Part 11 (1/2)

”Who are we talking about?” Whinger asked sharply.

”Steve Lime.”

Steve Lime! The guy whose initial and surname spelt ”Slime'.

Whose nickname was Toad. Jesus! This really freaked me. I glanced at Whinger. He hated the b.a.s.t.a.r.d as much as I did.

Toad! The colleague from h.e.l.l.

I heard the CO saying, ”He'll be going with you, of course.

You'll need him to look after the devices, and prime them when the time for insertion comes.

Toad had always been a pain to the lads on the squadron, but over the past few weeks, since he'd been posted to the States for a course in nuclear technology, he'd faded into the distance, as it were, and people had stopped beefing about him. It wasn't his fault that he was ugly, with oily skin and protuberant eyes; what bugged us was that he seemed to have no personality, and never got on with any of the guys. He'd go about with a smarmy smile on his face, but there was no warmth in it, and after a while you came to realise that he was wrapped up in his own affairs. At the same time, he was a real crawler, who'd lick up to anyone if he thought he could gain something from doing so.

How he had ever made it into the Regiment I could never understand. He had come from an unusual source the Royal Engineers where he'd worked in bomb-disposal; he was fascinated by explosives obsessed, almost and he spent hours tinkering with time-fuses and remote-firing gadgets.

He'd never tell you what he was doing, or have any real crack with the lads. He'd a.s.sociate with the cooks and drivers rather than with the rest of us. It was no accident that he'd ended up as an instructor on the lock-picking wing, in a dim little world of his own. I know that all SAS guys, myself included, are loners to some extent; but at the same time everyone has to muck in, and Toad never did.

The idea of having to live at close quarters with him in the camp at Balas.h.i.+ka was a f.u.c.king wind-up. In fact I found the whole scenario a nightmare.

I'd always hated the idea of nuclear weapons because they're bound to kill thousands of innocent civilians, including any number of children people who have no idea of what's going on. My career in the SAS has always emphasised the need for precision: what you might call 'economy of violence'. People imagine that guys in the Regiment have a cold-blooded, murderous outlook, and regard anybody as a potential target. It isn't like that. All our training is directed to making surgically accurate strikes on targets that have been properly identified.

For the moment, all I could do was grasp at straws.

”This tunnel under the river,” I said.

”How do we know it's still open?”

Laidlaw checked his notes, gave a half-smile, and replied, ”It was open on the fourth of April this year, and we have no reason to believe the situation's changed.”

”That means someone's been down it. If access is that easy, how do we know that the KGB or some other security organisation isn't sitting in there, waiting for us to arrive?”

”The suggestion is that, once you've got Apple in position, you should block the tunnel on the river side of it by dropping the roof, as if there had been a natural fall.”

”Not that easy if it's concrete.”

”I didn't say it was concrete.” A hint of irritation edged into the Scot voice.

”The tunnel is lined with brick, and it's not in the best of condition.”

I nodded in token conciliation.

”Even if you do drop the roof, it is recommended that you brick the device into the tunnel wall.”

”Hard to camouflage new mortar.”

”That'll be up to you. I imagine there may be dust or mud that you can smear around.”

Next Whinger came up with, ”How do we get the devices on site?”

The CO looked at Laidlaw, as if asking permission to intervene, and said, ”They'll travel out with you on the Here, sealed in Lacon boxes. They can be marked the same as ammunition. The weight will be about right. At the other end it'll be up to you to devise ways of moving them to their final positions.”

”What if the Here goes down with the devices on board?” asked Pavarotti.

”What's the chance of a premature detonation?”

”None,” said Laidlaw.

”Even when the two halves of each device are united, nothing can happen until the control box has been interrogated and primed by satellite signal. You need have no worries on that score.

Thanks, I thought, feeling crushed with a sudden terrific weight of responsibility. The boss was going on again about the paramount need for security; but although I could hear what he was saying I was wondering how the h.e.l.l I could carry out the training mission with this knowledge in my mind. Every day we'd be dealing man-to-man with our students, instructing and encouraging them, and at the same time, behind their backs, we'd be plotting to annihilate them.

As the main briefing was coming to an end, the CO drew me aside and said, ”One thing to remember, Geordie: whatever happens, don't let yourselves get involved in any live operation, like you did in Colombia.”

”That was different, Boss,” I protested.

”When Peter lifted, we had to do something about it.”

”I know. But what I'm saying is that we don't want any repet.i.tion. Even if the Russians beg you to take on a job for them, refuse.”

”Will do.”

From the briefing we went into a close-up study of the two sites.

Laidlaw produced large-scale drawings with much detail on them.

”All this information is on compact discs, which you can obviously take with you,” he said.

”The discs are programmed so that if anyone tries to get into one without using the correct pa.s.sword, the contents are automatically destroyed. Nevertheless, you obviously want to handle the discs with the greatest care.

As soon as the bra.s.s had dispersed, I called the team together for a Chinese parliament. We got a brew on, and sat round discussing this amazing turn of events.

Rick remembered that, a few months ago, there'd been reports of the Russians losing a whole load of such devices.

”There was something on the Internet that I down loaded on to our Russian file,” he said.

”Wait one, and I'll pull off a copy.”

While he went to make a search, Whinger and I filled in the other guys on the layout of the Kremlin and the British Emba.s.sy, which had suddenly become of critical importance. I felt instinctively that because the Orange site was out in open country, we'd be able to hack it without too much trouble: it was Apple, right under the walls of the Kremlin, that made my neck crawl.

In a few minutes Rick returned with a couple of pages printed off his lap-top.

”Listen to this,” he began, reading out his transcript. '”A respected Russian scientist and former adviser to President Yeltsin said on Thursday that during the 1970s, under orders from the KGB, Moscow had secretly developed suitcase nuclear bombs. The devices had an explosive capacity of one kiloton the equivalent of 1,000 tons of TNT. They could be activated by one person, and could kill 100,000 people. The bombs were designed for terrorist purposes. Since the break-up of the Soviet Union in 1991, at least 100 such devices have remained unaccounted for.”

Rick broke off, looked up and said, ”Guess what this respected Russian scientist is called.” When n.o.body answered, he said, ”Yablokov. We all know what that means.

Somebody gave a groan. Yabloko was one of the first words we'd learnt on our Russian course. It means 'apple'.

”Either it's a fluke,” I said, 'or someone's having a laugh.”