occupied by a varied selection of vehicles from all countries in Europe, so the Granada would be less likely to stand out there than it would in Paris itself. Third, Richter’s battered face would be less conspicuous in the relative privacy of a log cabin in a wood than in some left-bank hotel. Finally, Richter thought, bearing in mind the general absence of any sense of humour in the Russian psyche, Disneyland was not a place where they would be likely to look for him.
Overall, it was probably a good choice.
‘How certain are you about this?’ the grey-haired man asked. It was the first thing he had said since Simpson had stopped speaking three minutes earlier.
Sir Michael Geraghty, the current ‘C’ – Secret Intelligence Service chief – looked across at Simpson, who was sitting on his left, in front of the desk in the Prime Minister’s private office. ‘It’s assessed as Grade One intelligence, Prime Minister,’ Simpson replied. He didn’t need to explain further. All British Prime Ministers are required to be familiar with the terminology and procedures of the intelligence services, and the Cabinet’s most secret intelligence group, the Overseas and Defence Committee, is chaired by the Prime Minister.
The grey-haired man nodded. He removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes, then replaced the glasses and looked over at Simpson. ‘You’re quite certain?’ he asked again. ‘There’s no possibility of any kind of error? It’s not some form of deception operation or anything of that kind?’
Simpson shook his head and opened his mouth to speak, but Geraghty cleared his throat and replied first. ‘We’re quite satisfied that what Simpson’s organization has uncovered is a real and potent threat to the security of the Western alliance and, more importantly, to Great Britain, Prime Minister,’ he said. ‘Simpson has outlined the measures he has put in train to resolve the immediate problem, that of the weapon intended for London, but that does not—’
‘I appreciate that, Sir Michael,’ the Prime Minister interrupted. ‘I just wanted to be absolutely sure.’ He picked up a fountain pen from the silver holder in front of him and removed the cap. He wrote a short note on a sheet of paper and then replaced the pen. ‘I was aware,’ he said, ‘from the last JIC meeting that the CIA was very disturbed about something going on in Russia. Now that Mr Simpson’s group has identified the substance of the threat, we at least know what we are up against. What is not clear to me at the moment is what we can do about it. Obviously this matter will have to be discussed at Cabinet level,’ he added, ‘and we will need to carefully consider our military options. Apart from the operation in France, what other measures would you think appropriate?’
Sir Michael Geraghty shook his head. ‘There is little more that the intelligence services can do, Prime Minister. We have no direct access – official or unofficial – to the SVR or GRU, and even if we had I don’t know what steps we could take to resolve the situation. In my view, the only possible actions available to us now are political and military. Political, to put pressure on the Kremlin to stop this operation before it can be implemented, and military to provide a viable counter to the threat in the event that political persuasion fails.’
The Prime Minister nodded. ‘The Independent Nuclear Deterrent?’
‘Yes, Prime Minister,’ Simpson said. ‘We park two of our missile-carrying nuclear submarines off the Russian coast and tell the Kremlin that if they implement this nasty little plan we’ll reduce the CIS to radioactive rubble.’
‘Er, quite,’ Geraghty said, looking a little startled. ‘Somewhat colourfully put, but Simpson has, I think, expressed it rather well.’
Westwood was just finishing an early lunch in the Embassy commissary when Miles Turner hurried in. ‘We’ve just received this Immediate signal from Langley, John, marked for your attention,’ Turner said, handing over the flimsy.
Westwood took the paper and read the single line of text: ‘CONFERENCE CALL SCHEDULED FOR 0700 EST.’
‘What time is the meeting with DGSE, Miles?’ Westwood asked, looking at his watch and juggling time zones in his head.
‘Three, local time. Zero seven hundred Eastern Standard Time is one o’clock here – that’s in fifteen minutes – so unless the conference is very long it shouldn’t be a problem.’
‘Right,’ Westwood said, swallowing the last of his ice cream, ‘let’s get down to the Communications Room.’
Modin had hoped that the traffic would diminish once they had cleared the accident site, but they still made very slow progress. The journey from Jelenia Gora to Jakuszyce took over two hours, and there was a queue at least a mile in length at the border itself. When the convoy finally came to a halt, Bykov and Modin climbed out of the limousine and walked up to the lead Mercedes. The
‘Go forward to the border,’ Modin instructed. ‘Show the border guards your diplomatic passport and advise – no, tell – them that this is a diplomatic convoy which must not be delayed. Tell them,’ he added, ‘that if we are still not cleared through the border within thirty minutes, I will personally file a report individually naming every single border guard and accusing them of gross dereliction of duty and wilfully obstructing a diplomatic mission.’
The
Fifteen minutes later, with all eastbound traffic halted and the road cleared, the convoy was waved through the Polish border and, almost without a pause, across the Czechoslovakian frontier as well.
There was a problem with the secure satellite link between Langley and CIA London, and it was almost zero seven fifteen Eastern Standard Time, thirteen fifteen Central European Time, before the conference call circuit was completed.
‘Basically, John,’ Walter Hicks began, ‘this is an update briefing on RAVEN and his last message. We think we may know a bit more about him now. OK, Cliff, this is your ball.’
‘Right,’ Masters replied. ‘First, we looked again at RAVEN. We still don’t know who he is, but now we think we know what he is. We believe he’s a Russian with a conscience and a bad case of guilt.’
‘Come again?’ Abrahams asked.
‘We ran the entire sequence of events, and sanitized copies of the messages, past three of our tame shrinks. The most significant single factor, they agreed, was the last message. The initial stuff we received was high-grade intelligence, no question, and obviously RAVEN had had plenty of time to prepare it and to make the deliveries to Rigby. The message placed in Rigby’s car,’ he continued, ‘was different. That showed definite signs of haste. A man in a hurry, or a man who thought he might be observed. A frightened man, perhaps, or one who had just learned what was going on. The last message, though, was more like the earlier stuff. It was a note again, not a film, but obviously RAVEN had been able to prepare it at his leisure.’
‘So?’ Westwood asked.
‘So if that is an accurate assessment, why is the message so cryptic? He could have said “bomb” or “nerve gas” instead of “component”, and told us exactly what the threat really is. He could have been specific about the “implementation”. Are we talking about an actual invasion, or a first-strike or some other kind of threat?’
‘I follow you,’ Westwood said. ‘You mean that RAVEN could have told us precisely what the operation comprises, but something – his loyalty to Mother Russia or whatever – held him back.’
‘Exactly,’ Masters said. ‘What we have here, the shrinks believe, is a Russian who doesn’t like what is happening, but who is still not prepared to go the whole hog and completely betray his homeland. He’s salving his conscience by providing us with data, but not enough for him to feel like a traitor. He probably thinks that if we work out what’s going on and stop it, he will have helped us in the name of humanity, or something like that. On the other hand, if we don’t solve the problem and the implementation or whatever goes ahead, then he can step back and say, “Well, I tried, but they just weren’t smart enough.”’
