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Authors: James Barrington
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suppressed a smile. What he had just explained was almost true, but the real nature of the contact was likely to be very different from what Richter probably assumed.
‘Right, then,’ Simpson continued. ‘Gibson has already supplied you with briefing sheets, your precise itinerary, an airline ticket and details of the pick-up address in Vienna.
You’ll need some other equipment as well, so we must get that sorted immediately.’
‘Equipment?’ Richter asked. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve got exploding briefcases or sub-machine guns hidden inside shoes?’
‘Not exactly,’ Simpson grunted. ‘Our technical resources are somewhat more modest than those supposedly available to James Bond. We’ll be providing you with a diplomatic
passport, which will help with the border crossings and any dealings you might have with the continental plods, and a mobile phone so we can reach you wherever you are. Oh, and a briefcase . . .
but without extras apart from a handcuff to attach it to your wrist.’
Sluzhba Vneshney Razvyedki Rossi Headquarters, Yasenevo, Tëplyystan, Moscow
Raya checked the new directory immediately after arriving in her office, and was amazed at the number of files it already contained. Even allowing for Abramov’s
explanation that some of the material had now been held for assessment at Yasenevo for as long as six months, it was still obvious that the Zakoulok database was huge, and that the source
known as Gospodin enjoyed excellent access – perhaps even better than some of the American mercenary traitors, such as Aldrich Ames and the Walker family.
Later that morning, Raya made a call to Major Abramov’s office number. She let the phone ring a dozen times before replacing the receiver. She had fully expected him to be out of the
building, but was just running a final check.
She opened her office door briefly, to check that the corridor outside was empty, then locked it and walked swiftly back to her desk. Sitting down at the computer, she opened a file-transfer and
communication program which automatically dialled a telephone number in a fifth-floor office within the Lubyanka. That telephone didn’t actually ring, because a call-diverter, which Raya had
installed during a routine security check nine months earlier, intercepted her call as soon as it recognized the prefix.
The prefix was in fact a signal to the diverter to dial another number elsewhere in Moscow, and the only sign of this happening was the small red light on the telephone that illuminated to show
that the line was in use. This light stayed on for almost fifteen minutes, but the office itself was deserted, as was always the case in mid-morning.
Once the connection was established, the program transmitted copies of the files contained in both of Raya’s hidden directories to the recipient computer. Before the program shut down, it
deleted all the files in the two hidden directories, and finally erased any record of this call from her office to the Lubyanka from the internal-communication record file.
During the afternoon, Raya accessed the internal-communication record file herself. After a careful check of the Senior Officers’ Diary which was held on the computer system, and the
network access log, she inserted nine new and entirely fictitious entries. These showed lengthy calls to a Moscow number made from an office elsewhere in the Yasenevo complex.
Then she opened a directory with a Top-Secret classification, and selected fifteen files dealing with Russian military equipment. She opened each one in turn and added a single extra entry to
each file’s access record.
As she closed the last file, Raya smiled to herself. It was a smile of satisfaction, but her eyes were hard and bright.
Secret Intelligence Service (SIS) Headquarters, Vauxhall Cross, London
‘Mr Stanway?’ Mary Bellamy began. A formidable and slightly equine woman, she was personal assistant to ‘C’, namely Sir Malcolm Holbeche, which
‘Right, then,’ Simpson continued. ‘Gibson has already supplied you with briefing sheets, your precise itinerary, an airline ticket and details of the pick-up address in Vienna.
You’ll need some other equipment as well, so we must get that sorted immediately.’
‘Equipment?’ Richter asked. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve got exploding briefcases or sub-machine guns hidden inside shoes?’
‘Not exactly,’ Simpson grunted. ‘Our technical resources are somewhat more modest than those supposedly available to James Bond. We’ll be providing you with a diplomatic
passport, which will help with the border crossings and any dealings you might have with the continental plods, and a mobile phone so we can reach you wherever you are. Oh, and a briefcase . . .
but without extras apart from a handcuff to attach it to your wrist.’
Sluzhba Vneshney Razvyedki Rossi Headquarters, Yasenevo, Tëplyystan, Moscow
Raya checked the new directory immediately after arriving in her office, and was amazed at the number of files it already contained. Even allowing for Abramov’s
explanation that some of the material had now been held for assessment at Yasenevo for as long as six months, it was still obvious that the Zakoulok database was huge, and that the source
known as Gospodin enjoyed excellent access – perhaps even better than some of the American mercenary traitors, such as Aldrich Ames and the Walker family.
Later that morning, Raya made a call to Major Abramov’s office number. She let the phone ring a dozen times before replacing the receiver. She had fully expected him to be out of the
building, but was just running a final check.
She opened her office door briefly, to check that the corridor outside was empty, then locked it and walked swiftly back to her desk. Sitting down at the computer, she opened a file-transfer and
communication program which automatically dialled a telephone number in a fifth-floor office within the Lubyanka. That telephone didn’t actually ring, because a call-diverter, which Raya had
installed during a routine security check nine months earlier, intercepted her call as soon as it recognized the prefix.
The prefix was in fact a signal to the diverter to dial another number elsewhere in Moscow, and the only sign of this happening was the small red light on the telephone that illuminated to show
that the line was in use. This light stayed on for almost fifteen minutes, but the office itself was deserted, as was always the case in mid-morning.
Once the connection was established, the program transmitted copies of the files contained in both of Raya’s hidden directories to the recipient computer. Before the program shut down, it
deleted all the files in the two hidden directories, and finally erased any record of this call from her office to the Lubyanka from the internal-communication record file.
During the afternoon, Raya accessed the internal-communication record file herself. After a careful check of the Senior Officers’ Diary which was held on the computer system, and the
network access log, she inserted nine new and entirely fictitious entries. These showed lengthy calls to a Moscow number made from an office elsewhere in the Yasenevo complex.
Then she opened a directory with a Top-Secret classification, and selected fifteen files dealing with Russian military equipment. She opened each one in turn and added a single extra entry to
each file’s access record.
As she closed the last file, Raya smiled to herself. It was a smile of satisfaction, but her eyes were hard and bright.
Secret Intelligence Service (SIS) Headquarters, Vauxhall Cross, London
‘Mr Stanway?’ Mary Bellamy began. A formidable and slightly equine woman, she was personal assistant to ‘C’, namely Sir Malcolm Holbeche, which
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