Overkill

Westwood over, taking care to use only his Christian name. ‘General Modin, this is John, from the CIA. John, this is General Nicolai Modin of the SVR,’ Richter said.

‘Did you,’ Modin asked Westwood, ‘tell the British that you had developed a source – I believe you would call it a “walk-in” – in Moscow? A high-level source?’

Westwood looked somewhat sheepishly at Richter, then nodded. ‘We did,’ he replied, ‘although only very recently. We were trying,’ he went on, ‘to clarify the situation without involving our allies. That was possibly a mistake.’ Richter nodded in agreement.

‘We knew about the “walk-in”,’ Modin said. ‘I briefed a colleague to try to identify the traitor. He spent a great deal of time and effort in trying to find anyone who could have passed information to the Americans, but he was not successful. However,’ Modin added, ‘he and I both agreed that the most likely candidate was Viktor Bykov, which is the real reason why Bykov was with me and why he was travelling to take up a post in London.’

Richter looked puzzled. ‘I understand that, General,’ he said, ‘but you seem to find it amusing that Bykov has been suspected of being a traitor. What’s funny about that?’

Modin’s grin grew wider. ‘It is funny, Mr Beatty,’ he said, ‘because Bykov is not the traitor that my colleague believes him to be.’

‘How do you know?’ Richter asked.

‘Because, Mr Beatty,’ Modin replied, ‘I was the “walk-in”, not Viktor Bykov.’

The Walnut Room, the Kremlin, Krasnaya ploshchad, Moscow

The door opened and a short, slim, elderly man with thick grey hair walked in. He looked round the room and nodded respectfully to the five figures seated at the table. At the head sat the Russian President. Flanking him were Yevgeni Ryzhkov, Vice-President of the Supreme Soviet, and Anatoli Sergeyevich Lomonosov, Chairman of the Council of Ministers. At the far side of the table sat Yuri Baratov, Chairman of the SVR, and his deputy, Konstantin Abramov. The President gestured the newcomer to a seat at the end of the table.

‘General Sokolov,’ the President rumbled in his gravelly voice, ‘we have a problem.’

Grigori Sokolov sat down and looked enquiringly up the table, but said nothing. He was far too experienced to speak until he knew exactly what was going on, and the peremptory summons he had received had given him no clue.

‘Where is General Modin?’ Baratov asked, his voice quietly penetrating.

Whatever Sokolov had been expecting, that wasn’t it. ‘General Modin?’ he murmured. ‘You know where he is, Comrade Baratov. He is on his way to London.’ Sokolov watched Baratov’s face carefully as he replied, and as soon as the words were out of his mouth, Sokolov realized that Baratov did not know, and had not known, where Modin was. None of the men at the table knew, and Sokolov suddenly understood that something was very, very wrong.

‘Why,’ the President asked, ‘is he going to London?’

Sokolov stood up and bowed his head. ‘Comrade President,’ he replied, stammering slightly, ‘I will assist you in any way that I can, but I do not think I am the person to whom you should be speaking.’

‘Then who should we be addressing?’ Ryzhkov asked.

‘Minister Dmitri Trushenko,’ Sokolov replied. ‘General Modin and I have been carrying out the Minister’s specific instructions. General Modin believed – and I believed – that the Minister was properly following Politburo directives.’

‘And what instructions did Minister Trushenko give?’ the President asked.

Sokolov straightened and looked directly at him. ‘Minister Trushenko has been co-ordinating Operation Podstava,’ Sokolov said quietly. ‘Operation Podstava was designed to neutralize America and let our forces walk into Western Europe without a fight. General Modin,’ he finished, ‘is overseeing the final phase of the operation.’

Autoroute A26, vicinity of Couvron-et-Aumencourt

Westwood shook his head. ‘So you’re source RAVEN? We had a list of possibles,’ he said, ‘and you were on it purely because of the access we knew you had. We never seriously thought it could be you.’

Modin shook his head. ‘I am not a traitor,’ he said. ‘At least, I don’t think I am. The information I passed to your man in Moscow earlier was genuine – it was not what you call disinformation – and I revealed it for one reason only. I had to establish a track record with the CIA, so as to be sure that when I told you about this operation you would take my warning seriously. I had to be sure that you would take action to stop it. Podstava,’ he went on, ‘would not have worked. I began to doubt the wisdom of our actions earlier this year, and I even made representations to Minister Trushenko.’ He shook his head. ‘But it was like trying to stop a train – once it’s in motion, it’s impossible. In the beginning, it all seemed so simple, so obvious. Frighten America off the stage. Take Europe without a fight, and at last we would have a platform from which we could truly dominate the world. Make Communism work, really work. Fulfil the dreams of Lenin and the rest.’

He smiled. ‘I don’t know when it was, but I realized that it wouldn’t work – couldn’t work, in fact. We could take Europe – that would be easy enough – but it was the aftermath. Russia already has ample natural resources, but the fact is that we can’t even feed our own people. Without the grain we buy from America every year, our people would starve. Adding the territories of Western Europe would increase our resources, but we would have to absorb their populations as well, and that would simply mean yet more mouths to feed. We would actually make the situation worse, not better. I opposed glasnost, you know. I didn’t believe that opening our borders to the West would help Russia. Now, I think that Gorbachev and Yeltsin were right. Russia cannot remain a fortress, isolated and remote from the rest of the world, from progress, any longer. If we try to, we will just slip further and further behind. The time has come for Russia to – if you will pardon the expression – come out of the closet.’

‘So you decided to tell us about it?’ Richter asked.

Modin nodded. ‘Yes. It seemed the only way to avoid a conflict that neither side could win. In this matter,’ Modin added, his voice dropping, ‘you and the Americans must work closely together – very closely. Do you understand?’

Richter shook his head. ‘I’m not entirely sure I do, General,’ he replied.

‘Never mind. Just remember what I said. You must work with the Americans.’

‘When were you going to tell us about the weapons in the States?’ Westwood asked.

‘This week,’ Modin said. ‘Minister Trushenko is to deliver the ultimatum, and he is only waiting for confirmation from me of the placement of this weapon in London.’

‘The weapons in America are controlled by your new communications satellite?’ Richter asked. ‘The one in geostationary orbit over the eastern Atlantic?’

‘Yes,’ Modin replied. ‘The weapon test in the Tundra, which the Americans flew their spy-plane to investigate, was not actually a test of the bomb – it was a test of the firing mechanism. We had already run exhaustive underground tests of the new weapon. You know,’ he added, ‘that we have developed a strategic-yield neutron bomb?’

‘Yes,’ Richter said. ‘Comrade Bykov was somewhat evasive on this point, so I will ask you. Why can’t the Americans simply destroy the satellite? Send up a Shuttle with a laser or something and burn it up?’

‘Because our scientists have been much more cunning than that, Mr Beatty. The Americans will have a vested interest in keeping that satellite alive and well. The satellite does not contain a triggering device,’ Modin continued. ‘It contains a hold-fire device – it’s a fail-unsafe system. The satellite receives a signal from an uplink station in Russia, and radiates that signal to the United States. Each weapon is linked to a satellite dish and receiver. As long as the signal is received, the firing circuits are disarmed. If the signal fails, an automated sequence arms the firing circuits and the weapon will explode.’

Richter thought for a moment. ‘You mean if the satellite is destroyed, or even badly damaged, the weapons you have placed in America will detonate?’

‘Exactly, Mr Beatty.’

Westwood stared at him. ‘Holy shit,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Did the genius who conceived this plan stop to think about what would happen if the satellite suffers a power failure, or gets struck by a meteorite or some space debris?’