problem. There aren’t any. The Cousins are really cagey about it, Piers said, not least because Langley has slapped a NOFORN caveat on the whole thing. But they are serious,’ Richter continued. ‘They actually asked Piers if SIS had a high-level source in Moscow who could confirm the data they have.’
‘Jesus Christ.’
‘You move in more exalted circles than me,’ Richter said. ‘Have you heard any whispers? Anything at all?’
‘Nothing,’ Simpson replied. ‘Has Taylor any corroboration of this assault?’
Richter shook his head. ‘No, but he’s definitely taking it seriously. He thinks SIS will be tasking us with investigating it any time now.’
‘Right,’ Simpson said. ‘Try your contacts in the CIA. See if you can get any hint of what’s going on from them. Then try JARIC again – there must be something on those bloody films. I’ll try to get some sense out of the CIA Chief of Station or his deputy.’
Harvey Sharpe did not fit the popular image of a CIA officer. Short, balding, around fifty pounds overweight, and perspiring freely in the London heat, he gazed pinkly at Richter through thick-lensed glasses from the far side of his second dry Martini. He mopped ineffectively at his brow with a large green handkerchief, and Richter ordered him another drink from a passing waitress.
‘I wish you limeys would discover air conditioning,’ Sharpe complained. ‘This room is hot even without the crowd.’ It was seven twenty, and they were sitting at a tiny corner table in a packed wine bar just off Drury Lane, where the buzz of conversation made anything they said to each other completely inaudible to anyone else.
‘We’ve got a lot to learn from you, I’m sure,’ Richter said, and Sharpe gazed at him suspiciously.
‘Why the meeting, Paul? I’ve got a wife and kids I’d like to get back and see.’
Richter looked at him for a moment. He had three possible contacts in the London CIA – two in the Intelligence Division, and Harvey in Research. In fact, ‘Research’ was something of a misnomer, as the Division was in charge of technical intelligence, which included atomic weapons technology and, crucially, satellite and surveillance aircraft photographic interpretation. Harvey was a photographic and technical analyst – if anyone knew about the Blackbird films, he would. ‘Harvey,’ Richter said, ‘we have a problem. We don’t seem to be getting the co-operation from your Company that we used to. In fact, we seem to be getting nothing at all.’ Sharpe gazed back at him, and took another sip of his Martini. ‘You heard about the Blackbird?’ Sharpe nodded, somewhat reluctantly. ‘Do you know what the films showed?’ The American nodded again, more slowly. ‘Care to share it with me?’
Sharpe drained his glass and, as the waitress appeared with the Martini Richter had ordered, he seized it gratefully. ‘I can’t,’ he said finally.
‘Why not?’ Richter asked. ‘We’ve exchanged before, Harvey. I’ve passed you a lot of good, solid data. We really need to know about this, and I’m calling in the favours.’ Sharpe shook his head again. ‘Harvey,’ Richter said, his voice hard and cold, ‘don’t freeze up on me. We lost our Moscow Head of Station over this.’
Sharpe looked up, startled. ‘You mean—’
‘I mean terminated, Harvey,’ Richter replied. ‘With, as you used to say, extreme prejudice. Probably in the Lubyanka, and that’s a real hard way to go.’
Sharpe took another swallow of his drink, and Richter thought that his face had paled slightly. Around them the pre-theatre crowd ebbed and flowed, a meaningless constant background babble. ‘I heard he was killed in a road accident,’ the American said, almost defiantly, ‘before the Blackbird flew.’
