Overkill

Ambassador in Paris at nine fifteen the following morning, and immediately afterwards a discussion with the SIS Head of Station. By the time that had been completed, the Embassy should have sorted out an appointment for Richter with the French authorities, which was crucial. If he encountered difficulties with that, he had real problems.

Richter opened the sealed envelopes containing the operation file, and read it. It was a new file that had been compiled from the separate FOE packs containing details of the Blackbird flight, Newman’s death and the other related matters. Simpson had obviously had a hand in the compilation of the last few entries, as it contained a detailed statement of the information Richter had obtained from Orlov, and notes on the plan of action they had decided upon. Richter noticed that the new file had been given the code-name ‘Overkill’.

Direction Generale de Securite Exterieure Headquarters, boulevard Mortier, Paris

The boulevard Mortier runs almost parallel with the north-eastern Perepherique – the Paris inner ring road – between the Porte de Bagnolet and the Porte des Lilas. The headquarters of the DGSE is located in a disused barracks near the junction of the boulevard with the rue des Tourelles, close to a large municipal swimming pool. This juxtaposition has not escaped the notice of the other French security forces, and the DGSE has acquired the slightly pejorative nickname ‘piscine’ as a result.

The journey from the Embassy at avenue Gabriel took nearly an hour because of the increasingly heavy Paris afternoon traffic, and it was nine minutes past three when John Westwood and Miles Turner climbed out of the Embassy Lincoln and looked at the unprepossessing building before them. ‘Are you sure this is it?’ Westwood asked, a puzzled frown on his face.

‘Yup,’ Turner replied. ‘The DGSE likes to keep a low profile.’

‘Much lower than this,’ Westwood said, ‘and they’ll be completely submerged.’

Anton Kirov

Captain Valeri Bondarev knocked on the second mate’s cabin door and waited. The second mate, of course, was somewhere in Odessa, Bondarev knew, probably having a much better time than if he had still been on the Anton Kirov. The door slid open smoothly and Colonel Petr Zavorin looked out enquiringly.

‘You asked to be informed, Colonel, when we were one hundred and twenty miles out of Gibraltar,’ Bondarev said. ‘We’ve just reached that point.’

‘Good.’ Zavorin nodded in satisfaction. ‘Reduce speed to eight knots, Captain,’ he said. ‘We don’t want to arrive too early.’ Bondarev nodded obediently and turned away.

‘Captain,’ Zavorin called after him, ‘I know you haven’t much enjoyed this voyage, but you should remember that we are all acting on specific instructions from Moscow, and your role is vital to the success of this mission. Take heart also, Captain,’ Zavorin added, ‘that we will soon be returning home, and you can then resume your normal life.’

Bondarev nodded. Now that, he thought, was much more important to him than any of Moscow’s spy games.

Direction Generale de Securite Exterieure Headquarters, boulevard Mortier, Paris

Westwood shifted uncomfortably in the upright chair and wondered again whether they were just wasting their time. The colonel who had been appointed to meet with them had not arrived until almost three thirty, and had pointedly failed to apologize for keeping them waiting. This, Westwood thought, was almost certainly because he and Miles Turner had been slightly late themselves. Turner had addressed the colonel – his nametag said ‘Grenelle’, but he had not formally introduced himself – in workable, though not fluent, French. Grenelle had affected incomprehension, and there had been a further delay whilst a bilingual DGSE officer was located. When Westwood had finally been able to state the purpose of their visit, Grenelle had insisted upon delivery and translation one sentence at a time. It had been a long, slow process.

‘So, Monsieur Westwood,’ the translator said, ‘you want to know if we have any high-level agents who can verify the information your Central Intelligence Agency has received?’

‘Yes,’ Westwood replied. ‘Or any indication from any source of any unusual activity in Russia, or any abnormal movements of men or equipment from Russia into any Western country. Or anything else that seems in any way odd,’ he finished, rather lamely.

Grenelle spoke briefly to the translator, reinforcing Westwood’s belief that the former at least understood English. ‘The colonel wishes to inform you that he is unable to divulge any information about French operatives.’

Westwood shook his head in exasperation, but kept his voice low and reasonable. ‘I thought I’d made it clear that I’m not asking for information about operatives. I don’t care if the DGSE has bugged the Russian President’s crapper and has every Kremlin valet on its payroll. All I’m interested in is whether the DGSE has received any relevant information.’

The translator paused slightly before reverting to French, but Grenelle interrupted him almost immediately. ‘The colonel wants to know why you need to know.’

‘Because,’ Westwood said, with as much patience as he could muster, ‘we believe that the Russians may be planning an attack of some sort on the West, and that it will probably involve France as well as every other country in Western Europe.’

The translator relayed this to the colonel, who paused thoughtfully before speaking. The translator looked slightly happier when he addressed the two Americans. ‘Colonel Grenelle says that the DGSE has no information about any such Russian plan, and that we have no operatives who would be able to assist. However, he has heard that there have been some slightly unusual movements of equipment from the former Soviet Union into and through France during the last year.’

Westwood glanced across at Miles Turner. ‘What movements?’ he asked.

The translator smiled across the table. ‘That, Monsieur Westwood, we cannot say. The function of the DGSE is limited to operations outside the borders of the hexagon.’

‘The hexagon?’ Westwood muttered. ‘What the hell’s the hexagon?’

‘France,’ Turner replied. ‘It’s a colloquial name for France.’

‘OK,’ Westwood said. ‘So who do we talk to now?’

Grenelle smiled a small, tight smile and spoke in English for the first time. ‘The Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire, Monsieur Westwood. The DST – that’s who you talk to now.’

Office of the Director of Operations (Clandestine Services), Central Intelligence Agency Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

‘What progress?’ Walter Hicks asked, rubbing his hand across his tired eyes. He had been at Langley all day, and he had an evening meeting scheduled with the President in a little under two hours.

‘Not a great deal, Director,’ Ronald Hughes replied.

‘That isn’t what I wanted to hear, Ron,’ Hicks growled. ‘I have to see the man this evening and I have to tell him something, like whether we punch the bombers into the air in two days’ time and point them at Moscow. “Not a great deal” is not the kind of thing I need to hear right now.’

Hughes shifted slightly in his seat. He, too, hadn’t left the building in some twenty hours. ‘Specifically,’ Hughes said, ‘Roger Abrahams in London has got nowhere with SIS, but he thinks this is simply because they don’t know anything, not that they won’t tell. The only significant piece of data he did manage to obtain is that one section of SIS is actively investigating an incident which may be related.’

‘What incident?’ Hicks asked, looking interested.

Hughes shrugged. ‘I’m not convinced there’s any connection, but the SIS Head of Station in Moscow was reported to have died in a road accident last week. SIS sent someone to investigate it and the word is that the body the Russians handed over definitely wasn’t the SIS man. The suggestion is that he was snatched by the SVR and pumped dry.’

Hicks looked at him over the desk. ‘That’s unusual, to say the least. Are they certain?’