"OK, then. Knacker the one in the signals office. Break one of the connections or whatever you have to do, but leave the other.
Have you swept the signals room thoroughly?"
He nodded.
"There's only the one in there."
"Better do all the rooms the same.
Now I realised why our hosts had done so much redecorating: they'd painted over any bits of re plastering that had been needed.
The discovery unsettled me.
"I'm really disappointed," I told Whinger.
"I hoped all that was a thing of the past."
"Who are we to talk?" he said.
The truth of his remark kept me in a state of permanent unease. I confirmed to Whinger that I didn't intend to mention the bugs: we'd wait to see what happened if Steve took one out.
The day being Sunday, there were few people about on the camp, and we were left to sort ourselves out which suited us fine. There was more than enough admin and physical work to keep us busy. Sasha was in and out, making sure we had all we wanted.
It was clear that all our lads were going to have to take turns at cooking, and in mid-morning Sasha took Dusty our master chef and Mal off on a conducted tour of Balashika's shops, from which they returned effing and blinding. The so-called Supermagazin was a disaster, and the only place they found any half-decent vegetables was in an open-air market, where locals were selling produce brought in from the country. In the Supermagazin they'd bought scabby oranges, and at the other place they had got eggs, onions, carrots, cabbages and potatoes; but still it looked as though we were going to be relying heavily on tins, packets and boil-in-the-bag meals designed for use in the field.
After lunch, under Sasha's supervision, drivers delivered two battered-looking Volgas, one mid-grey, one black, with worn tyres and rust showing through the paint where the mudguards joined the body. He explained that they were a slightly later model than his own, but similar. The grey one had 88,000 ks on the clock, the black 13,000 which obviously meant that it had been round the dial once at least When I asked if it was OK to drive around the dirt roads inside the training area, to familia rise ourselves with the vehicles, Sasha exclaimed, "Why not?"
"How about going into town?"
"Whatever you like. You've got your licences OK. But inside camp, no red-and-white bars, please."
He meant that we weren't to go through any of the safety barriers that blocked off the danger areas; but there was plenty of other space, and four of us set out for a spin. Before we left, I got Steve to run his bug-hunter over both vehicles just in case, but the result was negative, and that reassured me a little.
Nevertheless, we didn't propose to run unnecessary risks, so we took covert radios and kept the Volgas a few hundred metres apart, chatting to make sure we weren't being followed.
The cars were sluggish and noisy, with heavy steering; but even though driving them was a pain, at least we had wheels of our own. I hadn't expected such freedom: I'd imagined we would be more closely supervised. The entire training area was ringed by the concrete wall, so we were in fact enclosed. We soon found that a perimeter track skirted the inside of the wall, heading out north-eastwards in the direction of the space complex; and after a couple of ks we began to see, beyond the wall, amazingly large, white dish-aerials pointing skywards in seined ranks. Although I said nothing, I could immediately imagine why the Pentagon fancied taking that lot out.
The land was almost dead flat, with only a gentle rise and fall to relieve the monotony. Patches of pine and birch forest alternated with wide-open scrub and grass, crisscrossed by dirt tracks, reminding me of the training areas at Pirbright. Here and there a primitive wooden observation tower stuck up above the trees. Clearly the training area was well used, but two things about it made me feel reasonably secure. One was the sheer size of the landscape. In terrain as open as this it would be very difficult for anyone to watch us without our being aware of the surveillance. The other factor in our favour was the decrepit nature of the fixtures and fittings. On several of the wooden watch-towers the ladders had rungs missing, and the red-and white bafflers which Sasha had mentioned were bent and rusting. All this, we felt certain, reflected the cut-down in the Russian forces: clearly, they had nobody to do the maintenance and were generally short-staffed.
Three ks from base, as we were cruising gently, Rick suddenly pointed to his left. There, at the end of a glade with a shallow ditch running out along its base, was a derelict air-raid shelter or bunker a dome of concrete protruding from a bank of higher ground, with a small rectangular opening in the side that faced us.
I felt my heartbeat speed up. At first glance this looked an incredibly promising candidate for the burial of Orange. The perimeter wall of the training area was only a few yards behind it, the nearest dish aerials a short distance farther off. We'd never get closer than this. I could scarcely believe we'd found one site already.
"Black to Grey," I called over the radio.
"Stopping to have a pee. Hang off and watch my back."
"Grey. Roger," came Whinger' svoice.
In the warm afternoon sun Rick and I strolled towards the bunker while Mal stayed at the wheel. Small birds were singing and the place had a peaceful atmosphere. All the same, I was nagged by a feeling that somebody was watching us.
"We won't go any closer," I said quietly to Rick.
"Turn back."
From fifty yards short of the structure, I could see planks and spars of wood piled up inside the opening. The shelter, whatever it was, appeared to be full of rubbish. All the better for us.
We slowly wheeled round and walked towards the car again.
Facing that way, I realised that there was one watch tower in sight, but it was a long way off, and, as far as we could tell, unmanned. To complete the casual picture, I went over and had a piss against a gorse bush, after which we got back into the car.
"Mobile again," I told Whinger.
"Nothing moving your way?"
"All clear."
We returned to base without incident. Had I imagined the unseen eyes? Rick said he had felt nothing and he normally picked up danger signals before anyone else. Once again I started wavering. My first reaction, as we drove away from the shelter, had been. Right, let's go for it. Let's get the damned CND straight in there and not bugger about taking it into the city centre. Then the feeling of unease returned, making me realise how hasty I was being. Obviously we needed to recce the site properly before we went crashing into it. Even though the building looked as though it had been abandoned for years, it could still be the scene of some training activity. Better keep calm, take time to settle in and get the feel of things.
"Carry on as planned," I told Whinger.
"We'll aim to roll into town after dark."
We had a meal Dusty produced a great corned-beef hash with plenty of onions and fried eggs on top and waited till it was fully dark. Then we backed both Volgas as close as we could to our block's rear entrance. I could tell that everyone was on edge, from the way they were talking in short bursts. We put dickers out to watch either end of the building, and when they confirmed that the coast was clear, we began carrying the kit out.
From measurements taken earlier, we knew that one Lacon box would effectively fill the boot of each car, and that the rear doors were too narrow to take one at all. We'd therefore opened the boxes up and brought out the CNDs in their original packing. The main components, in their black steel cases, were forty inches by thirty by twelve, and the SCR, an incredibly heavy lump, was a twenty-inch cube. The cases had built-in handles at the corners for a four-man carry.
Before we left the building, Toad opened up the small compartment in the base of each SCR and brought out its Rat. I hooked one into my belt and gave the other to Pavarotti. Now those two had to stay within a hundred feet of their devices, otherwise the pagers would go off automatically and start transmitting their alarm signal.
I was shitting bricks as we came down the steps with the first of them. Having a thing like that in your hands is no joke. No matter how often Toad had assured us that an accidental impact couldn't set the bomb off, I kept wondering what would happen if one of us lost his footing.
Gingerly we lowered the first case into one boot. That just left room for the SCR box alongside. The second big case had to go on the back seat, and the combined weight put the Volga down on its springs. With two guys up front, the rear mudguards were almost on the tyres.
Sasha had told the guardroom we'd be going out, so we had no problem there. We flashed some big smiles along with our passes, and the sentry raised the baffler, waving us through.
Then, on the main road, it was just a question of turning left and heading down the big highway into town.
The traffic was incredibly light. I thought of Sunday night on the M4, with a million cars all trying to pour back into London at the same time. Here, I realised, most of the poor bastards who lived in the city centre had nowhere to go at weekends.
Whinger drove the lead car, the black one, with me beside him, map in hand. Rick kept the grey Volga four or five hundred yards behind, so that the two vehicles didn't seem to be associated. With him was Pavarotti, and, squeezed into the back seat beside half of Orange, Toad. There was really no need for him to come with us, but at the back of my mind lurked the worry that while we were moving the devices around, something might happen to them. I could hardly imagine what the problem might be, but if one of them started ticking or heating up we might suddenly need Toad to deal with it.
The two cars were in radio contact, in case anyone saw trouble looming. The plan was for Rick to close up in the final stages of the trip, so that he could follow us and not have to worry about navigation. We also had pistols in underarm holsters, concealed beneath our jackets.
When we joined the thin stream of traffic, I realised what good cars the Volgas were to have. Never mind that they had zero acceleration and roared and wallowed like ten-ton trucks: they were anonymous, and scruffy enough not to arouse anyone's interest. As we kept to the right-hand lane at about sixty ks, any number of identical vehicles surged past on the outside.
That first run-in could hardly have been easier. The only threat was from the potholes which, with the huge load we had on board, could have done serious damage. Whinger often had to swerve to avoid a chasm ahead.
To help with the map-reading in the city centre, I'd made a list of the streets we needed to take. In fact, for most of the way all we had to do was follow the same highway right through, almost until we reached the Moscow River.
Once over the river it was plain sailing along the south bank.
Ahead of us and to the right, the red stars on the towers of the Kremlin glowed in the sky familiar landmarks already, giving me the comfortable feeling that I was back on ground I knew. In a few seconds we passed under the bridge we'd walked across that first night. Having glanced in the mirror to make sure there was only one car behind, I called Rick to say, "Slowing now, and Whinger dropped our speed to twenty ks so that we could get a look at the pink-and-white gateway and the churchyard.
The drive-past didn't yield much. As Rick had predicted, the tall, elaborate wrought-iron gates were open, and through them we caught a glimpse of a small, low church, set back maybe seventy metres from the road. The light inside the courtyard was exceedingly dim, and we couldn't see details, but I got an impression of ramshackle buildings round the sides, and even some bushes.
"Nice and dark," commented Whinger.
"Not too tidy, either. Look out, though. Here we are.
The security guards on the Embassy gate had been briefed to expect us, and let us through without bother. There was a short delay while the Brit guy phoned the duty officer to say we'd arrived: then a message came for us to drive round into the compound. There, an outside light had been switched on, and under it was standing a young-looking fellow with fair hair.
As I jumped out, he came forward.
"Sergeant Major Sharp?
Richard Henshaw."
We shook hands. I introduced Whinger properly, and the others more sketchily.
"Got some stuff for us, have you?" asked Henshaw.
"Well, it's for ourselves really. I'd just like to be sure it's in safe hands."
"Of course. Well, here are your keys. You know where to go.
There are two locks on the cellar door. This key's for the central lock, this one for a padlock that goes through a hasp at the bottom corner. But in any case, the compound's fully secure, so I imagine your equipment will be all right. D'you need any help to unload?"
"No, no. We'll be fine, thanks. Is this the only set of keys you have?"
"No, there's a duplicate set as well."
"Do you mind if I have them too? I'd rather we didn't have anyone else poking around in there."
"Oh all right." He looked a bit sniffy, but disappeared briefly inside and came back with another set.
"There you are. I'll leave you to it. As it happens, I'm quite busy."
"Thanks again, then."
As soon as he was indoors we opened the up-and-over steel door of the cellar and backed the black Volga to the head of the ramp. There was no point in taking the car down the slope, because the approach, between concrete walls, was too narrow for the rear doors to open more than a few inches and we wouldn't have got the boxes out of the back seat. That meant a short carry, and before we began it I scanned round to make certain we weren't being overlooked. No problems on that score: the high wall of the compound blanked off the view from outside. Reassured, I said, "OK, lads. Here we go," and we set about dumping our lethal load.
When all six cases were stacked, Toad brought out the two Rats, switched them off and slipped them back into their compartments in the SCRs. To put the final touch on our security, we replaced the padlock on the foot of the door with one of our own.
Toad was obviously impressed by the size of the Embassy buildings, and from the way he started dry-washing his hands I knew he was coming up with some new idea.
"Now we've got the devices here," he said, 'hadn't I better stay with them? There must be a spare room I could live in."
"Not a chance," I told him.
"The kit'll be fine here. Nobody can touch it. You're coming back with us."
The relief of getting the devices off my hands even for the time being made me feel reckless, and I almost went straight into a recce of the churchyard.
"After all," I said before we reboarded the cars in the embassy compound, 'we're on the spot.
Why not have a look round?"
It was the ever-observant Rick who stopped me.
"When we drove in, there was a guy hanging around out there on the embankment," he warned.
"Where?"
"About a hundred metres beyond the entrance. He looked everything like a dicker, from the FSB or somewhere."
"In that case we'll not piss about in the area," I agreed.
"Especially if he's still there when we pull out."
He was a figure in dark clothes, wearing a cap, leaning out over the river wall as if watching boats go by.
"He's moved this way a bit," said Rick over the radio.
"But it's the same guy."
"Right then," I replied.
"That's it. Next stop Balashit-heap."
I found it a pleasure to start the course the next morning. Our team had all slept well, and the weather was still fine. Whinger and I had gone for a four-mile run at first light, and after a shower and breakfast I felt in good shape. But above all I was chuffed to get back to our proper role of soldiering, and passing some of our skills on to others.
The sight of Anna in her DPMs was enough to put a smile even on Toad's face. I'd arranged with Sasha that all our guys would get an issue of Russian combat kit, so that we blended into the local scenery. Naturally, the garments didn't fit too well; we could disguise short or long sleeves by rolling them up, but the blouses hung away from our waists and the trousers tended to be bulky. Anna's kit, in contrast, was immaculately cut to flatter her slender figure, and looked as though it had been styled by some Western couturier. She wore elegant black boots, a black leather belt that emphasised her narrow waist, and a jaunty peaked cap. Even though she wore no insignia you felt instinctively that she was the senior officer present.
"You got your cars all right?" she asked.
"Yes, thanks. They'll do well."
"Nothing special, I'm afraid. Not like a couple of BMWs."
"Oh well they're fine for getting in and out of town."
I wasn't sure if she knew that we'd already been in to the Embassy, but I wasn't going to bring the matter up unless she did, so I said nothing on that score and switched to matters about the course.
To open proceedings we got the twenty-four students into the main lecture room and sat them down, while our team lined up across the stage, Sasha hovering at one side. Anna introduced herself to the course, and to the Brits who hadn't met her, with a brief explanation that she came from the FSB and that she had been appointed our liaison officer. I then introduced our lads one by one, using the names they'd chosen to sport on their chest badges. I felt a right prick saying, "J7of Rik, vot Dosti ..
This is Rick, this is Dusty," followed by a couple of words about what each man would be teaching weapons, unarmed combat, explosive entry, house assaults, vehicle drills and so on. When I came to Whinger last, because he was last in the line I asked Anna to explain that Vuinzha was not his proper name but the best approximation we could make of his nickname.