THIRTEEN
Static hissed from the radio. Rozenkov had not bothered to switch it off. He’d heard the pilot’s shouts of alarm and then terror as the helicopters had collided, and then the terrified howling of their crews as they’d plunged to the ground.
A moment before he’d received the codeword signalling a successful strike, but it wasn’t the loss of the gunships and their crews that had taken the edge from his satisfaction with the destruction of the GRU roadblock. Soon after had come word that the civilians had altered course and were now heading directly toward another Military Intelligence patrol.
With hindsight Rozenkov could wish he’d put more KGB units into the field, but there was nothing he could do about that now. He would have to accept that he was suddenly reduced to one piece, and that from here on it would be necessary for him to play with every shred of his skill and cunning.
Major Morkov burst into the room. His face was flushed and sweat stood out on his forehead as he thumped his fist down hard on the desk. ‘The order came from you. It could only have come from you.’
‘Calm yourself, Comrade Major.’ Rosenkov pretended ignorance. ‘If you will tell me what you think I have ordered to be done, I shall tell you whether you are correct or not. It is not possible for me to admit to, or deny any accusation the details of which I am not aware.’
From a drawer he took a miniature Japanese tape recorder and switched in on. ‘Proceed, feel free to repeat what you have just said, in the same tone if you wish.’ Folding his hands over his stomach and swivelling gently back and forth in his chair, he waited.
Morkov hesitated. As a matter of course he knew that all conversation in the room would be taped, but the ostentatious use of the personal recorder warned him to be especially on his guard. Word had come from General Mischenko himself that the protest was to be made in the strongest possible manner, with a show of indignation and anger, and in doing that he knew he could count on his chiefs protection, but this was Rozenkov’s home ground, and already he was laying traps.
Not eager to be the one to spring them and learn and suffer the consequences, Morkov decided to cover himself, make sure that he stayed well within the limits of the extent of that protection. In a deadpan monotone he delivered the gist of the complaint with no more feeling than he would have employed in asking the way to the lavatory.
‘I report that field company one-four-nine of Military Intelligence Command, on temporary attachment to Tenth Guards Army, southern sector, Zone, has suffered heavy casualties while operating in conjunction with and under the direction of Department A of the KGB.’
‘That is most interesting, Major. Can you tell me, precisely what are the casualty figures?’
‘Preliminary reports are vague, but it would appear… that the unit has ceased to exist, Comrade Colonel.’
‘Then it would seem that the casualties are very heavy indeed. I presume in that case that there are no eye witnesses to the attack.’ Getting no response, Rozenkov drove relentlessly on. ‘Would the unit be one of those you have indicated on my map?’ Still there was nothing from the liaison officer. ‘Ah, then their loss will not affect the outcome, the successful outcome, of this KGB operation.’
‘No… Comrade Colonel.’ The words near choked him. It had been a trap, but so carefully prepared and concealed that he was snared before he even knew it was there.
As he left the room he was already planning his next move. If word of this ever leaked to Military Intelligence GHQ, then it would do him no good at all. To outweigh that, if it should ever happen, it was more vital than ever that he turn the whole operation to the advantage of the GRU. Whatever the risk, whatever the cost, he must make sure it was a unit under his control that intercepted the civilian peace delegation.
This was not the time for finesse, for subtlety, it was determined and if need be ruthless action that was called for. Speed was of paramount importance but he no longer dared use the scrambler phone in his office in this building. There was an unwritten agreement between the two intelligence agencies that a liaison officer’s communications with his HQ should not be intercepted, but Morkov was a realist in a harsh world and was aware that if the line was not already bugged, it would be soon.
Leaving the building would be reported to Rozenkov, and regarded with suspicion but there was no choice. For what he was setting in motion he needed to be certain of utter secrecy. The only way he could feel confident of that was by returning in person to GRU headquarters and using their transmitter.
When he reached the exit the five minute wait while his car was summoned from the motor pool was agonizing. For fear of being overheard by the white gloved KGB guard who sprang forward to open the door for him, and was slow in closing it, he waited until they were moving into the traffic flow before instructing his driver.
From the picture window of his top floor office, from behind two inches of armour glass that slightly distorted the view, Rozenkov watched the liaison officer’s hurried departure, and that of the anonymous grey Moskvich saloon that followed at a discreet distance. The tail was hardly necessary, he could be quite certain as to where the major was heading, but he had already learned the hard way not to underestimate the man’s ambition; he was not about to make the same mistake over his desperation.
Leaving the window, he crossed to his desk and picked up the internal telephone. His own operator responded instantly, but there was a perceptible delay before the section he asked for answered. He made a mental note for future reference and action.
‘Rozenkov… I shall want a transcript of all transmissions from GRU headquarters made in the next hour. Have them sent to me as fast as they are decoded… then get the extra men you need!’ He made another note, and the need for a shake-up of the Radio Traffic Interception section moved higher in his list of priorities, taking second place behind the obtaining of a GRU liaison officer.
‘Pity those bloody civvies didn’t stay put in that holiday village, or whatever it was. If they had we’d have been on our way home by now.’ On the major’s instruction Burke had slowed the Marder to a walking pace as the road topped a ridge, and brought it to a halt in a hull-down position while the officer, their NCO and the girl went forward to reconnoitre the route ahead.
‘Anybody want a hand of cards while we’re waiting?’ Rippling the thick greasy deck, Dooley looked around, but there were no takers. ‘Come on you mean bastards. You can’t take it with you.’
‘Ain’t that the truth.’ Swallowing the antibiotic and painkiller Thorne had handed him, Ripper pulled a face at the plastic tainted taste of the tepid water he used to wash them down. ‘But if I ain’t takin’ it with me, I sure don’t see any reason for makin’ a gift of it to you before I go.’
Taking care not to bump the wide lens of the powerful infra-red camera against the sides of the hatch, Boris lowered it to the bench, before climbing down himself and starting to stow the equipment.
‘Managed to get any good dirty pictures with that recently? Anything saleable?’ Reluctantly returning the cards to his pocket, Dooley took out a well-thumbed back copy of Forum and began to flick through it, having to squint closely to see the detail of small photographs illustrating an article on lesbianism. ‘If you could use all that fancy gear to get a few shots like this,’ he held the small booklet open towards the Russian, ‘we could make a few bucks. You know, that’s a business I wouldn’t mind going in for when I get out.’
‘I thought you were off to Florida to offer your services to all the wrinkled old widows. There can’t be much of a market for pictures of them.’ Burke shuddered at the thought. ‘Horrible, all wispy grey hair and sagging tits.’