Intelligence, was absent.
‘You should also know,’ the President continued, ‘that Ambassador Karasin has denied all knowledge of this threat. It could be argued, of course, that he would have been instructed by Moscow to make such a denial, which is certainly possible. However, I’ve known Karasin for three years, and I don’t think he’s following the party line. I think he really doesn’t know. If we take that as fact,’ he went on, ‘then the situation is even more dangerous than the Cuban crisis. At least then Kennedy knew who he was dealing with. This time, I don’t think we do. Accordingly, despite the fact that we still have no independent evidence to support the data the CIA claims to have uncovered, I propose to invoke SIOP with immediate effect.’
The Single Integrated Operational Plan is the central and most secret part of the West’s nuclear deterrent. Despite the fact that SIOP has existed, in one form or another, since 1960, it is so secret that even the acronym ‘SIOP’ is classified and the plan has its own dedicated security classification – ‘Extremely Sensitive Information’ or ESI. SIOP has evolved from a simple ‘launch everything and blast the Commies to pieces’ strategy to a finely tuned and infinitely variable plan which would, in certain circumstances, permit nuclear exchanges between the superpowers to continue for weeks or even months.
The plan identifies in excess of forty thousand potential military and civilian targets within the Confederation of Independent States, and contains a vast number of options and sub-options for both major and minor strikes. The American nuclear arsenal contains over ten thousand deliverable strategic nuclear weapons ranging in size from around fifty kilotons, or just over twice the size of the bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, up to weapons yielding over nine megatons. The accuracy of the missiles varies from less than six hundred feet to nearly one mile. SIOP factors-in the yield, accuracy and number of available missiles, and combines that with the type and number of suitable targets, and allows the nuclear commanders to select a multiplicity of possible responses to an attack.
‘We are now,’ the President continued, ‘at DEFCON FOUR. I propose to leave decisions on timing of increased readiness to the Secretary of Defense, but I require us to be at DEFCON ONE – maximum force readiness – no later than sixteen hundred hours Eastern Standard Time on the tenth.’
The British Airways Boeing 757 landed at Paris’ Charles de Gaulle airport fifteen minutes early, but the black Lincoln with CD plates was already there when John Westwood walked out of the terminal building. He didn’t know the junior diplomat who had been tasked with meeting him, and he only made small talk on the drive south through Paris to the US Embassy at 2 avenue Gabriel, just off the avenue des Champs-Elysees. Westwood hadn’t been to Paris before, although he’d visited France on three separate occasions, once professionally and twice as a tourist, and he looked with interest through the tinted windows at the bustle of the city.
To an American, accustomed to the heavy traffic, but generally tolerant and competent drivers stateside, French driving habits were frightening – almost lethally aggressive. Cars swerved from lane to lane without warning, drivers gesticulated and hooted at each other, and the few pedestrians he saw crossing the roads were quite clearly taking their lives in their hands. ‘Is it always like this?’ Westwood asked the diplomat.
The young man smiled and shook his head. ‘No, sir. This is mid-afternoon at a weekend – it’s quiet and peaceful. If you want to see it busy, stay here till next Friday and go stand at the Arc de Triomphe at about five thirty.’
‘Jesus,’ Westwood muttered.
At the Embassy, he was ushered through the security doors at the rear of the building and taken to a guest suite. He was unpacking his suitcase when there was a gentle knock on the door. ‘Come in,’ he said, turning around from hanging up his jacket.
A short, grey-haired man wearing rimless spectacles opened the door and walked into the room. ‘Miles Turner,’ he said, by way of introduction. ‘I’m Chief of Station,’ he added.
‘John Westwood. Pleased to meet you, Miles,’ Westwood replied, striding across the room and shaking his hand.
‘I know why you’re here, John,’ Turner said. ‘I had a classified signal from Roger Abrahams in London yesterday afternoon, and there’s a conference call with Langley scheduled in an hour or so. What I’m not sure about is whether you’ve had a wasted journey. The French are as prickly as hell about anything to do with espionage. If they had an agent who was valet to the head of the SVR, I doubt if they’d even tell you what colour pants he wears.’ Westwood grunted. ‘Anyway, we’ll do what we can,’ Turner continued. ‘I’ve arranged a meeting with the DGSE for Monday afternoon.’
‘Remind me,’ said Westwood.
‘The DGSE is the
‘I’m really sorry to be a nuisance, Kate,’ Richter said, as Bentley’s wife walked into the kitchen carrying two bulging shopping bags.
She put the bags down on the worktop and began pulling groceries out of them. ‘You’re not a nuisance, Paul,’ she said, dark eyes flashing under her fringe of black hair. ‘You’re a friend and we’re glad to be able to help. It’s just that you’re dangerous – well, not you personally, but it’s the work you do and the people you associate with. That’s what worries me.’
‘I know,’ Richter said, ‘and I’ll be out of here just as soon as I can. Probably tomorrow, or Monday at the very latest.’
‘You don’t have to leave until you’re ready, Paul,’ Kate said, but Richter could detect the relief in her voice as she realized that he would soon be out of their house.
After lunch, while Kate busied herself in the kitchen, Richter outlined what he was going to have to do the following morning, and what he was going to have to ask David Bentley to do to help him.
‘It seems bloody complicated,’ Bentley said when Richter had finished.
‘It is bloody complicated,’ Richter said, ‘but I have to be sure that the man I’m going to meet has shaken any tails – lost anyone following him, I mean – before he meets me. I can tell you, with absolute certainty, that if I get seen by the wrong people, I’m dead.’
‘You do lead an exciting life, Paul,’ Bentley said, but there was absolutely no trace of envy in his voice. ‘On the whole, though, I think I’d rather just shuffle files at Uxbridge all day then come back home and mow the grass.’
‘To each his own,’ Richter said, ‘though right now I’d trade places with you if I could.’ He paused. ‘I know what Kate thinks, but could you help me tomorrow for an hour or two? Your part will, I guarantee, be risk-free. All you’d have to do would be to deliver me to the service area on the M4, and then pick me up after the meeting.’
Bentley grinned at him. ‘I don’t see a problem. I think tomorrow it would be prudent if we took you along to the local hospital for a check-up. That way she’ll never know.’
‘Thanks, David. I really appreciate it.’
‘One question. Why are you meeting in a motorway service area?’
‘Because on a motorway you can be very sure if anyone is following you. If my man pulls in, and any of the cars he has had following him pull in as well, he’ll simply put some petrol in his car and then drive off. He’ll only meet me if there’s no indication of any pursuit. You can’t, you see,’ Richter finished, ‘front tail or double back on a motorway, not without making it quite obvious, and not without risking a motorway patrol breathing down your neck.’
Bentley looked doubtful. ‘Yes, I can see that, but what happens if he is followed, and just drives away?’
‘Then I’m back to square one,’ Richter said.
