‘Agreed,’ Moore said, ‘but that rather misses the point. The vital fact is that whoever supplied that listing obviously has access to the computer system, and can presumably supply copies of whatever files the Russians would like to see. Or, at least, those files that his own security clearance allows him to access.’
‘In fact,’ Richard Simpson interrupted, ‘the listing is simply a shopping list for the SVR, to let them pick and choose what they want to see. And that may actually be good news for us.’
‘Why?’ Holbeche asked.
‘Because it’s possible that no secrets have so far been betrayed by this unknown source. This looks to me like one of the first steps in a treacherous relationship and, whoever this source is, he’s proving to the Russians that he has the necessary access. And by getting them to choose whichever files they want to see, he can avoid copying data which would be of no interest to them. There’s also the financial angle, of course.’
‘Explain that, please,’ Arkin said.
‘The only things missing from the shopping list are the prices. My guess is that our source is waiting to see what files the Russians want, before he tells them what it’ll cost them.’
Moore nodded. ‘Yes, that makes sense, and you might be right. Maybe the leak hasn’t started yet, and we can stop it before things go any further. In fact, we might even be able to make capital out of this, by turning it into a disinformation operation.’
Warming to his theme, he leaned forward. ‘If we can identify the source, and then intercept the instructions sent to him by the SVR, we can achieve two things. First, we’ll find out what particular areas are of interest to the Russians, which will to some extent show what their current objectives are. Second, we can create faked copies of the files they ask for, and thus misdirect them.’
There was a brief silence, then Holbeche spoke. ‘There seem to be rather a lot of “ifs” in that scenario, William. Identifying the source won’t be easy, which is one reason why Mr Willets is here.’
Holbeche gestured for Willets to speak. ‘Perhaps this is the time to discuss the purely technical aspects of this matter?’
Willets nodded. ‘For obvious reasons, our security precautions are stringent,’ he said. ‘We rigidly control access to and from the LDC floors, and all personnel are subject to physical searches of their briefcases and other bags on leaving the section. This volume of paper simply could not therefore have been removed from the LDC.’
‘What about someone removing it a few pages at a time, sandwiched inside a newspaper, say?’ Arkin asked.
The question was directed at Willets, but it was Moore who answered. ‘We looked at that, but it’s not possible,’ he said. ‘The listing we found in the Russian courier’s briefcase was printed on continuous stationery, without any breaks. That means it was an original printout.’
‘And there’s another problem,’ Willets went on. ‘The printers used in the LDC — apart from the dot-matrix units on the second floor, which are used only by the system support staff — are all lasers. This printout was done on a twenty-four-pin dot-matrix printer.’
‘How do you know?’ Arkin asked.
‘We counted the indentations that the print-head made on the paper,’ Willets replied briefly.
‘And what about the second-floor staff? From what you’ve said, they have the right kind of printer, and they also have unrestricted access to the computers. That gives them both the means and the opportunity, and puts them right in the frame, according to my book.’ Arkin thrust his chin forward, somewhat aggressively.
He had made few friends during his rise through the ranks, not least because his investigations were characterized by a thoroughness that bordered on the obsessive, and he had no objection to treading — or more accurately stamping — on others’ toes.
‘You didn’t mention motive,’ Willets said mildly.
Arkin smiled somewhat sadly. ‘Money, perhaps?’ he suggested. ‘I don’t suppose you pay the staff that much. Maybe one of them reckoned he could do a little unofficial overtime for the Russian Embassy, and make himself enough to retire on.’
Holbeche had turned slightly pink, but Willets seemed unfazed by Arkin’s attack on the integrity of the LDC staff. ‘We think alike,’ he said. ‘That was my first reaction, too — but it’s impossible. Precisely because of the access those staff have, and the sensitivity of the data stored at the LDC, the second floor has a total surveillance system. And I do mean total.’
He leaned forward, tapping his pencil on the table for emphasis. ‘As I’ve already said, every bag, briefcase or other package that the staff take in or out is physically examined. This may include X-raying if the security personnel think that necessary. Second, the only entry to or exit from that floor is through specially adapted turnstiles which include metal detectors, and anyone triggering the detectors is subject to an immediate and complete body search. Third, the entire floor is under video surveillance twenty-four hours a day. And finally,’ Willets concluded, ‘every keystroke made on every computer console on the floor is recorded, and warnings are automatically generated if certain actions are even attempted. These “certain actions” include directory printouts, file printouts and file copying.’
Willets paused and looked directly across at Arkin. ‘About the only thing I am quite certain about here,’ he said, ‘is that this printout was not made on the second floor of the London Data Centre.’
Major Yuri Abramov, the Yasenevo Data-Processing System Network Principal Manager, stood in the office doorway and gazed with ill-concealed appreciation at Captain Raya Kosov’s back view. As he did so he reflected how it would have contrasted so sharply with that of his wife had they been placed side by side. Abramov had married early, far too early, and the slim and charming peasant girl with the rosy cheeks had turned within ten years into the shapeless, bulky woman with whom he now shared his life, and his small apartment. The rosy cheeks were still there, but three children and the genes of fifteen generations of farm girls had obliterated almost everything else in her that he had originally found so attractive.
The first time he had met Raya, Abramov had seen in her something of Eugenia as she had been when they got married, and as a result his feelings for his young subordinate had never been entirely dispassionate. Of course, he had never shown Raya any special sign of affection or extended her any special treatment — that would have been considered nekulturny or uncultured — but without doubt he enjoyed having her as his senior computer-systems specialist.
Raya had known who her visitor was as soon as the door opened, and she turned very slowly to face him. Like any woman who enjoys the admiration of a man, she was perfectly aware of his feelings for her, and ensured that she looked and acted to please him. She smiled a welcome to Abramov, then stretched, lifting her arms slowly above her head, her fingers interlaced, and elaborately failed to notice the way his eyes widened as her blouse tightened over her breasts.
‘Major,’ she greeted him deferentially, dropping her arms and moving behind her desk. ‘How can I help you?’
Abramov coughed, then walked over to the desk and sat down in the chair facing her, motioning for her to sit also. ‘As you know, Raya, I will be constantly in and out of the office during all of next week, so I would like you to do two small jobs for me, because I won’t have the time. In fact, you will need to start on one of them almost immediately.’