The Kremlin Device

ELEVEN

In the morning we felt, and looked, pretty shattered.

"When our students noticed some pale faces and started asking questions, we pretended we'd once again been on the piss. In fact we were rapidly gaining a reputation quite unjustified as leading piss artists and we claimed to have been so smashed that we couldn't remember the names of any of the bars we'd allegedly visited.

In fact we'd got back to barracks by 1:30 a.m., and I'd sent Hereford a coded message through the patrol radio to report the insertion of Apple.

Late as it was, the lads were far too hyped up by the success of the operation to feel sleepy. As we had sat round the kitchen table with a brew, Pavarotti had croaked, "What the fuck have we done?" perhaps partly in amazement because we'd managed it, partly in alarm at the possible consequences.

"That's put the frighteners on the bastards, anyway."

"Not yet it hasn't," I'd corrected.

"It may do at some time in the future, but they don't know about it yet."

"If that thing went off now," Johnny had said, 'what effect would it have on us here?" "Ask Toad."

Toad, as usual, was hovering at a distance from the rest of us.

"Eh, Toad!" Pay had shouted.

"Would Apple do for us here, now, if it went off?"

"Not immediately," he'd replied.

"We'd hear it, of course. We'd feel the shock-wave. But the big danger would be the radiation."

"How long would that take to get here?"

"Depends on the wind. An hour?"

"Would we feel anything from it?"

"Not until it was too late."

"Firkin ell!" went Whinger.

"Duty, old boy. Must do your duty." Rick could take off the CO to perfection.

We'd gone on shooting the shit till nearly 3:00, so it wasn't surprising that morning found us a bit jaded.

What brought me to my senses was an encrypted message that came in while we were having breakfast. Decoded, it read simply: WEST END CONFIRMS APPLE PIE ORDER. West End was Washington, and the rest was obvious. The Pentagon must have put out a test transmission and made contact with the SCR.

"Can you believe it?" I said to Rick.

"They're talking to the fucking thing, as if we'd buried a person there."

"I hope they're being polite to it," he said.

The fact that Apple was up and running gave me a jolt. I suppose I'd been subconsciously hoping that somewhere along the line the system would fail, and that, through no fault of our own, the satellite would be unable to make contact with the bomb. In that happy event we'd be absolved from responsibility.

Speculation was cut off when Anna appeared at our back door proffering a small package.

"I brought you a present," she began.

"Great! Come in. Have a cup of coffee. We've got a few minutes."

Perching neatly on a chair in our mess-room, she said, "This is by way of saying thank you for your help the other day."

"Oh, come on. We got a big thank you anyway.

"I know. But this is more important. Your security people in London may like to have it. MI5? Yes MI5."

"That is it, then?"

"Only a computer disk. But it contains full details of the Mafia organisation in London."

"In London?"

"Yes. They've made rapid progress there lately. Drugs, banking, prostitution all the usual things. The London network is spreading fast: links into Paris, Brussels, Amsterdam, Rome and other cities. This is a copy of a disk we picked up in the apartment after the raid. It's in Chechen, I'm afraid, but I'm sure your specialists will manage to translate it."

"Is Chechen different from Russian, then?"

"Absolutely." She saw me looking blank, and added, "All educated Chechens speak Russian, of course. But the languages are entirely different."

As she talked, my mind was moving at speed. Another computer disk.

Had this presentation got something to do with our own disk that had been destroyed? Was this supposed to be an apology for that accident?

"Well," I said.

"As you know, that kind of crime isn't really our field.

But I'm sure the guys in London will be grateful. Thank you.

"You're welcome. Please send it with the compliments of the FSB."

"Sure. I'll get it off today. The guys can take it when they go into town on the post run.

A couple of the other lads were present at this informal meeting, but as Anna and I walked out and down the steps of the building she and I were alone for a few moments. Suddenly she said, "I'd like to offer you a more personal thank you as well." She gave me a sideways, come-on look.

"Will you come and have supper?"

The invitation took me by surprise. Until now she'd been so formal and so correct so impersonal, although always friendly that the idea of trying to take her out had almost faded from my mind.

Still less had I imagined that she'd ever invite me. Apart from that brief walk we'd taken one lunchtime we'd never been alone. Now, for a moment, I was stuck for an answer.

"You don't have to come. That wasn't an order!" She gave me that sidelong glance again and burst out laughing. She also started to raise her right hand, and I thought she was going to take me by the arm; but luckily at that moment Mal came running round the corner with a cry of, "Forgot my flaming notes."

Once he'd passed, I looked back at her and said, "Terrific. I'd like that. When were you thinking of?"

"One day next week, maybe? Friday?"

"Fine."

"I'll come and pick you up at seven-thirty. I suggest that to avoid gossip, we say we've been summoned to see the Minister."

In the mean time I was glad to keep our rendezvous with Sasha and his mother. Since he'd asked two of us, Whinger was my obvious choice as No. 2but that afternoon he had developed a filthy sore throat, and by the evening he was more or less speechless. So in his place I nominated Rick, first because of his Russian, second because, if he was with us, I'd know for sure that he wasn't shagging Mafia women.

Sasha came and collected us at 7:00, and for this excursion no subterfuge was necessary, so we went off openly, casually dressed in jeans and sweaters.

At first, Sasha was on a high. He had more information about the victims of the raid on the apartment, and it had emerged that one of the five at the table had been Ruslan Beno, another big player in the Chechen mafia.

"You don't mean Keet?" I asked.

"By no means," Sasha replied quickly.

"This Whale, Keet — I showed you, he was one. His name was Gaidar, one of three brothers, very notoriotous. Beno is also from Grozny, but younger man.

"I know which he was," I said.

"That dark young fellow who got dropped half-way to the door of the living room.

"Yes. That man." Sasha turned to me with a big grin.

"Fantastic creeminals, Chechens. They make fabulous amounts of money. For example the Lazanskaya gang, based on Lazania restaurant, here in Moscow they got enormous riches from stolen cars. They operate very much in Brussels, stealing big cars from diplomats. Then, you know avizo system?"

I shook my head.

"Avizo is promise note. A bank signs it, to say they will pay so much money. The criminal makes forged promise note in one city, gets it signed, takes it to another city and cashes it. Simple!

By such means Chechen avizovshchiki made meellions. No not meellions. Beellions! In early nineties, such kind of Chechen gang got sixty billion roubles."

The idea of Mafiosi making fortunes obviously excited Sasha as much as did the idea of knocking off big-time players, and he talked enthusiastically for most of our short journey. But then, as we drew near his flat, he fell silent. After a couple of minutes he said, "Zheordie you must know. My mother she is very simple woman. Not very educated. Peasant woman.

"That's OK," I said.

"I expect mine was too."

"You don't remember her?"

"I thought I told you. I never knew my parents. I was brought up by my uncle and aunt."

That seemed to ease his mind, and his cheerfulness returned.

"Here is my house," he announced as he pulled up outside a tower block.

"Please, this way.

We walked down an asphalt path between patches of grass, with a few young trees scattered about. Other tall blocks rose all round, at a reasonable distance. In the dark, with only a few lamps glowing here and there, it was difficult to judge the state of the area, but it looked run-down, with litter blown up against the walls of the buildings.

We entered a cavernous lobby with bare concrete walls, and took the lift to the eighth floor. As we went up slowly, juddering and jerking, I sent Rick a glance that said, "Might try the stairs on the way down."

Sasha stepped out first, sifting through a bunch of keys, and ushered us towards a door one of four on a small, dingy landing. Turning the lock, he led us in.

"Please," he said, 'welcome to my house.~ His apartment was very small. That was my first impression as we stepped straight into the living room, which was cluttered with furniture and lined with shelves. Some held books and magazines, some vinyl albums. In one area Sasha's hi-fi equipment was stacked Teac amplifier and turntable, dating (by the look of them) from the seventies. At the tight-hand end of the room a table was laid for supper: blue-and-white check tablecloth, glasses, knives and forks, but only three place settings Beyond it a doorway gave on to a tiny cubicle of a kitchen, and in the opening stood a little old woman, rather bent, with her silver hair swept back into a bun, and wearing a shapeless dress of dark-blue covered in white polka-dots.

"Here is my mother," said Sasha, following up with a few words of Russian.

Rick, in the lead, did brilliantly, cracking off a "Dobriye ve cher (Good evening) and a couple more Russian phrases.

The broad old face startlingly like Sasha's creased into a smile, and the woman gave a little bob, inclining towards us. As we shook hands, I asked Sasha her name and he said, "She is Lyudmila."

The first few minutes were pretty difficult. Sasha insisted that we sat down, so I perched in an armchair and Rick on a sofa.

Because the flat was extremely warm, I asked what powered the heating. The answer was that all apartment blocks in Moscow are centrally heated that is, not from boiler rooms in individual buildings, but directly from power stations via underground pipes. Sasha said there was always plenty of heat in winter, even when the outside temperature was twenty below zero, but I noticed that there were no controls or thermostats on the old-fashioned radiators.

"How many rooms d'you have?" Rick asked.

"Living room, here. My mother's bedroom. Bathroom.

Kitchen. And balcony."

"Where d'you sleep, then?"

"There where you are!" Sasha laughed and pointed at the sofa Rick was occupying.

"I make bed." He obviously sensed that we found the place rather small, because he added, "For Moscow, this is good apartment. Besides, I am not very much here: always I have been away in army in Africa, in Afghanistan, in Chechnya. Not much time in Moscow."

In spite of his protestations, I felt a pang of guilt at having accepted hospitality in surroundings as humble as these. The idea of living in such cramped quarters eight floors up also brought on a surge of claustrophobia.

Looking round, I realised that there was a huge ginger cat asleep on a shelf above a radiator a welcome diversion.

"What's he called?" I asked.

Back came the answer, "Tigr."

Tiger the cat, Tiger Force. Of course. What other name could he have?

"Isn't it awkward for a cat; living high up like this? I mean how does he go about his business?"

"No problem," Sasha answered airily.

"He has box on balcony.

But two times every day, my mother takes him down in the lift for walk in the park. Also, he is very good hunter."

"What mice?"

"Birds. Here on the balcony. He can go for three flats along.

He is very quick' — a swiping motion with one hand 'he catch many birds."

I had a fleeting, uncomfortable vision of Tigr missing his grip and toppling eight floors to the ground only half the distance that wretched Igor had fallen. Even a cat with nine lives would hardly survive such a drop.

When I turned my head to look farther round, I realised that one wall was dominated by a large sepia portrait photograph, framed in a border of carved wood. I was startled, because the subject looked so familiar.

"Surely that's our old king, George V?" I asked.

"Not English king. Russian king! It is Tsar Nicholas."

"But it looks exactly like George."

"Konechno. These men were cousins. My mother, she is beeg fan of royal family."

"But the Russian royal family's long gone" English royals she likes. Prince Charles she likes very much.

"When Princess Diana was killed she felt vary sad." During our conversation Lyudmila had been bringing dishes of food out of the kitchen and setting them on the table. Now she murmured something to Sasha, who jumped up announcing, "Please! Dinner is ready."

He went to the head of the table, and indicated that we should sit either side of him. But his mother continued to hover in the doorway, and it soon became clear that she didn't intend to join us.

"Isn't your mother going to eat?" I asked "Later. She prefers to serve us. Now, please, we have teepical Russian meal. First, zakuski." He gestured lavishly over the spread of dishes.

"Such kinds of smoked fish, fish eggs, smoked meats, cheeses, cucumbers help yourselves."

I would have felt bad had I not known about the Mafia dollars which had obviously financed this banquet. As it was, I started eating fast, to provide some bedding for the vodka which Sasha kept pouring freely from a litre bottle. The food was delicious, and the vodka made a perfect foil for the sharp, salty, smoky tastes, especially of red fish roe. Whenever one of us paused for breath Sasha exclaimed, "Please, eat! Dreenk!" and waved us on.

"Take it easy," I muttered to Rick.

"I'm sure this is only the start."

Sure enough, the next course was bortsch thick soup, not full of beetroot as it usually is in England, but more subtle, with a meaty stock for background, small slices of various vegetables floating in it, and a good, peppery overall taste. Next came bitochki meat balls in a rich tomato sauce, with mashed potatoes and after that a special cake full of nuts, made by our hostess, with which Sasha served sweet Georgian champagne.

Throughout the feast his mother waited on us with embarrassing anxiety to please, bringing new dishes, removing empty ones, watching us, fussing around, gently urging us: "Yest! Yest! Eat! Eat!" Sasha, though clearly devoted to her, did nothing to help, but ate and drank to keep up with Rick and me.

By the later stages of the meal, the vodka had got to all three of us. Sasha was gabbling away about how his brother, a taxi driver, had made millions of roubles from illegal sales of booze in the period when Gorbachev tried to bring alcoholism under control.

"It was a kind of prahibeetion," he kept saying.

"Everyone was crazy for vodka."

"You mean booze was banned altogether?" said Rick incredulously.

"Not absolutely. But rationed. One half-litre of vodka a week that was all."

"Why, though?"

"Russian people were drinking all day, all night. They were falling down in street, running over by cars. They couldn't work.

Very many died. Alcohol was our national disease."

"And did the prohibition have any effect?"

"Konechno nyet! Black market was immense."

Rick began to converse freely with Lyudmila in Russian. I sat listening, smiling genially at everyone, but my spirits were sinking. Once again guilt was clawing at me.

After many entreaties, we finally persuaded Lyudmila to join us for tea, and she sat at the other end of the table, obviously pleased that we had enjoyed ourselves, but still watching anxiously for any possible deficiency in her arrangements.

Suddenly Sasha raised his glass and shouted, "Your Queen!"

"The Queen!" we echoed, slurping champagne.

"My mother, she say your Queen is beautiful woman.

"Thank you!"

"My mother is big monarchic."

"Monarchist."

"Yes big monarknik. She make beautiful book of royal peoples." He switched into Russian, asking Lyudrnila to fetch her prize tome. With a show of simulated reluctance she got up, opened a drawer and produced a large, cheap scrapbook carefully jacketed in tissue paper, which she laid on the table for our inspection. The pages contained dozens of photographs cut from newspapers and magazines, almost all to do with England, but including a few of Tsar Nicholas II and his family, taken in the last few months of their lives before they were executed by the Bolsheviks in 1918. Towards the end, the cuttings went fast forwards and pride of place inevitably was accorded to Diana, Princess of Wales.

"Such kind of tragedy," Sasha kept saying, repeatedly translating a remark of his mother's.

"I know," I said.

"But she'd become a bit of a loose cannon.

"Excuse me?"

I explained that the phrase was used about people whose actions tended to be unpredictable.

"Yes, yes," said Sasha impatiently.

"But British people loved her. When she died, they came in millions."

Lyudmila had gone off on another tack.

"Something about the Second World War," Rick said.

"Can't quite get it' "Heetler!" cried Sasha.

"My mother would like to say thank you to British and American soldiers for help in beating Nazis.

She thanks you and your fathers. Her father was killed at Stalingrad, famous battle. She does not like Germans. British and American armies very brave."

"I'm glad to hear that," I told them.

"I've read in Communist history books that it was the heroic Soviet army who defeated Fascism single-handed."

"Kommunizm!" shouted Sasha derisively.

"Kommunizm is shit.

My mother does not say that, of course, but it is what she believes. Kommunizm all lies and rubbish." He turned and in Russian loudly sought confirmation from Lyudmila, who nodded and went, "Da, da."

The next thing we knew, Sasha had brought out a bottle of Georgian brandy and was pouring huge slugs. His mother did not touch the spirit.

The conversation became ever wilder, with stories of army brutality.

"You know how they treat prisoners in Russian army? This soldier in Murmansk..

"Murmansk?" yelled Rick.

"Where the f-' He stopped himself just in time and and finished up, "Where's that?"

"In Russian Arctic. Far north from Moscow. Terrible place.

This man is soldier in garrison. Very poor, like I told you no money. But he is also musician, used to moonlight. He played accordion in restaurant in the evenings to earn roubles. He went maskarad in disguise with glasses and some beard. But an officer went to the restaurant and recognised him.

"So, to punish him, they put him in a cell, with acid on the floor, deeper every day. No shoes. They wanted to leave him for a week, but after three days his hair had gone grey, so they took him out. Such tortures they make in army."

It was midnight before we reeled out. We tried to say we'd walk or get a taxi, but Sasha wouldn't hear of it and insisted on driving us back. When we went down in the lift, Lyudmila came with us to give Tigr an extra run, and as we said goodbye she kissed our hands, holding the cat against her. Rick did his best to thank her gracefully, but I felt too choked to say anything except "Spasibo! Bolshoi spasibo!"

Morning brought shock after shock to exacerbate our hangovers.

The first came on the news, when somebody heard that the Russian Foreign Minister, had been assassinated. There'd been a shoot-out on Leningradski Prospekt, the main thoroughfare running out towards the north-west. The Minister had been on his way to Sheremetyevo airport, enroute for Washington, when a car had come up alongside his Zyl limo — in spite of the police escort and gunmen had riddled it with bullets. The Zyl had run off the road at speed and crashed head-on into a concrete wall, and the bulletin didn't make clear whether he'd been killed by gunshots or by the impact. In any event, he was dead. So were the driver, two of the bodyguards and one policeman. The gunmen had got clean away, but blame had immediately been placed on 'criminal elements' in other words, the Mafia.

"Chechens, for sure," said Sasha, the moment he arrived in camp.

"And why? They make retaliation for losing their Beno. I told you."

"It's a war, going on in the middle of Moscow," I said.

"Zheordie, this war will last fifty years.

Like us, Sasha was feeling rough, and we gave him a cup of strong black coffee before starting for the ranges.

Then Toad appeared, washing his hands like crazy.

"Heard the news?" he went.

"The hit on the Foreign Minister?"

"Yeah but the stand-off it's creating."

"What are you on about?"

"It's just been on the BBC World Service. The American Ambassador was in that same car.

"Jesus!" I sat up.

"Did they kill him as well?"

"Not quite. He's in intensive care. But the United States is threatening to break off relations with Russia. Clinton's been on the hotline to the President, giving him a bollocking. He reckons the whole country's going to rat shit

"He's not far wrong," I said. I felt my gut contracting. Now we're really in it, I thought and as if to confirm my misgivings, in came another unexpected punch from a different direction.

We were on the point of leaving the building when in burst Rick, looking chuffed to bollocks.

"You'll never believe it!" he yelled.

"Irma's back!"

"Take it easy," I told him.

"Who's Irma?"

"Natasha's sister. The one who went to the States."

"What about her?"

"They've got her back!"

"Who have? For Christ's sake, explain."

"The FBI turned up at her apartment in the Bronx. They grabbed her and a few of her friends and deported them put them on a plane for Moscow.

"Ah," I said.

"This is starting to make sense. You've Tony Lopez to thank for that. He must have got his finger out."

Then suddenly I thought, Wait a minute. How does Rick know about this? He must have been talking to Natasha. Hadn't I told the prick to lay off?

I felt my face colour up and I said quietly to Sasha, "If you don't mind, we'll meet you in a couple of minutes outside the armoury."

He got the message and took himself off. The moment he'd gone, I turned on Rick.

"You stupid bastard! You realise what you've done?"

"No. What's the matter?"

"There's a very good chance you ye compromised the entire operation. Listen. How did that woman get hold of you?"

"She phoned."

"Exactly. And how did she know your number?"

"I'd given it to her."

"Exactly. Jesus Christ! Are you out of your mind? Who d'you think she's busy giving your number to now?"

"What do you mean?"

"THINK, cunt! Her sister's been in the grip of the Mafia in New York. The FBI have kicked her out, along with a bunch of other slags. They snatched the whole lot and sent them home.

But mow she's in Mafia territory again, worse than New York.

The wide boys here have access to the airlines' passenger lists.

They know she's come back to Moscow. They've got her address from before. She's probably got a Russian pimp here anyway.

"In other words, they know precisely where she is. And now, because you can't stop following your prick around, they know precisely where you are. The next thing'll be a group of four charming young men with Gepards up their jumpers coming to the gate to ask for a fucking interview!"

I wasn't exactly shouting, but I was talking a lot faster and louder than usual. From the stricken look on Rick's face, I might as well have been hitting him.

"They don't know what I'm doing here," he said defensively.

"All I told Natasha was that we were making a film."

"To hell with that. Listen, Rick. You know the score. We're on a military telephone exchange, for fuck's sake. One look at the number must have told them where we are.

To ease my feelings I started walking up and down.

"Things aren't looking good for you," I said.

"This is the third time you've screwed up. I told you before and that was a last warning. I've got a feeling you're on your way home. And if this doesn't end in your getting RTU'd I'll be bloody amazed."

He started to say something, but I cut him short.

"Don't bloody well argue! There'll be time for that back in the UK. Get down to the armoury and tell Sasha I'm not coming out with the team this morning. I'm going to have to stay here and sort this mess out. In fact, you can ask Sasha to put am hour's delay on the start today. If any of our lads are down there already, bring them back. Tell them I'm holding a meeting immediately."

He'd hardly disappeared before I made up my mind. Yes he'd have to go. He'd already done serious damage, and was too great a liability.

I called the Embassy, asked for the Charge, and got put through to Kate, the red-headed secretary.

"Is David there?" I asked.

"Not yet. He had to pick something up on his way in."

"Could you do us a favour, then?"

"I can try."

"Thanks. It's just that we need to get someone back to UK soonest. I want him on a plane today. Could you be an angel and book a ticket?"

"Return?"

"No one way.

"What's the passenger's name?"

"Ellis. Richard Ellis."

"What flight shall I go for?"

"Any flight the earliest he can catch. He'll have to get from here to the airport, that's all."

"All right, then. I'll call you back."

I urgently needed to speak to the CO in Hereford, but the time there was still only 6:30 a.m." so I decided to wait until he came into his office.

When Kate rang back, she gave me another jolt.

"I'm sorry, she said, "I can't get through to any of the airlines. The reservation lines are all jammed."

"Is that normal?"

"Certainly not. I phoned a friend in the Lufthansa cargo department, and she says there's some sort of a panic on. People are trying to get out of Moscow in a hurry. There are no seats available before next Thursday."

"Jesus! It must be this thing about the American Ambassador."

"That's right. There's a lot of really nervous talk coming out of the FCO."

"Like what?"

"The international situation deteriorating, that sort of thing' "Well, listen. I really need this guy on a plane as soon as possible. Can you keep trying?"

"Of course.

Ten minutes later she rang again and said, "I got through in the end, but no luck. I tried BA, Aeroflot and Lufthansa, and they're all fully booked. There are no seats available before next week. The only chance is to send him first class. Lufthansa may have a seat at 1520 this afternoon, but it's via Berlin, I'm afraid."

"That'll do," I said.

"Take it." Privately I was thinking, I don't care if he goes via Timbucfuckingtoo, as long as I get him off my hands. The idea of Rick sipping champagne in a first-class seat gave me a royal pain in the arse. But then I consoled myself by thinking, If he's getting binned, back to the Green Army, it's the last time he'll be travelling like that for a while.

"I'll charge it to the Embassy for now," Kate was saying.

"Then we'll send the bill to Hereford. He'll have to collect the ticket from the Lufthansa desk at the airport. He needs to be there by 1400 at the latest."

"No bother. I'm very grateful to you. Has David appeared yet?"

"Just this moment. D'you want a word?"

"Yes please.

I hung on, then heard AlIway say, "Good morning."

"Good morning," I went.

"Can you fill me in on what's happening?"

"The situation's pretty confused at the moment."

"What's causing the panic?"

"Clinton said something about Russia being on the point of becoming ungovernable."

"Don't you feel that's exaggerated?"

"Personally, yes.

"So what line's London taking?"

"No special line yet. But Washington is advising Americans to leave unless they have urgent business here. Are you people all right out at Balashika?"

"For the time being. Everything's been going fine. I don't know how this will affect things, though."

"No," AlIway said cryptically.

"I get the impression that your team may be off home fairly soon.

"Oh, really?" I went.

"We'll have to wait and see.

I rang off, and called Hereford on the secure satellite link. By good luck the CO was already at his desk, and sounding cheerful.

"Hi, Geordie," he went.

"How are things?"

"Rough. You've heard the news?"

"Yes. It sounds a bit dicey. How does it feel at that end?"

"Can't tell yet. But listen, Boss. That's not what I'm calling about. It's Rick Ellis. I'm sending him home."

"Oh God!" he said.

"What's happened?"

I told him in short, sharp sentences. He didn't query my decision, and I was glad of that. He saw my point. I summed up by saying, "He's dropped us right in it. At the very least, the Mafia know there's a Brit presence in the barracks here. That means there's a threat to our lads, quite apart from the potential disruption of Operation Nimrod."

"Are you going to need a replacement?"

"Not worth it. We can manage as we are.

"OK, then. I'll see Rick as soon as he gets back."

"Do you need a report immediately?"

"It can wait. I'm sure you've got plenty on your hands. You can give me a full statement when you get back."

"Will do."

"What's the state of play with the operation?"

"Apple's in place, as you know. We've got a site for Orange, and we're just waiting for a chance to do the insertion."

"Sooner the better," said the CO sharply.

"If the situation gets much worse we may have to pull you out.

"Roger. But Boss?"

"Yes?"

"There's no chance the Yanks are going to start playing funny buggers and press the button on Apple?"

"Don't be silly, Geordie. Things aren't that bad." Then suddenly he switched mode and made what seemed to me a lousy joke.

"But if they were, you'd be the last people to know anything about it."

"Ha ha," I said.

"Sorry, Geordie." He realised he'd pissed me off.

"Seriously, things look OK from this end."

"They don't from here, I can tell you. People are pouring out of Moscow like fucking lemmings."

"Is that right?"

I told him about the airlines, then said, "What I'm saying is this. Isn't that exactly what these bloody devices are for to use as blackmail if things get tense, to bring the buggers to their senses in an emergency?"

"Precisely. But we're nowhere near the stage of using them yet.

"I hope to hell you're right. Once Orange is underground we're going to be in the killing zone ourselves, never mind any radiation that might drift this way from Apple."

"Take it easy, Geordie. Your imagination's running away with you."

"I hope you're bloody well right."

The lads reassembled, looking rather surprised. Having sent Rick away to his own room, I got everyone sat down and went straight into it.

"I'm sorry to say that there's a high probability Operation Nimrod's been compromised."

Everyone sat very still. Several seconds passed before Whinger said, "For Christ's sake, what's happened? Have they found the bomb?"

"I hope not. But next worst: Rick's sent the Mafia a message saying the SAS is in town."

"Don't be stupid!" went Whinger.

"I'm not," I told him.

"I exaggerated slightly, but only a little."

I explained what had happened. Mal careful, steady Mal surprised me by starting to stand up for Rick.

"If he stuck to the cover story about the film, we don't need to worry.

"We bloody do! That woman's obviously in the hands of some pimp or other. It'll take the guy about ten seconds to recognise the number Rick gave her. I bet you the Mafia have got us pinpointed already."

"Eh!" said Johnny

"Let's fuck off out of here while the going's good."

"That's what Rick's going to do," I said.

"I'm sending him home right away. The lucky bastard's flying first class because there are no other seats. And Toad I want you to take him to the airport. OK?"

Nobody put up any good reason for keeping Rick on the team.

Mal saw the point of what I was saying and finally agreed that Rick should go. The only argument was about his share of the Mafia dollars and in the end we voted that he should still get it, provided he kept his mouth shut about the whole episode when he reached home.

So the day's training got under way an hour late. I stayed in barracks, fighting to catch up with paperwork mainly the course reports on the students, which we were supposed to be continuously updating.

All morning I kept remembering how, at the climax of the siege of the Libyan Embassy in London, the police negotiators had kept the terrorists in play by telling them direct lies: that the Libyan Ambassador was on his way, that a coach was coming to take them to Heathrow, and so on. Even Trevor Lock, the policeman trapped inside the building, couldn't get any straight answers from the police. Several times he asked for an assurance that the building wasn't going to be assaulted and at the very moment when the SAS men were laying out their abseil ropes on the roof, the cops promised him blind that all they were trying to arrange was the villains' getaway.

Now we seemed to be in an unpleasantly similar situation.

The boss would go on saying, "No, no, Geordie, everything's fine," until the very moment when Clinton or some other jerk in Washington pressed the button. The CO was bound to toe the line. But for us poor sods at the sharp end it was different.

Maybe we'd see a brilliant white flash. Maybe we wouldn't.

At midday I called the Charge again and heard that the American Ambassador had died from his wounds. All US flights into Moscow had been suspended, and American citizens advised not to travel to Russia by any means. More and more I was needled by apprehension that this whole train of events had been set off by us by our participation in the hit on the apartment. Then I told myself that if we hadn't gone along with it the result of the shoot-out might have been much the same, with a few more casualties to the forces of law and order but still the feelings of guilt were building up.

Before Toad left I took him aside and asked, "Is there any way you can disable Apple?"

"Not unless we go back down the tunnel," he replied.

"Now it's live, it's live."