The Kremlin Device

TEN

We planned everything in as much detail as we could, but the timings inevitably remained untidy. I arranged with the Charge d'Affaires that we'd remove some of our stuff from the lock-up during the evening. We'd be bound to arouse suspicion if we swept into the compound at midnight; equally, it was quite possible that watchers in the Kremlin had the Embassy's entrance under continuous video surveillance from across the river if anyone saw a car emerge from the gates and vanish straight into the churchyard down the road, the forces of law and order would be on the scene within minutes. The same would apply if we attempted to move the Apple components on foot. We couldn't trudge out of the Embassy gates lugging heavy containers and struggle with them along to the churchyard: video cameras or not, somebody would be bound to notice. The only safe way of shifting the device to the old stable was to load it up, drive off, disappear for a while and then return from the opposite direction, cruising in through the gateway arch and straight past the church door.

Our earlier visits had shown that there were people about until quite late in the evening, and we reckoned that 10:00 p.m. would be a safer time to kick off than 9:00. That meant we'd have nearly an hour to kill.

For the tunnel team I'd nominated Toad, Pavarotti and myself.

Rick would man the head of the shaft: with his reasonable Russian, he might be able to bluff his way through if anyone accosted him while we were down. During our recce Whinger had stood off in the car, and this time I wanted him in command on the surface once again; but we were going to need two vehicles, because we would never fit five guys and the Apple components into one of the Volgas. That meant I had to detail Mal as our second driver, leaving only Dusty, Johnny and Pete in barracks.

I was worried by the knowledge that the guys back on the base had no vehicle in which they could come out and recover us if anything went wrong. In fact I was worried by a hell of a lot of niggling possibilities which all seemed to become probabilities as the day ground on. We'd get a puncture driving out of the Embassy gates, with Apple on board (we'd had three punctures already). We'd meet hostile natives in the churchyard. We'd drop one of the heavy components down the access shaft and wreck it. We'd crack the casing of the SCR and absorb fatal doses of radiation. We'd find the tunnel booby-trapped. We'd find the tunnel flooded along its whole length. We'd run out of oxygen while making final excavations at the site. We wouldn't be able to lift the device into its resting place. It would turn out that the two components were incompatible. The satellite wouldn't pick up signals from the SCR… Before we left I put through a call to Hereford and confirmed that we were under starter's orders. Until then I'd been economical with information about our progress. I'd reported our successful recce of the Apple site but I hadn't told anyone what we'd done with the devices. Now I simply said that it should be possible for Washington to make contact with Apple from 0200 next morning.

At last 8:00 came, and it was too late to agonise any more. I rode passenger in the black wagon, with Mal driving and Toad in the back. Whinger drove the grey car, with Rick and Pavarotti as passengers.

Unfortunately it was a still evening. The noisy gale that had blown up during the Mafia hit would have suited us fine, but tonight we had to make do without.

As we headed into town we passed one GAl team who'd set up a temporary check-point on the other side of the road: they'd got three of their little blue-and-white Gaz jeeps set out to form a funnel, and were pulling in about one driver in three. Sasha had told us that by the end of each month these traffic police were frantic for money, and imposed instant fines for any offence they could dream up as he put it: 'for documents, for speed, for lights, for breaking rules, for not having seat-belts done up.

We had our documents, we had roubles, we had dollars.

but luckily tonight there was no purge on vehicles going in our direction.

The route was familiar by now. Over the bridge, swing down on to the embankment, head west. We made one precautionary drive-past in the black car while the grey one stood off out of sight; then we came back round the block, joined forces, and both turned into the Embassy compound at 8:55.

So far, so good. But from that moment things persistently went a little bit wrong. The first shock came when, as we pulled up in the Embassy's rear yard, the Charge himself came out to greet us. I'd assumed he'd be off duty by now.

In fact Allway was harmless enough he'd obviously had a couple of drinks, and was braying in a loud, hearty voice that he'd only emerged to wish us well. But his mere presence outside the lock-up was a pain.

"How are you doing?" he boomed.

"All tickety-boo?"

"Yes, thanks."

"Getting enough to eat out there? Hope they're not starving you.

"No, no. We're fine. Just come in to pick up a couple of items of kit."

"Ah! Some of those ammunition boxes, what?"

"Those are the ones."

"Want a hand?"

"No thanks. We'll manage fine."

"Well any problems, just let me know."

"Thanks."

I thought the bastard was going back indoors, but he turned and said, "Oh, by the way, the security forces had a big success against the Mafia the other day."

"Is that right?"

"Caught several of the godfathers in a flat, right here in the middle of town. Killed four or five of them. It was on the news next day. Surprised you haven't heard about it."

"No…" I shook my head.

"We've been pretty busy don't have much time for watching TV."

"Maybe the Russians are getting better at Mafia-hunting, what? Maybe they don't need you fellows so much after all. Or maybe you've taught them something already? I took several deep breaths, forcing myself not to utter a sound until the door had closed behind him. Then I just whispered, "Jeeesus Christ! Let's get moving."

Unless you were colour-blind there was no way of muddling the components, because Apple's three pieces were all marked with a light green circle, Orange's with orange. We backed the black Volga as close as we could to the cellar door and carried the three green-marked cases out, four men on each of the heavy ones. Once again they pushed the car right down on its springs.

Toad removed the Rat from its lair and clipped it on his belt.

As soon as we'd secured the up-and-over door of the cellar, we drove off I'd felt as if my exchanges with the Charge lasted for ever, but still we had fifty minutes to kill; so, rather than hang about in the area, we followed our plan and drove up to the terrace in front of the univerity, on the edge of the Sparrow Hills. Sasha had taken us there during our first visit, and I remembered it as a favourite view-point, popular with tourists and sightseers, where strangers hanging around wouldn't attract attention.

If you ever want to get your adrenalin going, try driving through Moscow at night with a nuclear bomb in the boot of a rickety, underpowered car. Every traffic light spelt possible disaster, every vehicle that overtook seemed certain to be full of Mafia gunmen bent on a hijack.

"What we do not want," I said grimly, 'is to be stopped by the fucking GAl with this lot on board."

"Nah," said Pavarotti.

"They don't seem to operate much in the centre more out on the highways."

Luck favoured us. With me map-reading we managed to avoid the cops and find the way, and soon came out on to the huge, level esplanade, where one can park and walk forward to look out over the city. Whinger, following at a distance, pulled up some fifty yards to our right, and a couple got out of each car to take in the sights.

The prospect was spectacular, I had to admit. Behind us, the monstrous skyscraper of the main university building towered into the sky, topped by a slender spire that gleamed golden in its spotlights. On either side of it the lower towers sprouted pinnacles, and hundreds of lighted windows made the campus look like a city on its own.

In front of us, immediately over the wall was a steep drop, with a couple of rickety-looking ski-jumps not yet in use poised over it. Below them, the centre of Moscow was laid out in a million more lights. It reminded me of the view from the top of Block B except that here the illumination was far more varied and concentrated. Close in the foreground was a large stadium; farther out, the floodlit buildings of the Kremlin glowed magnificently. We could also see the White House. I remembered Sasha telling us of how it had been rebuilt after the coup: apparently the workers had stayed in the nearby Kiev Hotel, and their demand for whores was so phenomenal that busloads of extra women had had to be imported from out of town.

I glanced around. There were a few other people up here, but nobody close to us. Away to our right I could see Whinger and Rick, also looking over the wall, but correctly keeping their distance.

"I feel that hepped up, I reckon if Ijumped off here I'd fly," I told Pavarotti quietly.

"Don't try it, mate. You might just keep going, never come down."

We admired the view for a few more minutes, then returned to the car and hung around some more. As usual at such moments, our watches seemed to have gone on strike.

But at last it was 9:45, time to head down.

"Moving off now," I told Whinger over the radio.

"Roger. I'll let you get clear."

Mal turned the car and started to back-track our route but we were hardly under way before Whinger came through again with, "Watch yourselves. I think you've got a tail."

Mal said, "Shit," studied his mirror and said, "Is it that buff Lada?"

"Roger. It pulled out when you did."

"I'll watch it for a minute."

"Roger."

Turning in the passenger seat to face Mal, I saw the car they were talking about. Now what? Our options were severely limited by our lack of speed and the great weight we were carrying. Shooting red lights was no good: hundreds of drivers did that anyway; the Lada would simply follow us through any crossing. And in any case we didn't want to risk a brush with the GAl. We certainly couldn't outrun a pursuer. Nor could we afford to tangle with one. We all had Sigsauer 9mm pistols, and if things turned nasty we could use them but only as a very last resort. A collision might shunt the nuclear components clean out of the car, taking the boot lid or rear door with them, and damage the devices beyond repair… "How many on board?" I asked.

"Three," came Whinger's voice.

Mal said, "I'm going to head away from our target area.

"Roger."

Before we started down through the bends of the hillside, he took a left, heading south. Then another left. The Lada followed.

When a light turned red way ahead, he changed down to decelerate without using the brakes. The Lada slowed as well, keeping its distance.

"Definite tail," I told Whinger.

"Can you sort them for us?"

"I'll try.

"Do they realise we're a pair?"

"Don't think so. I'm driving on sidelights and keeping well back."

Whinger was and is a hell of a guy behind the wheel. He'd done a stint as instructor in special driving techniques at Llangwern, the training area in Wales, and what he didn't know about J-turns, ramming and breaking up illegal VCPs wasn't worth knowing. The trouble was that in England or Northern Ireland he'd probably have been driving one of the Regiment's souped-up intercept cars, which have extra power, armour, strengthened suspension and belly plates, and can whack anything else off the road with one flick of the rear end. Whereas here he had a lumbering, lightweight Volga with little power and no protection. I knew what he was thinking: that although it would be no trouble to knock our tail into the gutter, the last thing he wanted was to end up immobilising his own vehicle.

Somehow we'd got on to a big boulevard which my wrist compass told me was heading south-west, out of town. At a crossroads I got a glimpse of a sign and deciphered it as Leninskii Prospekt.

The Lada was still behind us.

Shit! I was thinking. We should never have come up into this area. I've dropped a bollock here. We should just have made a loop and risked going into the churchyard early.

Then I remembered a friend of mine Andy, a Tornado pilot saying that a key element in training to fly fast jets was that pilots must have the ability to dump bad decisions behind them.

In the air, especially at low level, events happen so fast that the pilot has to take dozens of decisions every minute, and the essential skill is to dump whatever's just happened, so that your mind's free to look ahead.

OK, I told myself. Forget that one. Now what?

"Take that right," I told Mal suddenly.

He hauled the wheel round. Our tyres squealed under the load. Sixty yards behind us the Lada copied our every move, turning through the crossing just as the lights changed.

"Whinger's got through as well," Mal said tersely.

"Must have shot the red."

"I've a mind to stop suddenly and sort the bastards ourselves," I said, reaching down to draw my Sig. At the back of my mind I knew that the very idea of opening up on unidentified strangers in the middle of the city was outrageous. In London I'd never have dreamt of it. But here in Moscow the level of lawlessness was so high that any form of self-defence seemed in order.

We appeared to be driving in orbit round the university; the colossal tower was still quite close on our right. If we stayed near it, at least we'd know where we were.

"Right again," I said.

Now we were on another wide boulevard, heading back towards the esplanade. The big road stretched ahead, empty of traffic. Suddenly I heard Whinger say, "Slow down, Mal. Come down to fifty ks."

"Roger," went Mal, and eased off the accelerator. He'd been doing about sixty-five, and let the needle fall back. With one eye on the mirror he said, "Stand by. The Lada's closing. No — cancel that. They've eased off again."

The next thing we heard was Whinger calling, "Stand by for contact. I'm going in."

I knew what he'd done: on the long straight he'd built up speed and was coming in at the opposition on one fast run. I twisted round in my seat just in time to see a wild flare of headlights sweeping sideways, then the black silhouette of a vehicle momentarily on end, standing on its nose for an instant before hurtling off the near side of the road. Seconds later there was a brilliant flash, and flames leapt from the wreck.

I braked and pulled in to the kerb.

"Nice one, Whinge," I called.

"You OK?"

"More or less." He sounded well hyped up.

"Sustained a bit of damage, but we're still mobile. Davai, da vair We carried on for a couple of blocks. Then Mal said, "No he's dropping back."

"Whinge," I called.

"You got a problem?"

"Yeah front tyre's going down."

"Next right, then. Get off this fucking great road."

We turned into a tree-lined side-street and came to a halt a hundred yards from the junction. Behind us the grey Volga crawled round the corner and crept under a tree.

"Turn and park on the other side," I told Mal.

"Face this way, so you can cover us.

I jumped out and ran across to Whinger's car. The air was full of the stink of burning rubber. Smoke was rising from the offside front wheel. Rick and Pavarotti were already grappling with spare and jack, with Whinger standing back on the alert against the trunk of a tree.

"Tyre's knackered," said Rick.

"The bumper got pushed into it by the impact. The bastard's almost on fire. It's worn right through."

"Steering OK?"

"Should be when we get this wheel on."

I went over to Whinger.

"What was all that about?"

"Ask me another. There were three young guys in it. At least one of them had a pistol, too."

"You up-ended them, anyway."

"Yeah. I got up to eighty ks and came at them without lights.

Took their back end away."

"Zdorovo! That party won't be doing any more driving tonight."

We could have done without that little episode. It broke our concentration and meant that, as we finally approached the churchyard, we had to go through our mental preparation all over again.

This time Whinger made the drive-past, dropping Rick and Pay off on the embankment to walk in and recce the stable on foot. Only when they reported all clear did we prepare to move in.

Never in my life had I felt more nervous. I kept thinking, Once we get underground I'll be OK. What I do not want is any confrontation with all this hardware on our hands. We had no plausible explanation to offer if we were caught. We were prepared to shoot our way out of trouble if we had to, above or below ground, and we hoped that if the police found bodies, they would chalk them up as victims of some Mafia feud. But as for being grabbed in possession of the bomb to that we had no answer. If we were forced to run for it, we might not even get back to the barracks at Balashika. I had visions of a gigantic escape and evasion scenario

Mal remained perfectly cool, and that helped steady me. He hadn't seen the yard before but I'd briefed him on the layout, and now I talked him in, yard by yard.

"Here's the gateway, coming up. There's the church ahead. Keep round to the right.

Stop opposite the doorway. Here we are GO!"

Rick materialised from the stable, opened the rear door of the Volga and dragged section one of Apple half-way out.

"Pay's done the locks," he whispered.

"Great."

Mal remained in the driving seat with his engine ticking over in case he needed to take off suddenly. Toad grabbed the handles on the other end of section one. Together with Rick he carried it into the stable. I seized the SCR canister from the boot and staggered in with that. A moment later Toad and Rick brought in section two. Last out of the car was my bergen, containing lightweight hoist, ladder, nets, rubber bags, dry-suits, digging tools, head-torches, spare batteries, overalls and other essential paraphernalia. The pack alone was one hell of a weight.

"That's it," I hissed at Mal through his open window.

"See you later."

He eased the Volga gently forward, through the bend into the rear yard, swung round and came back past us. We saw his brake lights glow for an instant before he nosed out on to the main road. Then he was gone.

In the ink-black stable we stood and listened. I found I was hyperventilating, but I knew that now the most immediate danger of having the hardware discovered in the car was over.

Now, in an emergency, we could do a runner or shoot our way out, leaving the stuff behind, and, if challenged, deny all knowledge of it.

The yard was very still, the church dark. We waited a couple of minutes. Nobody moved or spoke. Then I whispered, "OK."

Our individual tasks were carefully pre-planned. Toad kept watch on the doorway. Pay, the tallest, slung a loop over the main roof beam to take the top hook of the hoist. I broke out the nets, which were made of thick green nylon with a three-inch mesh, and manoeuvred the steel cases into them.

We'd just got the first one trussed when Toad let out a hiss.

Torches snapped off Everyone kept still. But it was only the usual problem women crossing the yard from the church — and in a moment we moved again.

With all three cases netted, I pulled on my dry-suit, got Rick to zip up the back, and took over from Toad at the door while he got his suit on.

Pavarotti had the hoist well secured, the pulleys running smoothly.

"Looks good," I whispered, running my torch beam over his ropes.

"Rick?"

"Hello."

"I'm going down. We'll aim to be back at the base of the shaft at midnight. Lift the lid and have a listen then, anyway. If we're not back, try again every half-hour."

"Roger. Happy landings."

Feet into the top of the shaft. Ease down the ladder. Once my feet touched, I took a careful look round the floor in my immediate area. No signs of disturbance other than our own. The same damp, muddy smell of decay.

I switched off my head-torch to save the battery, jerked the ladder and felt it rise past me as somebody lifted it clear. Then I heard scuffling noises as the first of the loaded nets the SCR started down. I was tempted to peer up the shaft and watch it coming, but didn't fancy being under it if a rope should break or anything went wrong with the hoist; so I stood to one side and waited until the heavy bundle sank gently to the floor, then released the shacide.

Before the second net came down there was quite a pause. I imagined the guys struggling to manoeuvre the heavy case into position, on end above the mouth of the shaft, without letting it bump or scrape. Then more scuffling, scratching noises started, and I switched my torch on again in time to see the bulging net appear. Once more I released the shackle and twitched the rope, then walked the case out of the way on its corners and laid it gently on its back. Its weight was formidable, and I knew that the third component, section two, was ten kilos heavier still.

The pause was longer this time. The guys were obviously having more problems. Then came a thump, and some strangled curses. At last the scraping noise began again, and I stood clear in anticipation.

Suddenly a loud, sharp crack ripped down the shaft. A patter of particles landed by my feet, as if there'd been rapid movement above. Jesus, I thought. Somebody's fired a shot.

I stood frozen. All movement in the shaft had ceased. Some bastard's stumbled on them, I thought. They've dropped him.

But they can't close the cover with the pulley ropes in the way.

Why the hell don't they get on and lower away? Maybe there are more guys in the yard.

In the silence of the tunnel I could hear my heart beating. Not a sound came from above. Irrationally, I felt that if I moved or spoke I might precipitate disaster. All I could do was keep still.

For many long seconds I waited motionless in the dark. My heartbeat seemed to grow louder and louder. Then at last I heard more noises above. They sounded different from the earlier scrapings, but at least something was happening. More bumps and thuds. I shone my torch quickly up the shaft and saw that the whole of its section was filled by the third and last net. Yet, in spite of the noises, the thing wasn't moving. Had it jammed?

I tried my radio and got no response. My instinct was to yell up the shaft and find out what in hell was going on. But I realised that they couldn't shout back for fear of being heard, so I steeled myself to wait.

In the end movement resumed and the big case came on down, Toad and Pay close behind it.

"What the flick were you doing?"

"Didn't you hear that?" Pay asked.

"I sure did. Did somebody fire a shot?"

"No, no. That was the main beam in the stable going."

"Jesus!"

"Yeah. The whole roof dropped several inches. Shit rained down all round. We thought the place was falling in on us.

"Nobody else heard it?"

"Don't think so."

"What did you do?"

"Found an old timber lying at the back and managed to get it under as a prop so the beam couldn't drop any lower. Then we carried on.

We'd lost quite a bit of time already, so we made haste to catch up.

First we had the laborious task of getting the cases out of the nets, loading them into the rubber bags, then bundling them into the nets again.

Experiments with nets full of sandbags, filled to the equivalent weight, had shown us that the best way of shifting our loads in the confined space of the tunnel would be by fitting slings of wide webbing to the nets, fore and aft, and advancing as a pair in line-ahead, one leaning forward and the other back, to levitate the burden between us. It wasn't easy or comfortable because the laden net tended to crash into the heels of the person leading and drag the back marker off his feet but it was better than hauling a huge weight along the floor.

It was obvious that three journeys would be needed, so we set out on the first with me leading, Pavarotti behind, Apple's section one between us, and Toad carrying his own bergen full of tricks. My plan was that, once we reached the site, we'd leave him there with the first half of the device so that he could start preparing it while we went back for the second.

All went well until we were on the downward slope, leading to the river. Then, as the beam of light from my head-torch danced around in front of me, I sensed that something had changed.

"Stopping," I said.

I slackened off my end of the net and stood still.

"The water," said Pay.

"It's gone."

"Exactly. I'm sure my marker was just here somewhere. Look there it is." I pointed to the horizontal scratch-mark on the wall.

"Some bastard's been in here draining it," said Pay incredulously.

"Can't have been."

"Where's it gone, then?"

"You tell me."

In fact only some of the water had gone. A lot remained. Soon after we'd moved forward again we saw its surface lying still and black ahead of us. As we advanced to the edge of it I realised that even at its deepest point it no longer reached the roof: there was a gap of about a foot under the arched yellow bricks, and I could see right through to the other side.

"Well, damn!" Pavarotti sounded very Welsh in his indignation.

"The tide's gone out."

"Tide be buggered!" I snapped.

"We're a thousand bloody miles from the sea."

"Only joking. We don't need our masks now, that's for sure. Hardly need the suits, even. We can walk straight through with our heads above water."

"All the better," I told him.

"But… hey, what's this?"

On the right-hand wall ahead of us, just above the water line, the top of an arched recess was showing clearly the opening to a side-tunnel. It was bricked in, but some of the cement had washed out and I could see water welling in and out through the gaps.

"That's where it's gone," I said.

"Or where it came in from. Part of the system."

"So what?"

"So nothing. We carry on.

And through the flood we went, moving slowly to create as little disturbance as possible. Once in the water the steel case, with air trapped round it inside the rubber bag, was almost floating, and towed along easily.

Very soon we were out of the water and at the site itself. We laid the case down a few feet short of the end of the tunnel, to make sure no debris fell on it when we started digging.

"There you are," I told Toad.

"It's going in that recess. And there's the shaft for the SCR. You get cracking, and we'll be back."

One of Toad's unnerving features was his silence, the fact that he spoke so little. You felt that his brain was turning over smoothly like a well-oiled mechanism, but you hadn't a clue what he was thinking. Now, as we left him, he stood there dry washing his hands without a word.

"I wouldn't mind sealing the bugger down here," I said as we started out with our second load.

"That'd stop him annoying me.

By the time we returned, Toad had the lid off the case, and for the first time we got a glimpse of its contents: a terrifying maze of bright blue and white wires snaking round compartments of different shapes. He was wearing latex gloves and a pair of headphones, listening carefully as he touched a probe on one point after another. He had small socket spanners, Allen keys and battery-driven screwdrivers laid out on a mat beside him, occasionally picking one up to tighten or loosen a connection.

But as soon as we delivered the SCR, he turned his attention to that, because he was anxious to have it up and working first.

Rather him than me, I thought as Pavarotti and I peeled off our dry-suits and got stuck into the digging. Secretly, though, I felt a bit like a navvy labouring in the presence of a technician who understood things that would always be beyond me.

We were already sweating when we started to dig, and soon we were positively pouring. The ground was neither clay nor rock but something in between a hard, shaly, grey-brown compound that sometimes broke away in lumps and sometimes split up into flakes with sharp edges. To save batteries we worked with minimum light, using only one torch at a time, whacking our short-handled picks into the face, levering out whatever the blades had got hold of, and shovelling loose spoil away with our hands. From past experience I already knew that Pay stank like a badger when he got hot Pavagrotti, he was sometimes called — and now, at close quarters and in the confines of the tunnel, he was overpowering. But I realised I was smelling probably as bad to him, and said nothing.

Toad, as always, worked in silence, but after twenty minutes or so he stood up and said, "This one's ready."

Out of its cover, the SCR reminded me of the head of a robot, with twin aluminium antennae, linked by a cross bar near the base and rigged on the top like a pair of miniature rugby goal posts. I knew that Toad wanted it installed as high up the ventilation shaft as we could get it, and we'd worked out a means of fixing it in position. From behind our block at Balashika we'd scavenged three pieces of angle-iron and had cut them into twenty-four-inch lengths so that they'd jam across the shaft at an angle beneath it, and lock in position when its weight came down on them.

Standing with my head up the duct, I chopped at the brickwork above me with hammer and chisel to make three notches that would take the lower ends of the struts. Chips of brick kept flying into my eyes, but the grooves didn't need to be very deep, and after one trial with a length of angle-iron, to make sure it would seat itself properly, we were ready to lift the SCR into place.

As a temporary support, we'd brought an aluminium pole made of short sections that slotted into one another. It was part of another satellite aerial system, and we'd worked out that we could stand it upright, with a circular pad on top, to take the receiver's weight between lifts.

When Pavarotti and I raised the box to waist height, Toad slipped the first section of pole in vertically beneath it.

"OK," he said, 'rest there."

Another lift, to chest height, and he got another section in.

The pole, longer now, started to wobble and flex as it took the weight.

"Keep it steady," said Toad.

A third section propped the receiver at head height. The final hoist, into the shaft, could only be done by one person, pushing up with both arms above his head. I delegated the job to Pavarotti, as he's taller and stronger than me.

"I'll give you what lift I can on the pole," I told him, gripping it with both hands.

"Ready?"

"Right."

"Three, two, one lift!"

Up went the black box, scraping against the sides of the shaft.

Toad snapped one more length on to the bottom of the stalk and said, "OK steady again." While I held the pole in the middle, Pay bent his knees, lowering the box on to the pad.

"Angle-irons next," I said but when I went to slot them into position, I found we still hadn't got the box high enough. We needed another three or four inches to give us the necessary clearance. While Pay and I both grabbed the pole and lifted, Toad slipped his steel tool-box under the bottom and wedged it there. That gave us the space we needed; I got the struts into position, arranged some bubble-wrap padding on top of them, and called to the others to lower gently.

All that had taken a lot of effort and concentration. When I checked my watch I was amazed at how much time had gone by.

Our torch batteries were faltering and needed changing.

"Got to keep moving," I said as we took a quick break for a drink of water. Our next task was to chip out a gully for the coax cables that would connect the SCR to the device another aggravating job at which only one person could work. Again we took it in turns, going all out for a few minutes, then resting. As soon as we had a channel clear Toad moved in to connect the cables, and we went back to our main excavation.

I'd realised that our best plan was to form the spoil from our cavity into a ramp, so that we'd be able to slide the Apple components up it and into position. The trouble with this was, the ramp itself began to get in our way. Digging became progressively more awkward as we had to lean over our own heap to reach the back of the recess. By the time we had a hole of the right dimensions, we were both knackered.

All this time, when he wasn't tinkering with the cables, Toad remained bent over his charges, tightening, adjusting, listening through his headphones. Then, as we paused, I noticed he was into his hand-washing routine again, a curious look on his face.

"What's the matter?"

"Just trying to imagine it all white in here."

"White?"

"When the device is detonated, everything in here will be vaporised in blinding white light."

"Charming. I hope we're not here to see it."

"You wouldn't see anything," he said.

"You wouldn't feel anything. You'd be obliterated, just like that." He snapped his fingers and suddenly, as if he'd conjured up a genie, we became aware of a noise.

"What the.. ?" Pay was crouching beside me on our ramp of spoil. He raised a hand.

"Listen!"

At first we could feel it rather than hear it: a deep vibration more than a sound, a shudder so low that it seemed to come through our boots. But in seconds it built into an audible flutter, then into a rumble, then into a roar which filled the tunnel and made it shake. The water behind us had long since settled back into stillness after our passage through it. Now I saw a ripple on the black surface, and I was convinced that the roof was about to cave in.

I looked round at the concrete blocks behind us. We were trapped between the wall and the water in a section of tunnel about fifteen yards long.

The pulsating roar built up still louder until it seemed to come from right over our heads. Particles of brick dust started to fall from the roof. I looked up at the brickwork right above us, fearful that I'd see water break through the joins, expecting to be swamped any minute. I made a grab for my mask and breathing kit.

Into the din Pay yelled, "Fucking Metro!"

"Bollocks!" I shouted.

"No Metro line anywhere near. I checked it on the street plan."

"Gotta be a boat, then."

"A boat?"

"On the river."

"Some boat."

We were bellowing at the tops of our voices. Toad stood there looking vacant, but I think he was just as scared as we were. Then I realised that the racket was diminishing, and I felt sure Pay was right: a boat had gone up or down the river, close over our heads.

After that scare, it took Toad only a few more minutes to complete his preparations.

"OK," he announced, 'we're ready to go.

Anywhere else, the idea of taking orders from Toad would have made me see red, but here we were entirely in his hands and it didn't bug me at all to follow his instructions. With him directing and helping, we raised the base section of Apple the heavier of the two and eased it sideways on to the rough shelf we'd created. That was relatively simple. The harder part was to lift the top section, turn it over in mid-air, then manoeuvre it into position above its mate without letting the two touch or knock together until they were perfectly aligned. The second part weighed just on 150lbs, and even for two fit guys, holding that amount out at arm's length was no picnic.

Toad had had the simple but brilliant notion of bringing three slender spars of wood, an inch thick, to act as temporary buffers, and he laid these across the top of the base unit so that we could lower the top on to them without letting it touch the metal beneath until we were ready. Then, while Pavarotti and I held up one end of the top component, he withdrew the bars one at a time and we lowered away the last inch. As we stood back, he quickly went to work inserting six stainless-steel bolts one at each corner, one half-way up each long side and carefully screwed them down with a ratchet-handled socket spanner.

Then he plugged one of the two black co-ax cables into the lower half of the package and locked it in position, using an Allen key to turn the sunken nut.

As he took hold of the second wire, I said, "Listen, Toad. Are you quite certain this fucking thing isn't going to go?"

"Don't worry," he replied, not even looking up.

"My instinct for self-preservation's as good as yours.

In went the end of the wire. Again he tightened a nut down.

"OK to cover up?" I asked.

"Hold on. I need to check."

Once more he put on his headphones, lifted a small flap at the bottom corner of the device and plugged in the lead from a control box slung across his stomach. For a minute or two Pay and I waited, running with sweat, itching with the grit that had worked its way down the necks of our shirts. My anxiety about possible premature detonation wouldn't die down. I could only hope to hell Toad knew what he was doing. Glancing sideways at Pavarotti, I could see him thinking the same.

At last that sly, secret smile stole back on to Toad's face.

"What's happening?"

"I can hear it."

"What?"

"It's talking to us."

"What is, for fuck's sake?"

"The satellite."

"Jesus! What's it saying?"

"I don't know. I just recognise the signal they gave me.

Listen."

He pulled off the headphones and handed them to me. All I got was a distant chirruping and beeping that rose and fell.

"How far up is the satellite?"

"Twenty-two thousand five hundred miles."

I handed the set back and said, "OK to cover up, then?"

Toad nodded and began to pack up his tools.

I'd decided in advance that we weren't going to ponce about mortaring over cracks in the brickwork. The chances of somebody else reaching the site were remote and anyway, new mortar wouldn't pass a close inspection. Now that Apple was live, I wanted to get the hell out of the tunnel as soon as possible.

So we simply covered the casing with a loose mound of bricks and spoil, as though the heap had fallen from the roof, and pushed some lumps into the conduit that we'd cut for the connection, to hold the cables in the duct. Then we collected up our kit and prepared to withdraw.

"Toad," I said, 'what happens if the water level comes right up and the thing gets flooded?"

"It shouldn't make any difference. Now the units are sealed together they're waterproof There'd be problems if the level got as high as the SCR, but I don't reckon that's possible."

There was one last precaution I'd decided was worthwhile.

Back at the edge of the water, we used one of the empty rubber bags as a water carrier, filled it, and dragged it to the base of the blocking wall. There we tipped the lot out at once, retreating backwards before a little tide that pursued us down the tunnel.

By doing that four times, we washed away every sign of disturbance and left the silt on the floor in a smooth, unbroken carpet.

Then we waded away through the flood.

We were back under the shaft by 0020. We'd missed the midnight rendezvous, but in only ten minutes Rick was due to make his next inspection. Our last batteries were all but spent.

As we waited in pitch blackness, my mind wouldn't leave the twinned cases, buried under the mound across the river. I thought of the device as a time-bomb, ticking away towards detonation. I knew that wasn't how it worked, but the idea wouldn't fade. How could we be sure that some idiot in the Pentagon wouldn't set it off by mistake? We had only Toad's word to give us hope that accidents were impossible.

We waited, sweat congealing, grit itching inside our shirts. I found myself thinking of the occasion, years before, when we'd buried an old aunt in the churchyard of my village, in the north of England, how the clods of earth had rained down on her coffin as the grave-diggers started to fill the hole above her.

There was something uncomfortably similar about the way we'd heaped the spoil back on top of Apple's black and green casing.

On the dot of 0030 we heard a creak of hinges above us, and a beam of light flickered down the shaft.

"Anyone for the up?" Rick called softly.

"Three," I told him.

"Can't wait to get out. Everything OK on top?"

"Fine."

"Let's have a rope for the berg ens then the ladder."

So we came back to ground level. The moment we were clear of the shaft and the cover was closed, Rick slipped the original padlocks into place and scattered hay over the top.

"Where's our transport?" I whispered.

"Dumio exactly. Somewhere close. We've been talking to them. Give 'em a call."

I switched on my radio and said, "Green One to Black, do you read me?

Over."

"Black," came Whinger's voice immediately.

"Standing by for pick-up.

"Roger," I went.

"We'll come out two and two, as planned. First pair one minute from now. Second thirty seconds later."

By then all the nuns or whoever they were seemed to have gone to bed.

Only a single light was burning at the back of the inner yard; everything else was dark. All the same, we stuck to our plan of coming out in separate pairs.

"Away you go," I said, and Rick and Toad vanished towards the gate. I counted thirty, then set off with Pavarotti.

Through the gate we turned right and started walking along the pavement. The asphalt gleamed wet after recent rain, and across the river the Kremlin buildings were still floodlit. There was nobody walking on the embankment. The first pair had disappeared picked up already.

About a hundred yards ahead of us I saw some object lying half on the pavement, half in the road. As we approached, I saw it was a man, or maybe a body, legs out in the carriage way head in the gutter. From the horrible angle of his feet I could tell that his legs had been run over, maybe several times. One hand was clutching the neck and shattered remains of a bottle, and round it a dark puddle had spread, more like blood than vodka.

"The poor bastard's snuffed it," said Pavarotti as we passed. But no: at that moment the figure let out a gurgling groan and shifted slightly. On any other night, anywhere else in the world, I'd have pulled him to safety on the pavement. But here, so close to the scene of our infiltration, I didn't want to know.

The contrast between the splendid buildings opposite and the sordid brutality of life in the gutter said everything about the way in which seventy-five years of Communism had brought a vast country to its knees.

We walked on. A second later we heard an engine and saw lights coming up behind us. I tightened my right hand on the butt of my Sig, just in case; but then the lights flicked up and down in recognition. Whinger called, "I have you visual," the vehicle slowed, and a second later we were safe on board his Volga.

"Good on yer, Whinge," I said as we pulled away.

"No problems?"

"The whole place is lifting with drunks but apart from them, nothing.

How about you?"

"We managed it, just about. The bastard's in place. Toad said he could hear the satellite talking to it, so we presume it's all set up. But I tell you even if it isn't, I'm not going back down that fucking tunnel in a million years."

"You couldn't smell any worse if you did," Whinger observed.

"Thanks. And by the way what made that fearsome racket?"

"When?"

"About an hour ago. It sounded as though an aircraft carrier went up the never.

"Oh, that. It was just a barge with a load of sand on board."

"Christ it scared the shit out of us. We thought the tunnel was coming in.

"Oh, well." Whinger sounded unimpressed.

"It didn't. So that's it for tonight, is it? One down and one to go.