Yong-Su’s repeated use of the word ‘your’. If this venture should end in failure, Kim was making it absolutely clear that the entire responsibility would fall on Pak’s shoulders.
Again Pak considered his options, such as they were. If, on the one hand, he said his force would be able to cope, Kim might simply advance the schedule. But alternatively, if he said they wouldn’t, then his own life might be forfeit. He swallowed twice, and opted for the middle ground.
‘I believe the squadron would be able to achieve its tasking, but I would be very reluctant to commit our forces until we’ve made every effort to obtain those additional aircraft and missiles. Once the operation begins, there will almost certainly be no chance of organizing any resupply, and it would be unfortunate if the missiles were all ready to be flown in to T’ae’tan only to be stopped in transit by an air embargo.’
Pak thought for a moment he’d gone too far. Kim’s eyes stared at him unblinkingly, and for a very long thirty seconds he did not respond. ‘You should not, Pak Je-San, concern yourself with the government’s overall strategy or operational timing. I am merely seeking an assessment of the ability of the forces you already control to carry out our bidding. That answer
‘I understand that,’ Pak said hastily. It looked as if he’d survived, for the moment, but he knew there was something else he had to say. Kim Yong-Su was a Party animal in the Communist sense and had, as far as Pak knew, absolutely no military experience or knowledge. If the operation was to succeed, there were some essential measures that must be taken in advance.
‘If I may, there is also the matter of the tactical deployment of my’ – he thought he might as well acknowledge that the squadron, and by implication its success or failure, belonged to him – ‘assets prior to the start of the operation.’
‘Explain.’
‘At present, for logistical reasons all the MiG-25s are based at T’ae’tan. That is where we constructed the accommodation for the pilots and the maintenance staff, and where we have stored the spares and weapons. Before the operation begins, I intend to split the force into four, leaving one quarter of the aircraft and weapons at T’ae’tan, and sending the remainder to Nuchonri, Kuupri and Wonsan.
‘That will give our enemies four different targets to engage, and also gives us greater geographical flexibility in our response to threats. By dividing our MiG-25 force between these airfields, we will be better able to respond to attacks from any direction.’
Kim looked at him, then nodded. ‘That is sensible, Pak Je-San. I will ensure that you are told the moment we decide to commence our operation.’
Pak inclined his head in thanks.
The Party leader continued staring at him in silence for a few seconds more, then looked at the other men sitting at the table. ‘Any other matters?’ he asked softly, and was rewarded only by shaking heads.
Ten minutes later, Pak Je-San walked out of the building and, as always, sucked in a deep breath the moment he stepped outside – like a drowning man coming up for air.
The Intelligence Director knocked on Simpson’s door, waited for his response and then entered. Carrying a red file in his hand, he looked worried, but that was nothing new. The man normally looked worried, and not for the first time Simpson wondered why he hadn’t taken up a less stressful career, like teaching. Though, he had to admit, getting thrown into a classroom full of the aggressive little bastards that were today’s schoolchildren was hardly conducive to a quiet life.
‘What is it?’ Simpson almost snapped, as the ID sat down in front of his desk.
‘An interesting though unconfirmed report from Vauxhall Cross. It’s classified Secret and categorized as Grade Three intelligence that’s come from an asset in Sofia, and it relates to a possible theft of munitions that might impinge upon Richter’s current tasking.’
Simpson counted to three, very slowly. He had considerable respect for the ID’s breadth of knowledge, and his dedication to the service, and the fact that his suits and shirts were always clean and neatly pressed, his shoes polished, and that his tie always displayed a perfect Windsor knot, but the man’s slow and pedantic delivery of information never ceased to irritate him.
‘I’m busy,’ he snapped, ‘so skip the caveats and just tell me what the fuck the man said.’
As usual, the ID looked faintly shocked at Simpson’s language. ‘Well, as I said, it’s not been confirmed yet, but it looks as if there was a major theft of missiles from Dobric in Bulgaria yesterday.’
‘Dobric? Never heard of it.’
‘It’s a disused airfield just over thirty miles north of the Black Sea port of Varna. Though it’s been closed since the year 2000, the Bulgarians still have a lot of equipment stored there. Everything from torch batteries to mothballed aircraft, from what I can gather. According to our source, yesterday some of the locals heard what sounded like small-arms fire coming from inside the base, and late yesterday afternoon a group of Bulgarian Air Force personnel turned up to investigate, heavily armed. According to an eyewitness, they had to force the main gate to get inside, and he claimed to have seen body-bags later being taken out of the base.’
‘And this has what, exactly, to do with Richter?’ Simpson was thinking the ID had strayed somewhat from the point.
‘Dobric holds a large stock of Russian-manufactured AA-6 missiles, NATO reporting name Acrid. They’re the ideal weapon for the MiG-25, and I understand that quite a few nations, including Russia, seem to have mislaid the odd Foxbat recently. The source’s witness reported seeing three trucks leaving Dobric yesterday afternoon, loaded with long wooden crates, each about the right size to hold an Acrid. So perhaps someone, somewhere, is intending to marry the aircraft to the missile.’
Simpson nodded and held out his hand for the file. ‘Leave it with me. I’ll make sure Richter’s informed as soon as possible.’
The Bar Moskva stood on the Kama Boulevard, on the south side of the river, and the meeting was set for seven. They’d spent a good deal of time after lunch discussing what options they had, but in the end it came down to Pavel Bardin dialling a mobile phone number and telling the man who answered that he might, after all, be interested in moving to the Gulf. The call took place at just after five.
Once the rendezvous was set up, Richter and Bykov were able to make their own arrangements. In Richter’s case, that didn’t take long. Bykov found him a shoulder holster from somewhere, and Oustenka then offered him a choice of either a Makarov PMM or a Yarygin PYa to carry in it. Richter would have preferred something manufactured well to the west of Moscow, but nothing like that was on offer.
The Makarov is loosely based on the Walther PP and was the standard Soviet Army sidearm until the end of the twentieth century. It fires a non-standard 9x18mm cartridge, and has a relatively small magazine capacity of twelve rounds. But the Yarygin replaced it in 2003, and that was much more to Richter’s taste. It’s chambered for the familiar 9mm Luger/Parabellum, and the magazine holds seventeen rounds – in Richter’s opinion, the more bullets the better,
The Bolshoye Savino Air Base, like almost all military establishments in every country, possessed a pistol range, and Richter spent about forty minutes getting to know his borrowed weapon and firing a box of ammunition. At the end of it, he reckoned he stood a fighting chance of hitting most things he was likely to want to aim at, as long as the target didn’t move too quickly and also stayed within about twenty-five yards of him.
Bykov went back into Perm and talked Superintendent Wanov into providing a hidden cordon around the bar. The men were not to move into position until Bykov, who would be sitting in a car parked a short distance down the road, instructed them to. Till then the police officers would wait in closed vans strategically located in adjacent streets, and all of them would be armed.
At six-twenty Paul Richter pushed open the door of the Bar Moskva and walked inside. He ordered an orange juice and a glass of water, and took the drinks over to a high stool situated at one end of the bar. From that position, he could easily see the door, the tables close to it, and anyone who happened to come in.
He’d been there for less than two minutes when his mobile rang. He looked at the number, recognizing it as Simpson’s private line, but checked his watch to ensure that he had time in hand, and only then answered the call.
