Overkill by James Barrington Page A

but it must be done. I want you to
identify the treacherous bastard who has told the Americans what we are doing.’
    ‘If he exists,’ Sokolov said quietly.
    ‘Oh, he exists, Grigori, the traitor exists. Of that I have no doubt. No doubt at all.’
    Sokolov looked up, a frown creasing his brow. ‘Are you sure I should do this, Nicolai? It is not really my field.’
    Modin smiled at him. ‘I know that,’ he said, ‘but I have to have someone I can trust, trust totally, to carry out the investigation. And he has to be someone who already knows
about the project. If I call in the security staff, they will have to be told at least the broad outline of Podstava , and that will multiply the number of people with knowledge of it to an
unacceptable level. No, Grigori. Whoever investigates this has to be someone already indoctrinated, but whose loyalty is above suspicion. You are the best – in fact, you are the only –
candidate.’
    Sokolov nodded. ‘I thank you for your trust, Nicolai. And what is the second thing?’
    Modin looked grave. ‘This has not been my decision – Minister Trushenko himself has directed my actions. He believes we cannot afford to wait for all the weapons to be placed
piecemeal using covert means, so the last weapon is to be delivered intact, despite the risks.’
    Sokolov stared at Modin. ‘How?’ he asked.
    ‘It will be delivered by lorry, as Diplomatic Baggage, but protected by Spetsnaz troopers.’
    ‘Remind me,’ Sokolov said. ‘Where is this last weapon to be positioned?’
    ‘London,’ Nicolai Modin said. ‘It’s going to London.’
    Sheremetievo Airport, Moscow
    It took them just over twenty minutes to get clear of central Moscow and head out to the north-west on the M9 motorway, but that still left plenty of time. At
Sheremetievo, Richter retrieved his suitcase from the Rover’s boot, shook Erroll’s hand and walked away. Erroll looked thoughtfully at his retreating back for a moment, then turned back
towards the car. ‘Insurance investigator my arse,’ he muttered. ‘OK, George, let’s go.’
    The black ZIL pulled up about fifty yards behind the Embassy Rover, and the three men inside watched intently as Richter approached the terminal building. As he passed through the doors, the man
in the back seat opened the car door and stepped out. He pulled his overcoat tight around him, then walked across and followed Richter. He had barely entered the terminal before he heard the voice
in his earpiece. He cocked his head as if to hear the words better, then smiled slightly and quickened his pace, following Richter deeper into the building.
    The British Airways’ check-in desk was already open, so Richter produced his ticket and passport and handed over his small suitcase. A professional is always aware of what’s
happening around him, and Richter was nothing if not professional. As he turned away from the counter, he casually scanned the crowd, looking for anything or anyone out of place, and one pair of
hard grey eyes met and held his for just a moment longer than they should have.
    Richter ignored the fleeting contact and walked away towards the cafeteria. Eight minutes later, sitting at a corner table and with a coffee and a paperback novel in front of him, he spotted the
same man again, standing just beyond the cafeteria. Once can be happenstance and twice may be coincidence, but in Richter’s trade coincidences didn’t often happen. Usually it meant
enemy action.
    He finished his coffee, put the novel in his briefcase, stood up and walked into one of the shops. He wandered the aisles and selected a small bottle of the cheapest Scotch he could find. It
wasn’t a brand he recognized but that didn’t matter because he had no intention of drinking it. He put the bottle in his briefcase then left the shop and crossed to the toilets. The
rest-room was deserted, and Richter acted quickly. He ran to the stall furthest from the door and placed his briefcase on