Free Skydancer by Geoffrey Archer Page B

likely to absorb all his time for the next few days. This secrets scare would change all that, he reflected.
    Behind the thick stone walls of the GRU headquarters in Moscow’s Znamesky Street, General Novikov was betraying signs of unease. The normally poker-facedhead of the military intelligence-gathering network had just replaced one of his four telephones on its rest – the one that linked him directly with his civilian counterpart, the KGB.
    The news from London was alarming. For an operation to appear to have become unstuck, almost before it had begun, was an embarrassment that was hard to conceal. The GRU worked in collaboration with the KGB, but since the intelligence to be gathered in Britain was purely military in nature, the operatives were under his control. There was a long history of rivalry between the two organisations, and the KGB never lost an opportunity to launch sniping criticism at its military counterpart.
    The problem for Novikov was that he had heard nothing from his operatives in London. He remained optimistic that the blueprints would soon be in Moscow. But the KGB had been demanding clarification, and he had no idea when he would be able to provide it.
    He was well aware how important those British missile plans were. The air defence forces, the PVO, had just spent billions of roubles modernising their rocket systems to defend against ballistic missiles, and wanted reassurance that their money had not been wasted. Also the Department of Military Sciences, which was continually devising measures to counter the enemy’s countermeasures, was desperate to learn of the latest twist added to the spiral.
    One man in particular had applied acute pressure on the intelligence services to find out what the British were up to – a man whose true role in Soviet life was known to only the most senior personnel in the military and intelligence communities.
    Across the other side of Moscow, Oleg Kvitzinsky had just arrived home. The small name-plate on the door of his apartment described him as a professor of mathematics, which his neighbours believed him to be. He was a tall, burly man in his late forties, with straight, rather lank hair held in place by a light coating of oil.
    â€˜Katrina?’ he called out as he headed for the bedroom of his apartment, which was spacious by Moscow standards. His wife had decorated it in styles she had selected from the shops or copied from the magazines of Europe and America.
    There was no reply, and he guessed she must be visiting a friend in a neighbouring apartment in their block, which was reserved for the administrative elite of the Communist state. The women always had plenty to talk about; they lived in the small, self-protective circle of privilege at the top of Soviet society, with its own services and shops, where there were no queues and virtually no shortages. At their level, the men were usually free to travel abroad with their wives, and they did so at every opportunity, returning to Moscow laden with possessions that most of their fellow countrymen could never dream of owning.
    The large Japanese transistor radio which Kvitzinsky now switched on in the bedroom was one such object. He had obtained it in America as being the most refined and sensitive radio that money could buy. He spun the dial until the needle reached a familiar resting point: the BBC World Service. He looked at his Swiss watch, and smiled at the good fortune of his timing. He had not heard any news that day, and the London bulletin would begin in precisely one minute.
    He hummed to himself as the familiar signature tune blared through the apartment – but the news headlines soon wiped the smile from his lips. For the third itemmentioned was the discovery of an apparent attempt to steal British nuclear missile secrets.
    â€˜It can’t be true!’ he howled.
    Impatiently he paced the room, waiting for the full details to be read out.
    â€˜The idiots!’ he