Manhunt (25 page)

Saturday

Ax-les-Thermes, France

Back in his hotel room, Richter was in something of a quandary. He
really
didn’t like the idea of being stuck in one place, one known to Simpson and very
likely others as well, when he had no idea what was actually going on. And there was an analogous situation that kept on popping unpleasantly into the forefront of his mind. In India, during the
good old days of the Raj, when they were trying to get rid of a man-eating tiger, the hunters would first tether a goat to a tree in order to attract it, then somebody would shoot the beast while
it was busy enjoying a couple of goat steaks, extra rare.

Ever since he’d arrived in this small French town, Richter had been feeling increasingly like some form of tethered animal, set up as bait or target, and he didn’t like the
experience at all. He couldn’t just leave Ax, because the surveillance team would know it, so he was committed to following Simpson’s orders and staying inside the hotel for that
evening and throughout the night. So what he needed to do now was find some way of evening up the odds, so that when the tiger eventually turned up for dinner, he’d find a goat with very
sharp teeth and a nasty attitude.

And there was one way he might do that, but first he needed to check out two things. One was the layout of the hotel rooms, and the other to establish what the floor of his room was made
from.

Ten minutes later, Richter stepped outside the hotel again and started up the Ford. Waiting until the road was clear in both directions, he swung the car around in a U-turn, and headed back
towards Ax-les-Thermes. As he passed the Renault Laguna, he gave its driver a pleasant wave. The man gave him a hostile glare, and Richter grinned as he drove on.

He parked near the casino at the southern end of the town centre, and wandered off into the side streets situated on the west side of the main road. He was looking for a particular kind of shop,
and soon he found just what he was looking for. He made two inexpensive purchases there, both of which he tucked into a large plastic bag. Then he walked back towards his car, but stopped off at a
small supermarket to buy the final item he needed.

Back outside the casino, he glanced around for the Renault Laguna, but saw neither the car nor its driver, though he felt sure he was still under surveillance from some quarter. After that he
drove back to the Hostellerie de la Poste, to begin his own preparations for whatever the night might have in store.

Stazione Trastevere, Rome, Italy

The moment the doors slid open at Stazione Trastevere, Raya stood up and moved towards them. But she didn’t immediately alight, and for several seconds just stared
up and down the platform, looking out for any sign of danger. But all she saw was the bustle of passengers leaving the train, pushing their way through equally large crowds of people who were
trying to get on it. Nobody stood out as a potential threat, but then, she realized, stepping down onto the platform, if the SVR were covering this station they’d most likely be waiting for
her outside.

She paused at the station entrance, trying to check the street beyond, but she saw nothing to worry her, apart from the sheer volume of urban traffic. Cars were everywhere, as well as countless
scooters and mopeds weaving in and out of the dense traffic, the sound of their buzz-saw exhausts ripping through the air as a counterpoint to the deep bass rumble of the diesel engines of
trucks.

What she needed now was a bus or something else to get her away quickly from the station. Raya shot a final look in both directions, then stepped warily out into the street. A short distance
away she spotted a
tabacchi
, or tobacconist, where she knew she could buy a bus ticket. Her rudimentary Italian proved unnecessary, as the proprietor spoke enough English to understand
exactly what she wanted. A couple of minutes later she emerged clutching a comprehensive ticket that was good for all-day unlimited travel on buses, trams and the Rome metro. All she had to do then
was find a bus or a tram or a metro station.

But, before she could make a move, a dark-coloured saloon car swept past her and squealed to a halt directly outside the station. Two burly looking men got out and hurried over to the entrance,
their heads swivelling left and right as they scanned the passengers emerging. Raya didn’t need telling who they might be or who they were looking for.

Her heart thundering in her chest, she paused deliberately for a few seconds outside the
tabacchi
, peering in the window and using the reflection in the glass to watch what was happening
in the station opposite.

One man had stopped directly in front, where he would be able to see everyone who used the main exit. The second man forced his way through the crowds and vanished inside the station itself. The
reflection in the
tabacchi
window was slightly distorted, and nothing like as clear as a real mirror, so Raya couldn’t see what the driver of the car was up to: whether he was focusing
his attention on the station, or scanning the people moving along the street.

Forcing herself to move slowly, Raya turned away to walk in the opposite direction, her senses preternaturally alert for the first shouted order that would mean one of them had spotted her.
After several paces, she risked a quick glance over her shoulder.

Just then the driver, who had now climbed out of the vehicle and was standing beside it, with his door wide open, suddenly turned in her direction. Their eyes met, and in that instant Raya knew
she’d been spotted.

A sudden yell followed immediately by an insistent blast on the car’s horn was all the confirmation she needed. She turned and ran, clutching the bag to her side, desperate to put some
distance between herself and her pursuers.

Outside the station, the driver dropped back into his seat and slammed the car door shut. The engine was still running, and he immediately pulled the gear lever into reverse and began driving
the car backwards up the street, into the teeth of oncoming traffic and weaving around cars and scooters as he went.

Even for Italian drivers, who generally seemed to regard any road signs as just part of the scenery, and tended to drive wherever and however they liked, this was too much. A frantic cacophony
of blaring horns greeted his erratic progress, which then came to an abrupt halt when the rear of his vehicle encountered the front of an approaching cement lorry. The truck driver had no room to
avoid the reversing car even if he’d wanted to, which he probably didn’t. So he just let the truck roll on until it struck the back of the reversing car with a satisfying crash. Then
finally he applied the brakes.

Raya registered all this briefly as she ran, but it wasn’t the car that now bothered her. The man previously standing outside Stazione Trastevere had responded immediately to the yells of
the car driver, and was now sprinting down the street towards her.

She risked another glance behind her. He was perhaps fifty yards back, and gaining steadily. Raya was no runner at the best of times, and her footwear – a pair of soft black leather shoes
with kitten heels – would have been sufficient handicap even for a decent sprinter. She knew there was no chance of outrunning him, so she’d have to do something else.

Ax-les-Thermes, France

Adamson’s mobile suddenly shrilled, almost startling him, and he reached over to retrieve it.

‘You don’t seem to be very good at this,’ Simpson declared, without preamble.

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means that Richter made you, and he even guessed you were here two-handed. The only thing he didn’t know was where exactly Dekker was positioned, but he assumed he’d be
somewhere behind the hotel.’

‘I thought you told us Richter wasn’t a professional?’

‘He isn’t, and neither are you by the sound of it. Anyway, if Richter’s spotted you, it’s not too big a stretch of imagination to guess that Gecko might have as well. So
stop pissing about and get the hell out of there, right now.’

‘What about Dekker, sir?’

‘He stays where he is,’ Simpson said. ‘I may be throwing Richter to the wolves, but I want Dekker out there to cover his back, and to take Gecko down if he gets the
chance.’

‘I don’t think Dekker’s got any food or drink up there.’

‘That’s his problem, then. He’s SAS, isn’t he? Perhaps he can nibble on a few blades of grass or something, drink his own urine, that kind of thing. And it’ll only
be for tonight, anyway, because if Gecko
is
here, that’s when he’ll have to strike.’

‘And where do you want
me
to go?’

‘Don’t tempt me.’ Simpson sounded extremely irritated. ‘Somewhere well away from the Hostellerie de la Poste, obviously. But if you can find a vantage point where you can
still cover the building without erecting a large sign on the car announcing “This is a surveillance operation”, that would be good. Right, brief Dekker, then off you go.’

Rome, Italy

Raya took a deep breath and screamed as loudly as she could, and simultaneously angled herself slightly to one side of the pavement, a route that would take her close to
the front of a cafe with several tables sitting outside.

Half a dozen young Italian men were already standing, their eyes fixed on the incomprehensible accident that had happened almost right in front of them. At the sound of distress they all spun
round, taking in the scene in an instant. A young and pretty girl running for her life, pursued by a heavily built dark-suited man probably intent on rape or worse.

Raya’s breath erupted in short, ragged gasps as she neared them, and she realized she couldn’t carry on much further. As she reached the young men, they parted to let her through, as
if coordinated by a silent signal, then immediately closed ranks as the running man approached.

Seeing the human obstacle blocking the pavement, he didn’t hesitate. He swung out into the roadway, obviously intending to run around the Italians. As he swerved, one of the young men
grabbed for him, but missed. A second one didn’t and this man, the biggest of the half-dozen Italians there, timed his move to perfection.

As the runner reached about six feet from him, he simply extended his left arm at a right angle to his body, directly in front of his target, and braced himself, a move known in close-combat as
‘the clothes line’.

The dark-suited man had no chance. He was going too fast to swerve or avoid the outstretched arm, so caught the Italian’s forearm squarely in his throat. His momentum drove his legs on for
a couple of feet before he tumbled backwards, retching and choking, to the ground. Two of the other young men immediately leapt forward and sat on him, pinning him down. He was going nowhere any
time soon, even without the injury to his throat.

Raya registered all this in another backward glance, but knew she still daren’t slow down. Because the driver of the car was now out of his vehicle and running as well, angling his way
towards her from the road and obviously intending to intercept her.

But, actually, that wasn’t going to happen either. A crowd of passers-by had already assembled, and when they saw the man who’d just caused the accident trying to escape from the
scene, several of them grabbed him and wrestled him to a halt, shouting and gesticulating in fast and very angry Italian.

As Raya kept on running, but now a little more slowly, she saw the SVR officer struggling violently and trying to fight his way free of the men holding him. A road junction loomed, and she swung
left to run down the side street.

But, as she did so, she heard a sudden gunshot from behind her, and turned to look. The SVR man had wriggled free of his captors and had pulled out a pistol, which she could clearly see in his
hand, and one of the men who’d been holding him now lay on the ground, clutching his stomach and screaming in agony.

Raya didn’t wait to see what would happen next: she just took to her heels again, finding new energy and additional speed from somewhere. She pounded along the street, dodged across the
road, weaving through the traffic and down another side street, hoping she’d managed to get out of sight before the man wielding the pistol saw where she’d gone.

But that faint hope evaporated seconds later, when another shot rang out from behind and a bullet smashed into the wall only a few feet in front of her. She glanced back.

The man had just swung round the corner and was at least seventy yards back, still a slim enough margin. ‘Kosov, stop now!’ he yelled in Russian.

Raya ignored him, and ran. Ran for her life.

She dodged around the next corner, putting solid stone between herself and her pursuer, then turned left again, and almost immediately right, anything to try to confuse the SVR pursuer, to try
to slow him down by making him stop at each junction to work out which way she might have gone.

And then, at the far end of the road, an unlikely source of salvation beckoned. A young Italian girl was just buckling on a crash helmet as she prepared to ride off on a Vespa scooter. Raya
summoned her last reserves of strength and tried to speed up, desperate to reach the Vespa before the girl rode away.

Raya knew her safety margin was only seconds, maybe even fractions of seconds. As she approached, the girl glanced round curiously, then took a step closer to her scooter.

Another shot cracked out, the bullet ricocheting off a wall somewhere nearby.

The girl whirled round in panic, just as Raya reached her.

Raya knew she had no choice. She grabbed the girl by the arm, spun her round and pushed her away from the Vespa. The girl tumbled backwards, stumbled against the kerb and fell flat on her
back.

Raya leapt onto the seat of the scooter, her eyes already flickering over the unfamiliar controls. She guessed the throttle was on the right of the handlebar, while the numbers on the left-hand
side were the gear change and clutch.

The engine was already running, with a reassuring throb that she could feel through the seat. She pulled in the clutch lever, rotated the handlebar control to the number ‘1’, then
simultaneously twisted the throttle and released the clutch.