Overkill

Chapter Twenty-Two

Wednesday

Autoroute A26, vicinity of Couvron-et-Aumencourt

By five they had the situation sorted out. Two Spetsnaz troopers had been found dead when Dekker’s men opened the rear doors of the Mercedes; the other two occupants had serious wounds and were on their way to hospital. The two lorries that had been used for blocking the carriageway had gone, as had the tractor unit from the Russian artic. A new tractor, summoned by Lacomte, had been hitched to the Russian trailer and driven into the next rest area, a few kilometres further up the autoroute. The Mercedes cars had been winched on to breakdown trucks and were parked in the same rest area, awaiting new tyres. Both carriageways of the autoroute were closed to all traffic between the Chambry and Courbes junctions, and were going to stay that way until everyone was ready to leave. The Minister of the Interior was expected imminently, by helicopter, to inspect the cargo in the Russian lorry.

The surviving Russians, with two exceptions, were sitting with their wrists bound with cable ties and locked in the back of Erulin’s Renault van. The first exception was the senior officer who had ordered the Spetsnaz personnel to surrender without a fight. He was sitting comfortably enough at a stone picnic table, thoughtfully provided by the French autoroute operating company, and eating one of the sandwiches left over from Colin Dekker’s lunch. Trooper Smith was standing ten feet away, watching him carefully, his Hockler at the ready.

Richter was sitting in the back of the Transit van, looking at the second exception – the younger of the two Russian passengers they had pulled from the back seat of the limousine. ‘My name is Beatty,’ Richter said, ‘and I represent the British government.’ A somewhat sweeping, and almost entirely inaccurate, statement, but there was nobody around who could dispute it. ‘Can I please have your name?’ Richter asked politely.

The Russian stared at him. ‘You have seized my passport,’ he said. ‘If you can read, you will see that it is a diplomatic passport, and that by holding me you are in breach of international regulations. I have nothing further to add.’ He turned to look out of the window.

Richter picked up the passport and glanced at it. ‘According to this document,’ he began, ‘your name is Petr Lavrov and it states that you are a diplomat. I do not believe either of those pieces of information. I do not believe that your name is Petr Lavrov, because I heard your superior address you as “Bykov”. And I do not believe that you are a diplomat because real diplomats do not attempt to smuggle nuclear weapons into another country.

‘Perhaps, Comrade Bykov,’ Richter said, after a few moments, ‘it would help if I explained the facts of life to you. The operation to halt your little convoy and prevent you positioning a nuclear weapon in London was a joint effort. We used a detachment from our Special Air Service, a squad from the French Groupe d’Intervention de la Gendarmerie Nationale and the whole thing was coordinated by the French DST, that’s the Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire.’

‘I do know what the acronym stands for, Mr Beatty,’ Bykov said.

Richter nodded. ‘I thought you probably would,’ he said.

‘So why are you telling me this?’ Bykov asked, looking puzzled.

‘I’m telling you so you realize that the operation has involved people of two different nations who don’t share a common language. Because we don’t speak the same language, we have had some problems with communications. None of the organizations involved in this matter have filed their reports yet,’ Richter continued, ‘but when they do they will probably all incorporate a recommendation that any future joint operations include interpreters. That way, unfortunate accidents and misunderstandings might be prevented.’

‘I really don’t understand what you’re talking about. What unfortunate accidents and misunderstandings?’

‘Well, that rather depends on you,’ Richter said, after a short pause. ‘If, for example, you give me some answers – preferably truthful answers – to a few simple questions, then in a couple of hours you and your colleague can get back in your comfortable limousine and continue your journey, or return to Mother Russia, or go wherever else your whim or your conscience dictates. We’ll even,’ he added, ‘pay for four new tyres for you.’

‘And if I refuse?’ the Russian demanded.

‘Well, that’s the problem,’ Richter said. ‘I really do need to get some answers from either you or your colleague. If you refuse to talk to me then I have to hope that he will be sensible. What I might have to do is arrange for you to be, say, shot while trying to escape, to encourage him to see reason. That’s the kind of unfortunate accident I’m worried about.’

Bykov’s glare was still defiant, but his face seemed a shade paler. ‘You wouldn’t dare. That would be murder, simple cold-blooded murder.’

‘It certainly would,’ Richter agreed, ‘but I’m sure you’ve done worse in your career.’ Bykov opened his mouth to speak, but apparently thought better of it. ‘France,’ Richter said, ‘is a civilized country, where all citizens are subject to the rule of law. Please believe me when I tell you that in this parking area the rule of law has been temporarily suspended. Here, we can do exactly what we like.’ He pointed out of the window at Trooper Smith. ‘You see that man there? He’s a member of 22 Special Air Service Regiment. He has spent all of his adult life in the British armed forces, and he is now a member of arguably the most professional and proficient elite Special Force in the world – not excluding your Spetsnaz.

‘I have a story which might interest you. In December 1974 a four-man IRA gang took a couple hostage in Balcombe Street, Marylebone – that’s a district in London. The gang was well armed – in fact, they had sub- machineguns – and showed no inclination at all to come out. The Metropolitan Police believed they faced a long siege, which might conceivably end with the killing of one or both of the hostages and general mayhem and havoc. However, before any major actions were taken by either side, an enterprising police officer leaked a fictitious story to the BBC and one of the national daily newspapers. The story stated that operational control of the incident was about to be transferred to the SAS. Do you know what happened when that news was broadcast?’

‘No, of course I don’t,’ Bykov snapped.

‘The gang surrendered. Immediately and without conditions. And do you know why?’ The Russian shook his head. ‘Because they knew perfectly well that if the SAS took over the siege, their chances of getting out alive were nil. Zero. More recently, in April 1980, a group of six terrorists seized the Iranian Embassy in London. When they started killing hostages, the SAS stormed the building, with the press of half the world watching. When it was over, five of the six terrorists were dead, and the sixth only survived because he pretended to be a hostage and was only properly identified outside the building after the SAS had cleared it.

‘What I’m trying to tell you,’ Richter went on, ‘is that the SAS don’t take prisoners. The Regiment is our force of last resort. They are sent in when all other remedies have failed, when the only sensible course of action left is to blow away the bad guys. All their training, all their tactics, are geared to that objective. You are undeniably a bad guy. Compared with what you had planned to do, the Iranian Embassy terrorists were just a bunch of naughty schoolboys.’ Richter paused. ‘Now, bearing all that in mind,’ he said, and pointed again at Trooper Smith, ‘what do you think he would do if I dragged you out of this van and told him to shoot you?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Wrong,’ Richter said. ‘You do know. He would shoot you immediately, and without question. The only consolation you would have is that it would be a quick death – the SAS only shoot to kill, never to wound.’

‘You’d never get away with it,’ Bykov spluttered.

‘Wrong again,’ Richter said. ‘My report would say that Trooper Smith acted instantly to protect a senior officer – that’s me – from an assault by a Russian terrorist – that’s you. Trooper Smith and I would both know that the truth was somewhat different, but if you think either of us would lose any sleep over it you’re wrong. The reports filed by our French colleagues standing over there—’ Richter pointed at a group of Gigenes near Erulin’s Renault ‘—would say exactly the same, because they wouldn’t have understood anything I said to Trooper Smith or he said to me. That’s the problem with not having a common language.’

Richter leaned forward, his eyes cold and hard. ‘Here and now,’ he said softly, ‘we are the law. Anything I do to you can be justified, because anything I could do is totally insignificant compared to what you tried to do.