The Kremlin Device Read Online Free

name?’
    â€˜Jenkins.’ Suddenly Pete’s patience ran out. ‘For Christ’s sake!’ he snapped. ‘We’ve been through all this before. Have you got nothing better to ask?’
    â€˜Just checking,’ said the detective smoothly. On the monitor I could see Pete’s nostrils working in and out – a sure sign that he was getting steamed up. Beside me, one of the supervisors made a grimace and wrote something on his notepad.
    I watched for a while longer, but then I thought, To hell with this. It was amusing to see the guys getting grilled, but I decided the time could be better spent: we still had a long way to go in preparing for our Russian trip, and not many days in which to get everything done.
    I looked at my watch: 9.35. The exercise had gone on long enough. That sort of thing’s OK if there’s no big deal in prospect, but we had a hell of a team job to tackle. What we should all have been doing was learning Russian, not pissing about with cover stories in pissy Ashford. It was time we went back to Hereford and got stuck into our final training.
    A guy from Spetznaz, the Russian special forces unit, was due in on Monday, coming to have a look at our set-up and give us advice on kit. On Thursday our advance party would fly to Balashika, the base outside Moscow, to suss out the accommodation and facilities, with the main party following within two weeks.
    I slipped out of the control room and found Jock Morrison. ‘Listen,’ I said, ‘do we have to go through with this?’
    â€˜What’s the matter?’
    â€˜I want to stop it. For one thing, they’ve only caught three of our guys. I’m through, and I know Rick Ellis is too – I saw him boarding a train. I bet the other three are clear as well. And anyway, we’ve got more important things to do than sit around here playing games.’
    â€˜Well . . .’ Jock looked doubtful. ‘It’s not my decision.’
    â€˜I know. It’s down to me. Tell you what – we’ll give it another hour and see how things are going then. I’m going to call the Feathers and find out who’s made it.’
    The Feathers Hotel, on the old London road, was the RV for anyone who’d passed through the screen. We’d got rooms booked, but it was a sure bet that the lads would be in the bar, so I had my call put through there.
    â€˜Have you got a Mr Terry Johnson there?’ I asked, using Rick’s cover name.
    â€˜One minute,’ the guy replied. There was a pause, during which I could hear the buzz of conversation, then Rick came on the line.
    â€˜Mr Johnson?’ I said in a phoney, genteel voice. ‘I saw you, you poncified twit.’
    â€˜Who’s that, for fuck’s sake?’
    â€˜Geordie. I was behind you at the station.’
    â€˜Never saw you.’
    â€˜No, but I saw you. Who else is there?’
    â€˜Dusty, Mal and Pavarotti.’
    â€˜Four of you! That’s everyone accounted for, then.’
    â€˜Where are you, Geordie?’
    â€˜In the torture chamber. They’ve got Whinger, Pete and Johnny. But listen – I’m going to call it off in a minute. Are they still doing food over there?’
    â€˜Just about.’
    â€˜Ask them to keep four dinners, then. We’ll be across in an hour.’
    Back in the control room, Pete Pascoe was still on the second screen, but one glance told me he’d got hold of himself and settled down: he was now looking quite comfortable. As for the first screen – there was Whinger, claiming to be an undertaker called Solomon Grice, and bombarding his detective with outrageous remarks. He’d always been a bit of an actor, had Whinger, and in situations like this he could crack an extra edge on to his native Cockney accent, making himself sound almost like a caricature of what he is anyway – a true East Ender. Throw in the horrible rhyming slang, and no