Hughes nodded. ‘The identification of the body was positive – positive, that is, that it wasn’t their man. Some kind of distinguishing mark wasn’t present, I think.’
‘OK,’ Hicks muttered, ‘we have to accept that SIS will know their own man, so if they say the stiff wasn’t him, it wasn’t. What I don’t see is any connection with RAVEN.’
‘Nor do I,’ Hughes agreed, ‘but I’ve told Abrahams to keep us in the loop just in case there does turn out to be a link.’
‘What about France?’ Hicks asked.
‘You know what the French are like,’ Hughes said. ‘John had a meeting with the DGSE – that’s the foreign espionage section of the French security forces – this afternoon. It didn’t go well. They were a few minutes late arriving, and John said the French colonel apparently took umbrage. The only thing the French admitted was that there had been some non-typical movements from the CIS into and through France.’ Hicks opened his mouth but Hughes forestalled his question. ‘The DGSE wouldn’t tell him. Any operational matter within France, they said, was the concern of the DST and nothing to do with them.’
Hicks grunted. ‘All assistance short of actual help, by the sound of it.’
Hughes nodded. ‘Anyway, he’s on it, but I’m still not sure if he’s just wasting his time. Non-typical movements might just mean that the Russian Embassy in Paris is having new crappers fitted.’
The convoy stopped for the night at a small hotel just outside Pilsen. As usual, one
‘Not a good day,’ Modin remarked, as he and Bykov sat together in a deserted corner of the lounge after dinner.
Bykov shook his head. ‘We seem to have spent all day on the road and got nowhere,’ he replied.
‘It could be worse,’ Modin said. ‘We are now only about sixty kilometres from the German border at Waidhaus so, unless we have a repeat of today’s performance, we should be inside Germany by mid-morning tomorrow.’
‘I hope so,’ Bykov replied. ‘The weapon must arrive in London on schedule.’
Chapter Eighteen
Tuesday
John Westwood woke just before seven, dressed and walked down to the Embassy commissary for breakfast. Over coffee, ham, eggs and hash browns, he and Miles Turner reviewed the situation. ‘We have to talk to the DST today,’ Westwood said. ‘Why that DGSE colonel played so hard to get I don’t know. I just hope the DST people have more sense.’
‘I’ll ring at nine – that’s the earliest there’s likely to be anyone there apart from the night duty staff – and set up a meeting this morning,’ Turner said. ‘There haven’t been any overnight developments at this end, but it’s buzzing like a hornets’ nest in the States. Walter Hicks has arranged another conference call for three this afternoon, our time, to up-date us on what’s happening Stateside, and to receive progress reports from us.’
Westwood grunted. ‘Well, I’d be happy to be able to report some progress, but on past form it isn’t likely.’
Richter’s alarm went off at seven, and he was driving into the Disneyland resort before eight. He had managed to shave for the first time since his visit to Orlov, and looked fairly presentable. Disneyland was quiet – the doors weren’t open to the public that early – and Richter parked close to the main entrance, then walked in and down to the RER station.
He reached the centre of Paris at eight forty, and climbed up into Chatelet-Les Halles and into the sunshine. The station is only a few metres from the eastern end of the rue St Honore, and Richter walked northwest along it until he reached the crossing of the rue Royale, which runs from place de la Concorde to Sainte Marie Madeleine. On the far side of the rue Royale the rue St Honore becomes the rue du Faubourg St Honore, and the British Embassy is at number 35, on the south side of the road.
Entry was painless, due to the persuasion afforded by both the diplomatic passport and Richter’s appointment – as ‘Mr Beatty’ – with the Ambassador. They showed him into a comfortably furnished waiting room and he sat there clutching his briefcase until ten past nine, when a junior staff member appeared and said that the Ambassador would see him. Richter followed her down a corridor and into a large, high-ceilinged room with tall, elegant windows looking south, towards the Seine. A small man with silver hair, immaculately dressed in a charcoal grey suit, was seated behind a large, and obviously antique, rosewood desk. He rose and extended a hand as Richter was ushered in, but he didn’t smile. He didn’t, Richter thought, look particularly pleased to see him. ‘Mr Beatty?’ His hand was cool and somewhat limp.
Richter nodded and sat down in the chair the Ambassador indicated in front of his desk. ‘I have been advised – perhaps instructed is a better word – to afford you all the assistance you require,’ Sir James Auden began, speaking clearly and somewhat pedantically. ‘What the Foreign and Commonwealth Office has declined to do, for reasons which may become clear later, is to tell me why. Perhaps you can enlighten me.’ Before Richter could speak, the Ambassador added apologetically. ‘I am sure that your credentials have already been checked by my staff downstairs, but I would like to see your identification, if you wouldn’t mind.’
‘Not at all,’ Richter said, and handed over the Beatty diplomatic passport.
The Ambassador opened the passport and inspected the contents, glancing over at Richter to ensure that his face bore at least some resemblance to the photograph in it. Then he closed the passport and passed it over the desk to Richter. ‘That seems to be in order, Mr Beatty,’ he said, ‘though I must say that you certainly don’t look like a diplomat.’ Richter took that as a compliment. ‘In fact, I would have been somewhat surprised if you did,’ Auden continued. ‘I am aware that you have an appointment to see Mr Herron this morning, and I am sure that it is no coincidence that he is the senior Secret Intelligence Service officer here – what you would probably term the Head of Station.’ Sir James Auden was obviously no fool. ‘I presume, therefore, that this matter involves some form of covert action.’
‘Probably more overt, in fact,’ Richter replied.
Auden’s eyebrows rose a millimetre. ‘Indeed. Perhaps you would care to explain.’
‘Better than that, Ambassador, I have here a letter which I think will clarify things.’ Richter handed over the sealed envelope.
Auden looked at it with interest, particularly at the seal, then he selected a silver letter-opener, slit the top open and extracted the three sheets of paper it contained. He looked first at the signature block and scrawled signature at the end, then at the crest on the first page. He glanced over at Richter, and began to read. At the end of the first sheet he looked up. ‘I can assume that this is not some sort of a joke?’
‘No, Ambassador. It’s not any kind of a joke – I wish it was.’
Sir James Auden shook his head and carried on reading. Finally he put the pages down and stared across the desk. He looked suddenly older, and his hand was shaking slightly. ‘This is monstrous. It’s unbelievable.’
‘You have to believe it, Ambassador. It’s the truth, and I need your help if it isn’t going to become a reality.’
Auden looked at the letter, then back at Richter and shook his head. ‘You are sure?’
‘Quite sure.’
The Ambassador spoke quietly. ‘The letter does not deal with the specifics of the matter, only the overall concept. I do not, I think, wish to know the specifics, which you will no doubt be discussing with Herron. What exactly do you want me to do?’
Richter told him, and five minutes later walked out of the Ambassador’s office for his appointment with Tony Herron, Paris Head of Station. The Holy of Holies – that section of the Embassy used by Secret Service officers – was small in Paris, and the staff was similarly tiny. This was due to the fact that the French are, at least nominally,
