Manhunt (18 page)

Ax-les-Thermes, France

Colin Dekker pulled the Renault Laguna into a small car park on the right-hand side of the road, just short of the centre of Ax-les-Thermes. They’d decided to walk
around the town to get their bearings as soon as they arrived, and then they’d check into their pre-booked hotel to start the waiting game.

‘Not very big, is it?’ Dekker remarked as they reached the pedestrian area fronting the casino.

‘No,’ Adamson replied, ‘but it’s still big enough to miss somebody here. I hope Simpson’s right about this place. Come on, let’s get to the hotel.’

Toulouse, France

At Blagnac, Richard Hughes and David Wallis stepped off the Paris flight and separated almost as soon as they reached the arrivals hall. Hughes walked straight over to the
Hertz desk and joined the end of a substantial and apparently unmoving queue, while Wallis found a seat in arrivals from which he could watch the illuminated flight-information boards. The flight
from London that they’d been told to meet looked as if it was going to land a few minutes early, so hopefully they’d be on their way inside an hour.

Forty-five minutes later, Hughes was handed the keys and hire documents for a Renault Megane, and walked back to rejoin Wallis.

‘Is he here yet?’ he asked, as he sat down.

Wallis pointed at the arrivals board. ‘It landed nearly twenty minutes ago, so he ought to be walking through customs any time now. Any problems with the car?’

‘Only the queue to get to the desk.’

At that moment, a short, slim man with a balding head and pinkish complexion, and wearing an immaculate light-grey suit, emerged from the customs hall carrying a weekend case and a leather
handbag of an aggressively male design. He glanced round a couple of times, then walked directly towards them.

‘You Wallis and Hughes?’ he demanded, and both men nodded. ‘Right, I’m Simpson. Let’s get this show on the road. Where’s the car?’

‘Outside, sir,’ Hughes said, stating the obvious, then led the way towards the nearest set of doors.

Within fifteen minutes, the Megane was heading away from Blagnac towards the Toulouse
périphérique
junction. Hughes was driving, Wallis in the front passenger seat studying
the local area map Hertz had provided, and Simpson was reclining in the back, with his weekend case on the seat beside him.

Once they’d cleared the city and were heading for Foix along the N20, Simpson leant forward to address Hughes.

‘Pull up in the next lay-by,’ he ordered, his tone making it quite clear this wasn’t a request.

‘What briefing were you given in Paris?’ Simpson asked, after Hughes had switched off the engine.

‘We’re to drive down to Ax-les-Thermes, interview this defecting Russian cipher clerk and, if we’re satisfied with his dowry and what he can offer us, whistle up the RAF and
then take him to London for interrogation. We were told that you’d be accompanying us, and would have all the contact details.’

‘That’s good. Right, the Russian’s name is Anatoli Markov, and he’s staying at the Hostellerie de la Poste at the northern end of the town. Our information is that
he’s carrying a packet of documents extracted from the SVR archives. He probably won’t want to hand these over to you at the first meeting, but that doesn’t matter. I’m just
as interested in what he can tell you about his job in Moscow. Concentrate on finding out exactly where he worked, who he worked with, the names of his superiors, his security clearance –
that kind of thing. That’s all useful background that should help establish his bona fides.’

He drummed his fingers on the seat back. ‘But don’t push him too hard. Remember that he ran out of the embassy in Vienna when the Six people didn’t react quickly enough for
him, and he’s been running ever since. That means treat him gently. If he doesn’t want to tell you something, just leave it. I’m more interested in what you feel about him,
whether you think he’s the real deal or not. You’ve done this before?’

‘Once.’ Hughes nodded. ‘About five years ago with a Romanian who pitched up in Munich. We threw him back.’

‘We might do the same with Markov. It all depends on what he’s offering. The most important thing about this man is that he claims to know the identity of a high-level mole in the
British intelligence apparatus, who’s been supplying information to the SVR, and that’s what I’m really interested in. So, I say again, treat him gently, and above all don’t
frighten him off.’ Simpson passed a small piece of card to Wallis. ‘That’s my mobile number. Call me as soon as you’ve talked to the Russian.’

‘You’re not going to sit in on the interview?’ Hughes sounded surprised.

‘No,’ Simpson replied shortly. ‘I’ve got other things to do.’

Sluzhba Vneshney Razvyedki Rossi Headquarters, Yasenevo, Tëplyystan, Moscow

The Border Guards Directorate officer had taken his time in making a decision, but had eventually realized that he had nothing to lose by running a routine check on the
attractive young SVR officer. He’d noted her name and department and, when he was able to do so, he left the departure gate and headed to his office. He checked the number of the SVR
switchboard, and was eventually connected to the duty officer.

‘Who are you?’ the man demanded.

‘Border Guards Directorate, at Sheremetievo. This is a routine enquiry about one of your officers. Can you confirm that a Captain Raya Kosov is employed there at Yasenevo?’

‘Wait.’

The officer at Sheremetievo could hear the clicking of a keyboard in the background, while he waited for a response.

‘Yes, she is. Why do you want to know?’

‘She’s just been checked onto a flight to Rome. I just wanted to confirm that she’s been authorized to leave Moscow.’

There was another short pause as the SVR officer accessed another list. ‘Yes, she’s booked for a week’s compassionate leave, and has been issued with a travel warrant. Anything
else?’

‘No, thank you.’

At Yasenevo, the duty officer put down the phone with an irritated expression on his face. The SVR and the Border Guards Directorate had never exactly seen eye to eye, a hangover from the old
days when both organizations had been part of the KGB, where they frequently tried to score points off each other.

He looked down at the notes he’d made during their brief conversation, then one word seemed to leap off the page at him.
Rome?
That didn’t sound right, somehow, for
compassionate leave, unless this officer had close relatives living outside the Confederation of Independent States. That wasn’t unheard of, but it certainly wasn’t very common.

Perhaps, he thought, he should check that he’d heard the man at Sheremetievo correctly. Then he realized he hadn’t made a note of his name or even his rank. And he wasn’t
prepared to now ring the Directorate office at the airport, and end up looking like an idiot while he tried to identify the officer who’d called him.

Instead, he turned back to his computer and accessed the personnel records. The information available to him was strictly limited, so about all he was able to confirm was Raya Kosov’s
name, rank, date of birth, her Moscow address, and her department and superior officer. There was no information about family members except for her mother in Minsk. So it was at least possible
that she had some other relative living in Italy?

The duty officer leant back in his chair. He was very junior and comparatively inexperienced, but something about this business didn’t seem right. Would another junior officer – she
was only a captain, after all – be allowed a week’s compassionate leave for anyone not a member of her immediate family?

For several minutes he sat in thought, considering his options. Then he looked up a number in his database, and reached for the telephone.

Ax-les-Thermes, France

Stanway slowed down as he entered Ax, thereby irritating two French drivers who were tailgating him. Both of them swept out and roared past the Peugeot, hooting derisively
as they overtook. Stanway ignored them, concentrating on checking the layout of the town. He passed the Hostellerie de la Poste and the Auberge du Lac, but only glanced at them, for the moment
identifying them as nothing more than possible locations for his quarry. He carried on down the main street, realizing that Ax-les-Thermes consisted primarily of buildings erected along both sides
of the N20, and noted relatively few hotels.

The route he took almost mirrored the one Richter had followed earlier that morning. Stanway drove a short distance beyond Ax, towards Mérens-les-Vals, l’Hospitalet and Andorra,
then returned and headed back through the town. As far as he could see, there were only about half a dozen hotels, so if Holbeche’s information was accurate, the clerk would be in hiding
somewhere at the northern end of the town. That meant the most likely location for him was either the Hostellerie de la Poste or the Auberge du Lac.

While he decided what to do next, he pulled the Peugeot into a parking space opposite the casino, which was the second of the town’s main attractions, after the thermal springs that gave
its name, and attracted visitors seeking relief from rheumatism and similar disorders.

He stuck money in the machine and placed the ticket on the dashboard – not wanting to attract attention by disobeying the parking restrictions – then made for a cafe beside the
casino and ordered himself a
grande café crème
. He’d had a couple of tours in France and Stanway’s French was fluent and colloquial enough for him to easily pass as
a native.

Maybe the obvious way to proceed was to check in to one of the two most likely hotels, and just use his eyes and ears to try to identify his quarry. The downside of that plan was that when one
of the hotel guests turned up dead – the most likely outcome of this weekend – the French police would be bound to check all the local hotels, and then possibly detain all their guests
for questioning. And that would be disastrous for Stanway, so he’d have to just wait and watch, identify his target, do the job and get out.

He finished his coffee, left three euros on the table, and headed back to his car. Four minutes later, he slotted the Peugeot into a vacant space in the unsurfaced car park beside the Auberge du
Lac, and strolled towards it and into the bar.

Richard Simpson leant forward between the seats, as the Renault Megane entered the northern outskirts of the town.

‘Over there.’ He was pointing towards a hotel on the left-hand side of the road. ‘That’s the Hostellerie de la Poste, where Markov is staying. My information says
he’ll remain in the hotel all this afternoon. He’ll be expecting you to approach him, and he should be easy enough to identify.’

‘Do you want us to book in there, as well?’ Wallis asked.

But that was the last thing Simpson wanted. To allow Gecko a clear run, he needed the minimum number of friendlies hovering around Richter.

‘No,’ he said, ‘you can book yourselves in to one of the more central hotels. Keep going now, and drop me off first.’

Without slackening speed, Hughes drove on, heading for the middle of Ax, where Simpson had a room reserved in one of the bigger spa hotels.

As soon as he’d taken his bags up to his room, Simpson left the hotel and made his way across the road to the open area in front of the casino, where he sat down on one
of the benches. As he pulled out his mobile, it started ringing.

‘We’re in position,’ David Adamson said.

‘Where?’ Simpson demanded.

‘At the northern end of the town, covering the main road.’

‘OK, stay there for the moment, but I think you’ll probably be wasting your time. Gecko might well be here already and, if he isn’t, he could come in from a different
direction, from the Andorra road, say. And he might well have swapped cars, so that he’s now using a Frog-mobile, not something on British number plates. Any sign of Richter – or a car
on Austrian plates?’

‘I thought he was supposed to be here already?’

‘He
is
here. I just wondered if you’d seen him driving about, or anything. Or if you’d recognized him from the stuff I gave you.’

‘We’ve not seen him,’ Adamson reported, ‘but there’s an Austrian registered Ford Focus parked on a street not far from the hotel. Reckon that could be
his?’

‘Probably,’ Simpson agreed. ‘Now, as soon as I know what time the two guys from Paris are going meet Richter at the hotel, I’ll call you in. You do know which hotel,
don’t you?’

‘Yes, we scoped it out earlier. We can be there in around three minutes from the go signal.’

Simpson snorted. ‘Do at least
try
to be literate when you’re talking to me, Adamson. You’re starting to sound like an American cop in a bad B-movie.’

He ended the call, then dialled another number.

When his Nokia rang, Richter was sitting at a table by himself at one end of the terrace of the Auberge du Lac, the novel open in front of him, though he’d so far read
barely a couple of chapters. There were several men inside the bar behind him, and a handful of people had appeared on the terrace since he’d taken his seat. There were three couples, one of
them with two young children, and at the far end sat a single middle-aged man drinking coffee and reading a French newspaper. Richter had pegged him as a commercial traveller or businessman. All of
them were well out of earshot.

‘Simpson. Where are you now?’

‘Ax-les-Thermes.’

‘Don’t try and get funny with me, Richter. Where are you
exactly
? At the hotel?’

‘No. I’m watching the hotel from along the road, just in case I don’t like the look of the people you’re sending to meet me.’

‘This is a training exercise, for God’s sake. We’re all on the same side here.’ Even as he said the words, Simpson smiled slightly. ‘Now, keep your eyes open,
because they’ll probably be arriving any time now. They’re driving a silver Renault Megane with a local number – a thirty-one plate.’

‘They’re here already and arrived a couple of minutes ago. The Renault’s in the car park at the back of the hotel, and I can see it from here. So what now?’

‘Listen carefully. I’m not giving you a detailed briefing,’ he began, ‘simply because although you and I know that this is a training exercise the two men you’ll be
meeting think it’s a genuine operation, and it’ll be interesting to see if you can fool them. So these are the ground rules. First, everything you say to these two men must be in
Russian or in really poor English.’