The Kremlin Device (41 page)

‘Same here,' I told him.

At 12.25 the big guy shat himself. The smell was repulsive, so I opened a window. Cold air blasted in, but it was better than the stink.

Barrakuda went quiet again. At 12.40, when I stood in front of him, his face looked white as flour, and his eyes seemed to have sunk into his head. After I'd watched him for a few seconds, he said something.

‘He wants to make a deal,' Mike interpreted.

‘Oh yes?'

‘If he gives you the information, will you guarantee him free passage to Malta?'

‘Fucking hell! Who does he think he is? Tell him not a chance. Not the remotest bloody chance.'

I waited while the information was conveyed. Then I ostentatiously ripped the lead out of the telephone and said, in a series of short sentences, waiting for Mike to translate each one. ‘What's going to happen is this . . . The police have already evacuated the city . . . In ten minutes' time we're getting out too . . . We're not going to wait for the explosion . . . We're going to cuff you to your shitty friend, tie you up and leave you here . . . Talk now, or it'll be too late.'

That pushed him over the brink. He said something, and I saw Mike's eyes widen.

‘What was that?' I snapped.

‘He says the bomb is here.'

‘Where?'

‘In the garage below.'

‘Jesus Christ! What garage? These flats don't have garages. We checked that.'

‘In the small street behind.'

‘What number?'

‘Three.'

I hit my pressel. ‘Red leader. What street is there immediately behind this block?'

‘It's a mews,' said Joe instantly. ‘Markham Mews. Why?'

‘The bomb's there, in the garage.'

‘Say that again.'

‘Our prisoner says the bomb's there. In Number Three's garage. I'm coming down.'

I was already in the hall. ‘Stay put!' I yelled to the rest of the team.' At the last moment I stuck my head back round the sitting-room door and said, ‘Remember, nobody comes in here, and nobody's coming out of here alive.'

I couldn't wait for the lift. I took the stairs four or five at a time, heaving myself round the corners with the hand-rail. By the time I hit the street police sirens were screaming towards the block. A car nearly knocked me down as it swung into the mews. I was aware of a cordon in the distance, with a crowd behind it, and other figures running close to me.

There were the garages, built into little houses opposite the apartment block. One, two, three, numbering from the left. The third had bright blue wooden doors, freshly painted, with a white figure high on the right-hand side. The doors were secured with an old-fashioned hasp and padlock.

‘Bolt-cutters!' I shouted. ‘For fuck's sake, bolt-cutters!'

There was someone in black beside me, one of the QRF. Bolt-shears appeared in his hands. Two seconds later he had chopped through the soft metal guards around the padlock. I slid the bolt back, padlock and all, and dragged the doors open. The little garage was occupied by a beige-coloured van with the logo
WEST END ANTIQUES
painted in an elegant rainbow shape across its back doors.

Shit! I thought. Either Barrakuda was lying or he boobed on the number.

The guy from the QRF was more on the ball. He jumped forward, tried the doors, found they were locked, pushed his way between the right-hand side of the van and the brick wall, shone a torch through the driver's window and shouted, ‘It's here!'

I was alongside him in an instant. There, in the back of the van, glinted a single, big, black object: Orange, with its two components united. From one corner, wires led to a red box just inside the rear doors.

My breath had gone. I hit my pressel and croaked, ‘Red leader, we've found it. In Number Three garage. Locked inside a van.'

‘DON'T TOUCH ANYTHING!' snapped a deep voice I didn't know. ‘ATO here. We're on our way. Leave everything alone. Get clear of the site.'

We pushed back along the side of the van, trying not to rock it. In the doorway I looked up at the back of Markham Court, convinced that someone must have eyes on the site. More black-clad guys were hovering in the mews, hanging back from the target in uncharacteristic fashion. Their instincts were the same as mine – to go in and smash the timing device immediately. My watch said 1.13: we were within eight minutes of detonation. But they'd heard the ATO tell them to keep their distance, and they were wondering what the hell to do. It wasn't in our nature or training to run away – and in any case, there didn't seem much point. If the thing was about to go off, we'd never get far enough to make any difference.

What we did was to hustle back as far as the main road and tuck ourselves round the front of the apartment block, out of line of sight from the open garage doors. I tried to say something to the QRF guy, but words didn't come, my heart was pumping that fast.

This is fucking ridiculous! I thought. You get round the corner when you're cracking off an ordinary explosion. If
this
thing goes, we'll all be vapour and the building will simply vanish.

There wasn't long to wait or worry. Within seconds a van came screaming down the street. Its tyres squealed as it scorched round the corner into the mews and slid to a halt in front of the garage. Out jumped two men clad in white over-suits from head to toe, like astronauts. Each carried a heavy-looking hold-all full of kit.

‘ATO on target,' the deep voice reported. ‘Stand by.'

The lock on the van's rear doors held them up for all of five seconds. They flung the doors open and both leant in, on top of the live device, backs to us, reaching forward with their gloved hands. Fifty yards off, in full view, I stood transfixed, holding my breath. If it goes, I kept thinking, will I see the flash in the final split-second of life, or will the shock wave be too fast even for that?

The suspense was excruciating. I felt the whole world must be standing still, that everyone on earth had stopped breathing, like me. Mentally, I took off my hat to the two guys at the back of the van. By God they've got balls, I thought.

Then, after an incredibly short space of time, one of them stood up, turned round and raised both arms in triumph, as if he'd scored a goal. At the same moment I heard the deep voice say, ‘Device made safe. Repeat: device made safe.'

I suppose I felt relief. I must have. But I don't remember it now. All I can recall is getting a sudden and intensely vivid mental image of the wretched sister device, Apple, sitting there in its hollowed-out niche beneath the Kremlin wall.

SEVENTEEN

On the plane to Moscow I had the unpleasant feeling that I'd gone back to the beginning and that the whole nightmare was about to start again. Flight number, departure time, type of aircraft, even the cabin crew – all were the same as on our recce trip.

Only I had changed. Instead of looking forward to a new experience and a bit of a lark, I was being driven by a personal compulsion at least as powerful as the jet engines thrusting us through the sky.

The morning papers carried no hint of the previous day's events: the media, thank God, had apparently not had a sniff of the drama in Markham Court and Mews. If they'd picked it up, they'd have had one hell of a story:
LIVE NUCLEAR DEVICE DISCOVERED IN STOLEN VAN . . . GUN-BATTLE LEAVES TWO CHECHENS DEAD IN FLAT . . . SAS MAN LOSES FINGERS IN GROZNY TORTURE.

Wretched Toad! Word came up from the Services' hospital in London that surgeons had had to amputate the remains of both little fingers and the third finger on his left hand. When the Shark's men had realised that he was the one with knowledge of the bomb, they'd started in on him with bolt-shears, one joint at a time. But, tough little sod that he was, he'd given nothing away. Pavarotti, who wasn't seriously hurt, confirmed that he'd shown outstanding courage.

According to the headlines, international tension had eased. Even so, there were only about a dozen passengers on the 767. Feeling the need to relax, I got two miniatures of Haig off the drinks trolley, along with a can of soda water, and downed the lot in a few minutes. The Scotch helped to lull my anxiety, and when I stretched out across three seats with a blanket over my head I soon fell asleep, and stayed unconscious for most of the flight.

The arrival hall at Sheremetyevo was as dim and dire as ever, but so few people were coming in that Immigration proved relatively painless. Beyond the Customs, in contrast, the taxi drivers swarmed even more voraciously than usual. Hardened to their methods, I stood still until I spotted a short man waiting at the back of the scrum. He had an open, friendly face, a neatly trimmed red beard, and was wearing a peaked, dark-blue cap. Instead of screaming at me, he was smiling.

I pushed through the mob and said, ‘OK. Let's go.'

Outside, the cold bit, and I was surprised to see a dusting of snow on the ground. My guide led the way to a clean-looking grey Zhigudi and held one of the back doors open for me.

‘Thanks,' I said. ‘But I'll come in front.'

I settled in the passenger seat and asked, ‘What's your name?'

‘Sergei.'

‘You speak English?'

‘Some.' He gave a deprecating grin. ‘City centre?'

‘No. I want to go to Balashika.'

‘Balashika!' He sounded amazed.

‘Balashika first. Then city centre. Then back to Balashika. How much will all that cost?'

‘Dollars?'

I nodded. As he pulled out on to the highway, I could see his mind ticking up figures. ‘One hundred fifty.'

‘I'll give you two hundred.'

‘
Khorosho!
'

He drove fast but well, not taking risks, but watching all the time for openings in the traffic, and taking shortcuts to avoid the blocks at major intersections. When I praised his navigation, he answered in quite fluent English. We chit-chatted about this and that, and when I asked how old he was, he suddenly, with a flourish and a big grin, whipped off his cap to reveal that he was almost completely bald. ‘Feefty!' he exclaimed. I refrained from saying that without his hat he bore a strong resemblance to Lenin, but I felt that if I had, he wouldn't have given a damn.

He took the outer ring-road, round the north perimeter of the city. Out in the country there seemed to be more snow, and although the main road was clear, the ground was uniformly white.

As we approached Balashika I felt my anxiety building. I hadn't quite worked out how I was going to handle my re-entry into the camp. The time was 6.30 p.m., and the chances were that the team would be back indoors for the night.

Taxis weren't allowed inside the barracks, so I asked Sergei to wait outside the gate. Luckily the guy on the barrier recognised me, and even greeted me cheekily as
Starik –
Old Man.

I ran up the steps of the barrack block in some trepidation, but again I was in luck. The guys had eaten supper early and gone out again to run a night exercise. Only the two scalies were in residence. I had a word with them, and said I'd be back later. Then it was just a matter of collecting basic essentials from the caving kit: wire ladder, head-torch and bolt cutters, plus a towel, sweater and spare padlocks from my own locker.

In fifteen minutes we were heading back into town, down the all-too-familiar Shosse Entusiastov, past the scene of the fatal ambush. As we went by, I twisted to my left in an attempt to pinpoint the spot. Yes – there was the wooden hut the Mafia had used as a decoy GAI station.

Going against the flow of traffic, we reached the centre of Moscow in thirty-five minutes. Sergei must have been curious about what I was doing, but he had the sense or the good manners not to enquire. I asked him to head for Sofieskaya Quay, and got him to drop me a hundred metres short of the churchyard gateway, at a point where an alleyway ran back between two houses.

‘Half an hour, back here,' I said.

‘Is good.' He peered at his watch. ‘Now seven-thirty. Back eight o'clock?'

‘
Tochno
. See you then.'

I was confident he'd return, because so far I'd paid him nothing, and I liked him the more for not having demanded the first instalment of his fee at half-time.

I walked a few steps down the alleyway and waited till I heard the car move off. Then I came back on to the embankment and hurried to the gateway.

Now, early in the evening, lights were on all over the convent building. Scarcely had I entered the yard when two women came walking towards me; but they passed without giving me a look, and a couple of seconds later I was safe in the pitch blackness of the old stable.

The bolt-cutters gave me sickening thoughts of Toad, but they did their work in a trice. I lifted the cover of the shaft, secured the top wires of the caving ladder round the hinges, and threw the rest of it down. Because of the wires, I couldn't close the cover while I was underground, but that was a risk I had to take.

Down in the tunnel the smell was exactly as I remembered it: damp, slime, decay. Of course I was scared – but in my experience the best way to hold fear at bay is to keep moving, so I hurried forward towards the river, anxious to discover if the water level was up or down. It was up. It was within three or four inches of the arched roof. Jesus! I should have brought a mask and dry-suit.

Too late now. At the top of the slope I stripped off my clothes and left them in a heap on top of my shoes. Then, with the head-lamp back on and the bolt-cutters in my right hand, I waded into the black flood.

The water was cold as ice. I gasped as it reached my crotch, but strode forward hard in an attempt to keep my blood moving. Quickly my whole body became submersed. I made paddling movements with my hands to speed my progress. Soon I was up to my neck, then up to my chin. Down came the roof, down, down. I reached the point at which, with the top of my head touching the bricks, my mouth was under water and my nose just entering it. From now on the only way I could breathe was by tilting my head back and turning my face upwards in the narrow airspace. To do that I had to push the headlamp on to the back of my head so that it didn't foul the roof.