Overkill (42 page)

‘You believe that?’ Westwood asked. ‘You believe the President would just roll over and play dead?’

‘He might have no option,’ Hicks replied. ‘Put yourself in his position. If the Russians announce that they’ve positioned one strategic-yield nuclear weapon in the centre
of every major city in the States, and that they’re going to detonate them unless he agrees to whatever they want, what else can he do?’

‘It would be a first-strike without any warning,’ Masters added. ‘There could be no warning, because the weapons are already here. The first we would know about it would be the
detonation of the first bomb.’

‘I’m having a job coping with this,’ Westwood said. ‘If you’re right, then this completely negates all of our defences.’

‘Well, not exactly,’ Hicks replied. ‘I’ve had two meetings with the President already, and he’s quite prepared to go to the edge on this. We’ve already
discussed the military preparations he’s approved. The threat of us implementing those measures might be enough to defuse this situation.’

‘It might,’ Westwood said, ‘but I wouldn’t put any money on it. Any progress with that Russian word –
Pripisha
or whatever it was?’

‘
Pripiska
,’ Hicks said. ‘No. We’re still looking into it, but so far nobody here has had any bright ideas.’

‘So what the hell are we going to do?’ John Westwood asked, leaning back in the padded chair in the Paris Embassy Communications Room. The room was air-conditioned and cool, but he
was sweating.

‘OK,’ Walter Hicks said. ‘What we need is data – any data. At the moment, we have no idea what we’re up against. What I don’t believe is that nobody’s
noticed anything. Christ, we’ve got spy satellites peering into everyone’s backyard, we’ve got the NSA reading just about every diplomatic signal that passes through the States,
and the British GCHQ listening-in every time somebody takes a crap. Somebody, somewhere, must know something.

‘John, you have to lean on the French. Forget about diplomacy, protocol, Gallic sensitivity and all the rest. Kick ass if you have to, but get some answers. Roger, the same applies to you
in London. Get back on to that Taylor guy and get SIS moving. You’ve both got top weight on this – I’ve already talked to SIS and the DGSE, and the President will be calling the
British Prime Minister and the French President today.’ There was silence for a moment or two. ‘Questions?’ Hicks asked.

‘No,’ Westwood replied, echoed a second later by Abrahams.

‘OK,’ Hicks growled. ‘Get to it.’

Office of Commander-In-Chief Fleet (CINCFLEET), Northwood, Middlesex

Flag Officer Submarines (FOSM) is the head of the Submarine Branch of the Royal Navy and exercises operational control of some twenty-five nuclear- and
conventionally-powered submarines, and is responsible for training and maintenance aspects of the Trident missile-carrying nuclear submarines. Operational control of the Trident boats, however, is
vested in Commander-in-Chief Fleet (CINCFLEET), which is why the Top Secret, Military Flash signal from the Chief of the Defence Staff (CDS) was sent to CINCFLEET as the Action Addressee, and was
copied to FOSM for information.

Communication with submarines is difficult, because water acts as a barrier. The greater the depth of water above the boat, the more difficult it is to communicate with it. Standard procedure is
for all patrolling nuclear submarines to trail a short aerial which is designed to receive Extremely-Low Frequency (ELF) signals at the vessel’s normal operating depth. The disadvantage of
ELF is that it is very slow, and only a limited number of characters can be sent in a given time period – normally about one letter character every fifteen to thirty seconds. This is not
enough to pass a complete operational message, but what ELF can do is transmit a warning message to one or more submarines in coded form.

These warning messages are usually repeated sequences of just a few characters. The decoded text will tell the captain that his operating authority has a message to pass to him, what time the
message will be sent, and how the message will be transmitted. At the appropriate time, the submarine will reduce its depth in preparation. Depending upon the transmission method selected, either
the submarine will trail a long aerial which will float immediately below the surface of the sea, or the boat will extend an aerial above the surface from the top of the sail. The former method is
the more secure, but reception is slow, while the latter allows high-speed transmissions to be received, albeit at the risk of the aerial being detected by radar from a hostile vessel or aircraft,
or even visually in calm seas. Under no circumstances will the captain acknowledge any message – submarine communications are strictly oneway, to avoid compromising the vessel’s
position.

Forty-five minutes after CINCFLEET received the signal from the CDS, a Group Warning Signal was transmitted via the ELF radio relay station just outside Rugby in Warwickshire. Thirty and
thirty-five minutes after that, two Military Flash Operational Tasking Signals were sent via a communications satellite to HMS
Vanguard
and HMS
Victorious
, the two Trident boats on
patrol. Fifteen minutes after receiving the signals, the two boats, in their widely separated patrol areas, were back at their normal operating depth and moving at increased speed on new
headings.

Marne-la-Vallée

Disneyland Paris is difficult to miss. Quite apart from the Mickey Mouse symbols and road signs advising travellers of their proximity to the Magic Kingdom, the unlikely
towers of Sleeping Beauty’s Castle can be seen from a considerable distance on the autoroute. Davy Crockett Ranch lies to the south of the A4, the opposite side to Disneyland itself. The
approach is down a private road, under an arch proclaiming the identity of the place, and into a car park outside the reception area. Inside, they spoke good English, which was just as well because
Richter had left his French behind at school. He was given keys to his cabin, a number code to open the barrier which protected the camp from unauthorized visitors, or at least from those arriving
in cars, a map of the place, and a three-day Disneyland passport. Richter doubted that he would be making much use of the last item, but he thanked them anyway, climbed back into the Granada, and
drove on into the heavily wooded site.

The cabin, when Richter found it, was surprisingly comfortable and well equipped. He visited the general store, called the Trading Post, and bought coffee, tea, milk and biscuits, then returned
to the cabin. He locked the door, drew the curtains and unpacked his suitcase, then reviewed his plans while the kettle boiled. The schedule drawn up by the FOE planners was simple but
comprehensive. They had organized a meeting with the 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 Générale de Sécurité Extérieure
Headquarters, boulevard Mortier, Paris

The boulevard Mortier runs almost parallel with the north-eastern
Péréphérique
– 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 Générale de Sécurité Extérieure
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.’