Overkill

bounced round a succession of servers in three different countries, just told the ragheads that he was in position.

They had no idea where he was, and they didn’t need to. The final phase of Podstava simply required him to be in a secure location, outside Moscow, with access to the Internet. Once the Anton Kirov had arrived at Gibraltar, and the last weapon had been successfully delivered to London, Trushenko would be able to initiate the demonstration he had planned from the start and then issue the ultimatum that he was quite convinced would instantly neuter America.

And then, as predictably as night follows day, Europe would fall. Her armies would be destroyed or simply disarmed, her governments faced with no alternative but to accept whatever demands Moscow should choose to make. As the man who had engineered Podstava, Trushenko would be feted and acclaimed and, in due course, the mantle of leadership of the Confederation of Independent States might well fall upon his shoulders. If he wanted it, of course, and he wasn’t entirely sure that he did. Because there was an alternative, an alternative that he had been considering more and more seriously for the past few weeks.

If the idiots in the Kremlin failed to seize the opportunity he had presented them or, even worse, decided to denounce what they could legitimately consider his treason, Romania, Bulgaria and Turkey were all within easy reach. He could simply run, and nobody would ever find him. And the more he thought about it, the more attractive this option seemed to be.

Trushenko smiled as he walked towards the kitchen to prepare a light supper. Money would not be a problem. Podstava had been a long-term project, and at the very first meeting with the oily Hassan Abbas, Trushenko had grasped both the scope of the operation and its potential for his personal enrichment. The funds the ragheads had so liberally provided had been used as they had intended, to construct and deliver the weapons to the locations Abbas had specified, but from the start Trushenko had creamed off a healthy commission, and his three Swiss and two Austrian bank accounts – he had never believed in concentrating any kind of asset in a single location – held between them more than enough funds to allow him to live out the rest of his life in considerable comfort.

He had planned the final phase of Podstava with considerable care, and well in advance. The dacha he had rented for ten days – ample time – was large and spacious, situated on the western tip of the Crimea and with inspiring views across the Karkinitskiy Zaliv, the arm of the Black Sea which lies to the south-east of Odessa. It was an ideal place to wait during the last few days while the final weapon was positioned.

He had anticipated that sooner or later – in fact, it had been later – the Americans or somebody would discover that something was going on, simply because of the increased activity that was an inescapable part of the last phase of the operation. In the latter stages, too, more people had had to be told about it, which increased the potential for leaks, either deliberate or accidental. With hindsight, he wondered if he should have insisted on the above-ground weapon test in the tundra, but he had believed, and still did, that the final test was essential, if only to confirm that the satellite firing system was working properly.

Trushenko walked back into the living room with a tray on which was a dish of solianka that he had prepared – meat soup with added tomatoes, cucumber, olives, onions, capers, lemons and sour cream – and two slices of black bread. Though he rarely cooked for himself, Trushenko was competent and creative in the kitchen, and in the short period since his arrival in the Crimea he had been indulging himself.

He put the tray on a side table, poured a glass of vodka and sat comfortably in an armchair, gazing out of the large windows and over the dacha’s grounds which sloped down to a small jetty, and across at the distant lights of Port-Khorly and Perekop. He wondered how much the Americans knew, or had been able to deduce, and what they would do about it. At some stage, he presumed, they would talk to the Kremlin, and that would be when the fun would really start, when they found out that the Kremlin knew even less about it than they did. He smiled to himself again in the gathering dusk.

The trail he had laid so carefully in Moscow led straight to St Petersburg, and he knew that there was no surviving trace of his journey to the Crimea. From his dacha he could control all of the final stages of Podstava, without risk, and after the Gibraltar demonstration he doubted if there would be any problems with the Americans or anyone else. His only regret was personal – he missed dear Genady and their weekly couplings – but it was essential to have one trusted friend in Moscow to handle the communications with the ship, and Trushenko trusted no one as he trusted Genady Arkenko.

‘Genady,’ Trushenko sighed, raising his glass, ‘I do miss you, old friend.’

Then he cheered up somewhat, and promised himself that he would watch a video from his Lubyanka collection, the pick of which he had brought with him. Perhaps the German – though that was rather long – or maybe the Georgian. Yes, Trushenko mused, the Georgian, and he felt his body stirring with anticipation.

Wroclaw (Breslau), Poland

The first major delay the convoy encountered was about five miles west of Wroclaw, heading for the Czechoslovakian border in the early evening. Modin heard the bang quite clearly even though the limousine was over a hundred metres behind the lorry, and as soon as he saw the articulated vehicle lurch he knew that a tyre had blown.

The limousine cruised to a stop behind the lorry, and Bykov and Modin got out. It was a typical heavy goods vehicle problem; the tyre had shed its tread in chunks, and then the carcase had ruptured. Not a problem, just a delay that they didn’t need. The lorry was carrying two spare wheels and the heavy-duty jacks and wrenches needed to change a wheel, but Modin stopped Bykov when he instructed the Spetsnaz troopers to effect the change. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Ring a tyre service company.’

‘Why, General?’ Bykov asked.

‘Because it’s safer,’ Modin replied. ‘We have a long way to go once we cross the German border, and I do not want to attract any attention once we enter the West. If we have a problem like this there, we can attend to it ourselves, and not call on anyone for help. Here in Poland, things are different.’ Bykov nodded, acknowledging the rationale of the decision.

The service vehicle arrived forty minutes later, but two of the nuts had jammed and fitting the new tyre to the wheel took nearly two hours in all. The convoy was not ready to move on until almost ten thirty. Before any orders were given, Modin gestured to Bykov and the two officers consulted a map. Nilov’s schedule, and the planned route, called for the convoy to cross into Czechoslovakia at Jakuszyce, and then route via Prague and Pilsen to Waidhaus on the German border.

‘We do have one alternative,’ Bykov suggested, pointing. ‘We could turn back towards Wroclaw and then head north-west on the E22 autoroute past Legnica.’

‘And then?’ Modin prompted.

Bykov pointed again at the map. ‘Through Boleslawiec to Zgorzelec.’

‘And into Germany at Gorlitz,’ Modin finished. ‘Yes, that has some advantages, because we could then use the E63 and E6 autobahns down to Nurnberg, and that would certainly be quicker than going through Czechoslovakia.’

Modin looked at his watch, then back at the map, considering. ‘No,’ he said finally, ‘I think we should continue as planned. This route was selected precisely so that the convoy would enter Germany as far west as possible.’

‘Agreed,’ Bykov said. ‘That is the safest option.’

‘It’s too late to carry on tonight. We’ll drive back to Wroclaw,’ Modin finished, yawning, ‘and stop somewhere there. We will still be able to cross the Czech border tomorrow morning.’

Middlesex

Bentley and Richter went out in the Saab just after eight that evening to buy a take-away Chinese meal, and to allow Richter to use a public call box to contact Hammersmith. The Duty Officer, after Richter had identified himself, said simply, ‘Nine forty at the Dover Court Hotel,’ and rang off.