Manhunt (14 page)

It was the final sentence that had puzzled Lomas. If there was no defecting clerk and the whole story was just a device, then Stanway was perfectly safe. Of course, he would have to curb his
activities for a while, at least until the witch-hunt had died down. So what other possible ‘further response’ were the wheels at Yasenevo considering?

Bons-en-Chablais, Savoie, France

By mid-afternoon, Richter had reached Geneva. In fact, he’d driven through the city and out the other side on to the A40 autoroute, entering France in the process,
but he’d only driven as far as the first junction. There he’d turned north off the autoroute, and had stopped at a small town called Bons-en-Chablais. It was only about fifteen miles
outside Geneva, so he knew he could easily reach the city centre within about an hour. That should be close enough for whatever Simpson had in mind.

He’d already filled the Ford’s tank at a garage, in preparation for whatever the morrow might bring, and had tried three hotels before settling on a small Logis de France
establishment more or less in the centre of the town. It had lockable garages, an attractive dining room and only eight bedrooms.

Once he’d unpacked his meagre possessions, Richter reserved a table for one in the dining room at eight that evening, purchased a
café alongé
– straightforward
black coffee – in the bar, and took it outside to one of the tables overlooking the small square where the hotel was located. Only then did he call Simpson on his mobile.

‘I’m in Geneva, or near enough,’ he said. ‘Any news for me?’

‘What do you mean by “near enough”?’

‘I’m about fifteen miles from the centre of the city, but I’m actually in a small town just over the Swiss border, in France.’

‘What’s its name?’

‘Does that matter?’

‘No, I suppose not,’ Simpson said, recognizing Richter’s reluctance to divulge his exact location. However, as long as his mobile phone was switched on, Simpson knew he’d
be able to pinpoint Richter’s position to within a few yards by triangulation, using the cells the phone was in contact with. Always assuming, of course, that he could persuade the Frogs to
play ball, and that was never a foregone conclusion. ‘We’ve still no news, so leave your mobile switched on, and be prepared to move at very short notice.’

‘Right.’ Richter ended the call and settled back in his seat to enjoy the coffee and to watch whatever activity there was in the square.

Cahors, Lot, France

‘That’s it,’ David Adamson said, looking up from the map, and pointed to the right just as Colin Redmond Dekker steered the French-plated Renault Laguna
over the narrow stone bridge at the southern end of the town of Cahors. The bridge spanned the River Lot, and perhaps a quarter of a mile along it, on the south bank, was a small hotel.

‘You’re sure?’ Dekker asked. Adamson had already called and booked two rooms there while they were still on the road, up in the Dordogne.

‘Yes. The directions they gave me were quite clear. There’s a roundabout at the end of the bridge. Turn right, and just beyond that there’s a narrow road running along the
river itself. That leads straight to the hotel, and there’s a car park right outside.’

A couple of minutes later, Dekker parked in the closest vacant slot to the main entrance, as he wanted to leave the vehicle in as visible a location as possible. The two men plucked their
overnight bags and briefcases from the boot and headed inside. The receptionist’s English was workable, though Adamson had been picked by Simpson because he spoke fluent French, and so
check-in took no time at all. Dekker spoke hardly a word of the language, but he had other skills that Simpson thought he might need. The two men reserved a table for dinner, in the dining room
overlooking the river, then took the lift up to the second floor.

‘Let’s get unpacked first, then we’ll go down and have a drink at the bar,’ Adamson suggested. He stepped back and examined the door of his room and the ancient lock on
it. ‘This isn’t the most secure accommodation I’ve ever stayed in,’ he added, ‘so I think we’d better keep the weapons with us from now on. I’d hate to
come back up here after dinner and find that some French tea leaf had broken in and walked off with the shooters. Simpson would go ballistic. Just make sure nobody can spot the holster under your
jacket.’

In their separate rooms, the men unpacked what they might need for the night, then Dekker carried his heavy briefcase into the room opposite. Adamson first checked that the door was securely
locked, then snapped open the locks on his own briefcase. Inside were two leather shoulder holsters and two locked pistol cases, each of them containing a Glock 17 semi-automatic pistol with three
magazines and a box of fifty rounds of 9-millimetre Parabellum ammunition.

Then the two men performed exactly the same sequence of actions. They first loaded all three magazines, then pulled on a shoulder holster and slid two of the magazines into the specially
designed loops. The third magazine went into the weapon itself, which each man secured in his holster. Adamson finally locked the virtually empty briefcase and slid it under the bed.

‘What about the rifle?’ Dekker asked.

‘We’ll take it with us.’

‘Right.’ Dekker picked up his own bulky briefcase and headed for the room door, waiting there for Adamson to unlock it.

In the corridor outside, the two men studied each other for a few seconds, checking that the weapons remained invisible under their jackets. Once satisfied, they walked off towards the lift.

‘Order me a beer, will you?’ Adamson said, as they stepped out into the lobby. ‘I’d better go and tell our esteemed leader that the eagle has landed, so to
speak.’

Outside the hotel, Adamson pulled out his mobile phone and dialled an unlisted London number.

A couple of minutes later he walked into the bar and sat down opposite Dekker, who had picked a table up against the wall, with the briefcase jammed into the space beside his chair.

‘And how is that poisonous, balding, short, pink bastard?’ Dekker asked, sliding a glass of beer across the table.

‘How many times have you actually met him?’ Adamson asked.

‘Just the once,’ Dekker replied.

‘You seem to have nailed his personality, then, and he’s pretty much as you’d expect. He was surprised that we’d only got this far, but I told him that, with the
time-scale he’s given us, this was as far as we needed to get today – and that seemed to shut him up. And I explained to him that it had taken us a bit longer than anticipated in
getting to the Paris embassy to change cars.’

That had been an important component of Simpson’s plan, as he’d guessed that a British-plated car would be more instantly noticeable in Ax-les-Thermes than a French vehicle. So
he’d arranged for the pair to leave their British Ford at the Paris embassy, on the Rue du Faubourg St Honoré, and then complete their journey in one of the embassy’s own
vehicles.

Adamson glanced round the bar, which was still empty at that time of day. ‘Anyway, it looks like it’s still a go for tomorrow, though there’s been nothing from Vauxhall Cross,
or anywhere else, to suggest that anyone’s swallowed the bait.’

Friday

Bons-en-Chablais, Savoie, France

Richter got up fairly late, had a shower and shaved, then headed down to the hotel dining room for a typical French breakfast of coffee, bread and pastries.

Once finished there, he walked into the hotel lounge and sat down, placing the briefcase on the low table in front of him. He checked his mobile phone, which he’d left on charge all night.
It had a fully charged battery and a good strong signal. Until Simpson called him, he had nowhere to go, nothing to do, and all day to do it in.

He unlocked the briefcase, pulled out one of the three novels he’d bought at Heathrow, and settled down to read.

Hammersmith, London

Almost as soon as he reached Hammersmith, Simpson called Holbeche, but the SIS head had nothing useful to report.

There had been no results so far from their operation to flush out the traitor, and no suspicious telephone calls had been made or received by anybody currently under surveillance. No one had
failed to report for work, who wasn’t genuinely sick, and no staff member at any of the target establishments had requested taking leave at short notice. It was as if their assumption was
wrong, and that the deep-cover mole simply didn’t exist. Except that they knew he did.

‘Have you briefed Paris?’ Simpson asked.

‘Yes, I talked to the Head of Station this morning and told him exactly what’s going on.’

‘And you can trust him?’

‘I think so, Simpson, yes. I’m not sure he could even access the System-Three directory listing from the Paris holy of holies, but the reality is that the breach must have occurred
on this side of the Channel. If somebody in France had obtained it, a Russian courier would have taken it direct to Moscow from there. It certainly wouldn’t have been sent over to London
first. No, I’m happy to believe that he’s not involved.’

‘OK. So what did you ask him to do?’

‘I’ve told him to brief two of his officers – their names are Richard Hughes and David Wallis – to fly down to Toulouse tomorrow afternoon, and then drive on to
Ax-les-Thermes. As far as they’re concerned, the whole operation is on the level. They’ll be told they’re being sent down there just to interview this Russian defector, and to
assess whatever information he’s carrying. Once they’ve done that, they’ll report back to Paris with a straight recommendation of yes or no.’

‘They won’t be armed?’ Simpson asked.

‘They can be, if you want, but that might raise eyebrows. This is supposed to be a routine assignment.’

‘No, and I’d rather they weren’t armed. I just want to know who’s likely to be carrying, so I can brief my own people.’

‘Understood. Where’s your man now?’ Holbeche asked.

‘I’ve sent him to Geneva. He’s in a hotel just outside the city, but on the French side of the lake,’ Simpson said.

‘Why there?’

‘No particular reason. It just seemed fairly central, and he can easily get to the rendezvous position in about six hours.’

‘When will you send him down? I mean, what’s your take on this, bearing in mind we’ve so far seen no response at all from anyone within the security establishment?’

‘That hasn’t surprised me,’ Simpson replied. ‘Whoever Gecko is, he’s going to play it cool, and that means no sudden illnesses, dying relatives, or requests for
unpaid leave. My guess is that, once he knows where this defector from the SVR has gone to ground, he’ll hop on an aircraft – or more likely just get in his car and drive down to the
south of France.

‘But, to answer your question, I’m going to send this man down there today – his name’s Paul Richter, by the way – because I want him in place no later than this
evening. That will give Gecko two clear days over this weekend to sort him out, and still let him be back in his office on Monday morning, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and eager to hear the latest
news about the Russian cipher clerk.’

‘What’s he like, this Richter?’

‘I’m not entirely sure,’ Simpson said. ‘I’ve only met him once. We picked him because he matched all the basic criteria we agreed – no immediate family,
unemployed, Russian speaker and with a military background. He actually speaks good Russian, which is a bonus – he took an advanced course while he was in the Navy. The other reason I chose
him was because, frankly, we couldn’t find anybody else suitable in the time available. His service record showed him to be somewhat insubordinate, but also stubborn and resourceful, and I
thought he would fit the bill. You’ll appreciate that we couldn’t do a
full
check on him, simply because of the timescale, but I have to confess he’s not the
order-following patsy I assumed he would be. In fact, ever since he arrived in Vienna, he’s done very little but disobey almost every instruction we’ve given him.’

‘Deliberately?’

‘Absolutely. He even told me he trusted me about as far as he could spit a rat – which I presume is an expression they use in the Royal Navy’s Fleet Air Arm. He’s also
deeply suspicious about his tasking, and doesn’t believe I’ve told him anything like the truth about why he’s in Europe.’

‘It sounds like he’s got your number, Richard,’ Holbeche chuckled. ‘Is that going to be a problem?’

‘No. It doesn’t matter what he thinks, or even what he does, as long as he eventually goes where I tell him. And once Gecko catches up with him, he’ll either live or
he’ll die, and it really doesn’t matter either way. We’ll have got our mole, and Richter will have died in a car crash or a climbing accident, or whatever else we decide to
arrange in order to get rid of his body. Or maybe he’ll walk away from this alive. And if he does walk away, I might even offer him a job. I like the way he thinks.’

‘So what do you want from me? To proceed as we agreed?’

‘Yes, though I suggest you do it this morning. That will give Gecko plenty of time to make whatever arrangements he needs for the weekend.’

‘And what about watchers? You still think they’re a waste of time?’

‘Definitely. In fact, it would be worse than that. It would be counter-productive. You can’t watch every officer, and Sod’s Law states that if you do try to put some
surveillance in place, either Gecko or somebody else is bound to spot it. Word will get around, and then he’ll guess that this whole thing is just a deception operation, and that will then be
that. We’ll be right back at square one with no idea of Gecko’s identity, and no easy way of finding out.’

‘If this was a long-term operation, I’d agree with you. But if you’re expecting Gecko to act this weekend, within the next two days, I don’t see how he could manage to
detect any surveillance in such a short time.’

‘Would you really want to take that chance?’ Simpson asked.