Nicolai Modin unlocked the door of his stateroom with relief. It had been a busy day and a long evening. He had spent the morning in a final, but inconclusive, session with Grigori Sokolov. Sokolov had been apologetic, but he had still found no positive evidence to indicate the identity of the SVR traitor. Privately, he confided to Modin, he still thought Viktor Bykov was as likely as anyone, but he had discovered absolutely nothing incriminating about him.
The afternoon flight from Moscow had been delayed nearly an hour, as far as Modin could see for no good reason, and the drive from the airport to the local SVR headquarters had seemed interminable. Bykov seemed to have taken charge of the journey, and had appeared delighted to have been seconded to Modin’s staff.
Out of courtesy, Modin had dined with the SVR senior officers, and had only retired at midnight, pleading the next day’s long drive as the excuse. Viktor Bykov, he noted to himself somewhat sourly, was still in the dining room.
‘I don’t believe it,’ John Westwood said into the telephone handset. ‘Surely not even the GRU could mount an operation without some sort of approval from the Kremlin?’
‘You may well be right,’ Hicks replied. ‘All I’m telling you is what the President thinks. It’s possible that Karasin is a far better actor than we’re giving him credit for, and that this is a carefully concocted operation approved of, and directed by, the Kremlin.’
‘Nothing new from RAVEN, I suppose?’ Roger Abrahams asked from London.
Hicks grunted. ‘Nope,’ he said. ‘Rigby is still making himself as visible as possible, but he’s had no further contact.’
‘So where do we go from here?’ Westwood asked.
‘We carry on,’ Hicks said. ‘We assume the threat is real and do everything we can to combat it. You keep chasing the French while Roger tries to get something out of the British intelligence services. We’re increasing satellite surveillance of the Asian landmass, but as we don’t know what the hell we’re looking for, that’s probably a complete waste of time.
‘I discussed this with the President, and his orders were quite specific. The security of the American people is paramount, so we’re going to move from DEFCON FOUR all the way up to DEFCON ONE no later than the tenth. The President will launch the bombers and support tankers that evening. They’ll fly to their Positive Control Points and hold there, awaiting a Presidential decision to either proceed and deliver their weapons or return to base.
‘The Navy will get the boomers into position no later than the morning of the ninth, and all serviceable strategic nuclear missiles will begin countdown on the tenth. The missiles will be held at five minutes’ notice to launch until the Russians implement their threat, or until the President is satisfied either that the threat doesn’t exist or that the crisis is over.
‘The President will probably remain at the White House throughout, or may decide to retreat with his family to Camp David. He wants to create as little speculation in the media as possible, and he thinks that if he remains in Washington that should help to reassure the American people. Whatever he decides, he has already ordered his principal military advisers to get airborne in the Nightwatch aircraft during the afternoon of the tenth.’
Walter Hicks paused for a moment. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘the United States military machine is assuming a full war footing, and at the slightest sign of any provocation from Russia the President intends to attack at once.’
Chapter Sixteen
Sunday
The civilian stewards at the SVR headquarters had set out a separate table adjacent to the windows for the visiting senior officers. When Nicolai Modin walked somewhat stiffly down the stairs just after six, he found Viktor Bykov already seated, drinking thick black coffee and reading a local paper. The two men nodded to each other, and as soon as Modin was seated, a steward hurried over to take his order. Modin looked at the plates of black bread, cheese, salami and pastries that were already arranged on the table, and just asked for coffee.
‘So, General,’ Bykov said, ‘today we begin the final phase.’
Modin nodded and reached for a pastry. ‘It will be a long and tiring journey, Viktor,’ the older man said. ‘Nilov – my aide at Yazenevo – prepared a schedule for me. He prepares,’ Modin added thoughtfully, ‘schedules for almost everything.’
Bykov nodded and smiled. ‘So I’ve heard,’ he murmured.
Modin looked at Bykov and smiled gently. ‘I would be somewhat lost without that young man,’ he said. ‘Anyway, he has calculated that we have about eighteen hundred kilometres of driving before we reach the French border, so we have little time in hand if we are to get to London on schedule. Nilov’s estimate for the French border is mid-morning on Tuesday, and London on Wednesday morning.’
‘What time have you ordered the convoy to leave?’ Bykov asked.
‘Six thirty,’ Modin replied. ‘We have two drivers for each vehicle, so we can realistically expect to be able to travel for twelve hours a day, if necessary. Nilov estimated an average speed on the road of fifty kilometres an hour, which shouldn’t be too difficult to achieve. A lot,’ he added, ‘depends upon the border crossings, but our diplomatic status should ensure we receive some priority.’
Bykov nodded. Both men ate in silence for a few minutes. Then Modin put down his coffee cup, wiped his mouth on his napkin and glanced at his watch. ‘Six twenty,’ he said. ‘We should move.’
Bykov nodded agreement and stood up. A steward walked over to the two men and handed Bykov a large brown paper bag. Modin looked at him. ‘Snacks and soft drinks,’ Bykov explained. ‘As you said, General, it will be a long drive.’
The two men walked out of the building by the back stairs and into the rear courtyard. An articulated lorry was parked adjacent to the far wall, its engine idling. Two light blue Mercedes saloons were parked nose to tail almost in the centre of the courtyard, and a black Mercedes limousine was waiting at the bottom of the steps.
As Bykov and Modin appeared, the driver of the limousine stepped out of the car, opened the rear door and saluted briskly. Modin acknowledged the salute, but did not immediately get into the car. Instead he walked over to a small group of men – all
The men came smartly to attention, and the man Modin had addressed saluted, then nodded. ‘Yes, General. We are ready.’
‘Very good,’ Modin replied. He strode across to the articulated lorry, exchanged a few words with the drivers, and then walked back to the limousine. ‘Right, Viktor,’ he said, taking his seat, ‘let’s go.’
Thirty seconds later one of the blue Mercedes saloons pulled smoothly out of the courtyard, followed by the articulated lorry and then the second saloon. Bykov nodded to their driver, and the limousine joined the group at the rear. The four vehicles cleared the outskirts of Minsk at seven fifteen and headed south-west for Brest on the Polish border, some two hundred miles distant. Nilov’s schedule suggested that they should reach it at about eleven thirty. As the convoy picked up speed, Modin wondered just how accurate his estimates were going to prove.
Anton Kirov
Colonel Petr Zavorin broke the seal on another bottle of Scotch whisky and poured healthy measures into two short glasses. ‘Your health, Captain,’ he said, and took a sip.
Valeri Bondarev obediently raised his glass and drank. He didn’t particularly enjoy the fiery amber liquor – of which Zavorin appeared to have an inexhaustible supply – and would have much preferred a decent vodka. However, Zavorin was in charge, and Bondarev saw no real harm in humouring him.
‘We have done well, Valeri,’ Zavorin said, putting his glass down on the side table. They were, as usual, sitting together in the captain’s day cabin. The message from Moscow had arrived half an hour earlier, and the
