Games Traitors Play

73

Primakov’s test had sounded relatively straightforward at the time. He had asked Marchant to knock out Britain’s early-warning radar system on the north-west coast for two minutes. Within that narrow window, two MiG-35 Russian fighters would penetrate British airspace, travelling just below the speed of sound until they were over land. Then they would turn around and head back towards Russia, leaving Britain’s airspace before the radar was up and running again.

After Marchant had made some discreet enquiries, the reality seemed much more complex. The radar network was overseen by the Air Surveillance and Control Systems Force Command (ASACS) at RAF Boulmer in Alnwick, which was stood up in 2006 in belated response to the terrorist threats highlighted by 9/11. The Control and Reporting Centre, located in a reinforced bunker at ASACS, monitored the airspace around the UK, and was responsible for providing tactical control of the Tornado F3 and Typhoon F2 jets that were scrambled whenever the skies over Britain were violated.

The planes were part of the RAF’s Quick Reaction Alert Force, and were based at Leuchars (covering the north) and Coningsby (the south). They had been particularly busy in recent years, shadowing the increasing number of Russian bombers that flew into the UK’s Air Defence Identification Zone, a sensitive area just outside Britain’s airspace.

There was only one man who could help Marchant, and he was sitting opposite him now in a corner of the Beehive pub in Montpelier, Cheltenham. Paul Myers liked his beer. He liked talking about Leila, too. Marchant gave him both, endless pints of Battledown Premium and stories of Leila in her early days at the Fort, and despised himself for it. Despite her betrayal, Myers had never managed to get over her, or dismiss the fantasy that she had once fancied him.

‘She used to talk about you often,’ Marchant said. Myers was clumsy enough when he was sober, but he looked even more vulnerable and awkward when he was drunk. Perhaps it was because he liked to remove his thick glasses after a few beers, exposing his clammy face to the world.

‘Did she really? That’s great. What did she say?’

‘That you were a good listener.’

‘They always say that. Particularly when they’re pouring their hearts out about other men.’

‘And if she hadn’t met me, then maybe…’

‘Honestly?’

‘Be careful what you wish for. You’d be the one feeling betrayed now.’

‘I do anyway. She betrayed us all, Dan.’

Had she? Marchant was always less sure when he was drunk. Alcohol could be very forgiving. For the first round, he had tried to sip at his beer, let Myers do the boozing, but it was no good. He had been drinking heavily ever since Prentice had been killed. There was no need to lay it on for the Russians, who were meant to be watching him for signs of disaffection. Besides, pretending to get drunk was not a skill he possessed. The KGB had become famous for it during the Cold War. His father had once told him a story about the Rezident in Calcutta, who appeared to get lashed on vodka with his contacts, trading on Russia’s reputation for hard drinking, then be spotted sober as a judge half an hour later. Barely a drop had passed his lips.

‘Listen, bit of a turf war going on at the moment,’ Marchant said, anxious to change the subject. ‘I need your help.’

‘New government, new rules. Fire away.’

Marchant knew that relations between Fielding and his opposite number at GCHQ, where Myers worked, had not been great in recent weeks, ever since Myers had pulled his rabbit out of the hat at the Joint Intelligence Committee. GCHQ was much more friendly with the Americans than MI6, and it had felt embarrassed by Myers’s role in Spiro’s humiliation. Myers was still meant to be on secondment to MI6, but had been ordered home.

‘We need to put the wind up the National Security Council. The coalition has been throwing its weight around.’

‘We?’

‘Fielding. Armstrong. Listen, a couple of Russian fighters will be tipping their wings off the Outer Hebrides next Tuesday. Usual operation. Into our Air Defence Identification Zone, fly along the borders of UK airspace for a while. Only this time we want them to get a bit closer. Smell the whisky.’

‘Nice one,’ Myers said, his eyes lighting up. ‘MiG-29s?’ Marchant knew that he liked his planes, and thought the idea might tickle him. Myers was an active member of a remote-control flying club in Cheltenham.

‘35s.’

Myers let out a loud whistle of approval, as if a naked blonde had just walked past. He had no self-awareness, Marchant thought, looking around the pub.

‘No one’s going to get hurt,’ he continued, ‘just a few politicians’ noses put out of joint. Any ideas how we do it?’

‘Build a massive wind turbine off Saxa Vord.’

‘Why?’

‘They’re degrading our air-defence capabilities. It’s quite a worry. Apparently, they create a confused and cluttered radar picture. Too much noise. Above, behind, around the turbines — you’re invisible.’

Myers lived and breathed this stuff, Marchant thought.

‘I’m not sure we’ve got time for that.’

‘They’re upgrading the system soon, anyway. No, what you need to do is take out a couple of remote radar heads. Saxa Vord, Benbecula, maybe Buchan. Depends where they’re flying in.’

‘We can’t really “take out” anything. This is meant to be low-key, deniable. I was thinking of a cyber attack, untraceable.’

‘The radar housing’s reinforced anyway.’

Marchant tried not to be impatient, but Myers had an annoying habit of suggesting seemingly credible options, only to point out their flaws.

‘Thinking about it, your best option is to target the Tactical Data Links, either the communication system between the radar heads and the Control and Report Centre at Alnwick, or between Alnwick and the Combined Air Operations Centre at High Wycombe.’

‘Which would you suggest?’

‘The second one. The inter-site networks are fully encrypted, but they still use an old 1950s NATO point-to-point system called Link 1 for sending the RAP from Alnwick to High Wycombe.’

‘The RAP?’

Myers always seemed puzzled when others didn’t understand what he was talking about, which was most of the time. And he used more bloody acronyms than the military, Marchant thought. ‘Recognised Air Picture. It’s a real-time 3D digital display, based on primary and secondary radar traces, showing what’s in the skies over Britain and evaluating contacts against specific threat parameters.’

‘And this vital part of our national defence is transmitted using sixty-year-old technology?’

‘The Americans have been trying to get NATO to upgrade it for years. Link 1 does the job. It’s a digital data link, but it’s not crypto-secure. As it hasn’t been encrypted, it would technically be possible to corrupt the air-surveillance data before it reached High Wycombe.’

‘So the order to scramble the Typhoons might never be issued.’

‘In theory, yes. At least, the order could be delayed. Only High Wycombe can send up the jets, and they like to have the full picture.’

‘Could you do it? Get into Link 1 and delay the message to High Wycombe? The Russians will be out of there in two minutes. We don’t need long.’