Manhunt (28 page)

‘That’s her,’ Westwood said decisively. ‘The reason we’ve heard nothing about her since is that she was recruited by either the SVR or GRU around that time, and
they made sure she vanished from all public records. A modern languages specialist who’s also competent on a computer – that’s pretty much a definition of the ideal SVR
recruit.’

‘So now what do we do? We know her name and what she looks like, but we don’t have the slightest idea where she is, or where she’s aiming to go.’

‘I know,’ Westwood admitted. ‘Let’s assume she
was
nearly caught by the Russians at Stazione Trastevere. Just remind me again what those eyewitnesses actually
said.’

Richards picked up a couple of sheets of text and rapidly scanned them. ‘This is the statement that the Italian police reckon is the most accurate. The witness describes seeing a
dark-haired woman running away from someone along a street near the Stazione Trastevere. OK, the Moscow description says she’s got blonde hair, but she could have easily dyed it, or have been
wearing a wig. And Kosov would be a fool
not
to change her hair colour, knowing that Russian security personnel might be looking out for her in Rome.’

‘Which does raise an obvious question,’ Westwood interjected. ‘Presumably the description issued by Moscow was accurate, regarding the way she looked when last seen there, so
how did their embassy men know that she now had dark hair?’

‘There must have been an earlier sighting somewhere,’ Richards said, ‘since she arrived in Rome. Somehow they discovered that she’d altered her appearance, and found out
what she looks like now.’

‘Makes sense, I suppose. Now, I want to think again about what happened back at the Stazione Trastevere. According to that same eyewitness, the pursuer was closing fast on the girl. Most
men can run faster than most women, especially when you consider their choice in footwear, but the fact that they’re still out searching for her means she must have managed to get away. How
did she do it?’

‘That’s a very good question,’ Richards said. ‘I doubt if she’d have any accomplices over here in Italy. If she had, they would have arranged to meet her at the
airport, and then the Russians would never have caught sight of her.’

‘Agreed. I don’t think anyone was waiting for her here. So about the only way she could have got away from that Russian was to use some form of transport. I don’t mean she
hopped on a bus, though a taxi is still a possibility. Why not approach your police contacts and get them to canvas the taxi firms to see if any of their drivers recall picking up a female in that
immediate area at the same time the incident happened?’

‘No problem.’

‘And there’s another question you can ask them. Were any vehicles reported stolen locally within the same time frame? If so, what type of vehicle, and if it’s been recovered,
where was it found?’

‘You think she stole a car? Would she have had time to manage that, with some Russian thug breathing down her neck?’

‘No,’ Westwood replied, ‘but if some driver happened to stop his car with the engine running, she might have dragged him out and jumped in. Remember, she must have been
desperate, running for her life, and a desperate woman is capable of astonishing things. Anyway, just ask the questions.’

Five minutes later, Richards ended a call to his contact in the local
carabinieri
and glanced across at Westwood. ‘That was a good call, sir,’ he announced. ‘A young
Italian girl had her scooter stolen near the Stazione Trastevere, by a dark-haired woman who simply pushed her aside and grabbed it. The girl said a man was chasing the woman, and even fired a
pistol at her. So far, nobody’s reported finding the scooter anywhere.’

‘So now we know how she got away from the Russian, but the real trick’s going to be finding out where she’s gone now.’ Westwood paused for a few moments, as if
considering, then he nodded. ‘Maybe it’s time to start tackling this problem from the opposite perspective. Perhaps I should call up a few people I know in London, and try to find out
what’s going on from their end.’

For the next twenty minutes, Westwood made some calls, and got absolutely nowhere.

‘That’s it,’ he said grimly, hanging up the phone at last. ‘I’ve called in every favour I’m owed, but nobody in London seems to know anything. Or, if they do,
they’re not prepared to tell me.’

‘So now all we can do is sit here and wait?’

‘Exactly. But just let your
carabinieri
contact know that we’re particularly interested in that missing woman, or anything else that might relate to her.’

Piombino, Italy

They’d been making good time, passing Civitavecchia less than an hour after leaving Rome. Having witnessed some examples of Italian driving in the city, Raya was
pleasantly surprised to discover that Mario was pretty competent behind the wheel. They’d stayed on the coast road for at least one hundred and fifty kilometres, catching glimpses of the
Mediterranean to the left side as they headed north. Finally they abandoned the main road, and followed the signs to Golfo di Follonica.

As they’d approached the tiny coastal town of Piombino, Mario pointed to an island a short distance offshore.

‘That’s Elba,’ he’d said, and explained how Napoleon had been exiled there after his abdication in 1814, but had stayed on the island for only three hundred days. As a
sop to his vanity, he’d been allowed to retain his title of Emperor and given sovereignty over the island, accompanied by his personal bodyguard of six hundred men. But that hadn’t been
enough, of course, and he’d escaped back to France the following year. Rallying his forces, he was soundly defeated at the Battle of Waterloo, and this time exiled yet again, to a barren
island in the South Atlantic.

This history lesson had helped pass the time, but Raya was still totally exhausted when they finally arrived at a small hotel on the outskirts of Piombino. She perked up a bit when they entered
the dining room and started eating two large plates of pasta, a dish with which she was totally unfamiliar.

And then they’d gone to bed in a room overlooking the sea, and made love to the sound of the waves breaking gently on the beach below. It had been a long time for Raya, but Mario was
careful and cautious and he took his time, till they finally fell asleep in each other’s arms.

Sunday

Ax-les-Thermes, France

Gerald Stanway reached up to make sure that the interior light in the Peugeot was switched off, so that he wouldn’t be illuminated when he opened the car door. He
then checked his Browning pistol again. His car was parked about a quarter of a mile from the Hostellerie de la Poste, an easy and level walk. It was a little after two in the morning, and time he
made his move.

He slipped out of the vehicle and pushed the door closed as quietly as he could, the catch making barely a click. He wouldn’t lock it, as he didn’t want the hazard warning lights to
flash. That would be a dead giveaway, if there was anybody watching.

Stanway glanced in both directions before he stepped away from the car, but the road was completely deserted and he couldn’t even hear the sound of traffic nearby. He made sure he’d
still got the room key he’d grabbed from the hotel reception earlier, again checked the Browning, then started walking slowly northwards along the side of the road, heading towards the
Hostellerie de la Poste.

‘Sierra, Whisky, heads up. Single figure, probably male, walking northbound and approaching target.’

‘Roger. Keep me posted.’

In the parked Renault, Adamson kept his binoculars focused through the open window. But the distance and the lack of ambient light – the moon, high in the sky, casting only a faint glow
over the landscape – meant he could do little more than tentatively identify the approaching figure as male.

‘Still walking slowly, direction unchanged,’ he radioed, more for something to say than because it provided useful information for Dekker. ‘He’s a possible target, so
I’m allocating him the code name Tango One.’

‘Roger that.’

At the edge of the gravelled driveway that led off the N20 road and into the forecourt of the Hostellerie de la Poste, Stanway paused and again looked all around him.
He’d neither seen nor heard anything since he’d stepped away from his car. It was as if the entire town was asleep – which, on reflection, it probably was.

Then he turned right and stepped off the road. The hotel lay directly in front of him, dark and silent.

‘Sierra, Whisky. Tango One now approaching the hotel. Is Romeo’s room light still on?’

‘Negative. Extinguished about an hour ago. No lights showing anywhere else in the building.’

‘Tango One has stopped in front of the hotel. He’s just looking at the building.’

On the hillside rising behind the hotel, Dekker clicked his transmit button twice to acknowledge. He couldn’t see the man Adamson was watching, because he was still on
the opposite side of the building, but for the moment he wasn’t concerned about him. Dekker had never met the man named Paul Richter, but he already felt a kind of kinship with him.

He knew Richter had been set up by Simpson, knew that there was a very good chance that, within the next few minutes, Gecko would get inside the building and do his best to kill him –
assuming it was Gecko who’d just appeared at the front of the hotel. He knew all that because Simpson had given both him and Adamson a very comprehensive briefing back in London. Richter was
merely a stalking-horse, a target intended to entice Gecko out of hiding, and Dekker had been ordered to do nothing at all to interfere with events at the hotel, until after the traitor had made
his move.

But, a couple of times during his career in the British Army, Dekker had also been treated like a mushroom – kept in the dark and fed on shit – and he hadn’t much enjoyed the
experience. And he couldn’t think of a single good reason why he shouldn’t do whatever he could to help Richter survive.

In fact, there wasn’t a huge amount of help he could give right then, but there was one action he could take that might just give Richter an edge. That assumed he was still awake, and
Dekker was prepared to bet a substantial sum that, despite the darkened room, Richter was sitting over to one side of it, and wide awake.

He altered his grip on the sniper rifle very slightly, carefully aimed the rifle at the exact centre of Richter’s open window, and switched on the laser sight.

Through the Zeiss telescopic sight, a pinprick of red light appeared on the wall inside the bedroom, and Dekker knew that if he pulled the trigger right then, the bullet would end up within half
an inch of that tiny dot. He switched the laser sight off, then on again, repeating this three times. If Richter was awake, that should be all the hint he’d need that something was about to
happen.

Dekker switched off the laser sight, for the last time, and settled down to watch.

In front of the hotel, Stanway turned to his right and headed towards the rear of the building. He intended walking right around it, just to make sure no lights were burning,
and that everyone inside was asleep. Then he’d walk through the front door, do the job and walk out again.

‘Tango One moving right. I’m losing him.’

‘Roger,’ Dekker muttered.

A little later, a dark shape appeared at the side of the building, and for a moment Dekker wondered if it would be worth switching over to his night-vision glasses, but he decided not to. The
chances were that the action would take place inside Richter’s room, and there the lights would probably go on before anything happened, simply because Gecko would want to be certain of
hitting the correct target before he pulled the trigger. And then the Zeiss scope would be all Dekker would need.

‘Contact. He’s checking the back of the hotel. Moving around it anticlockwise.’

‘Roger,’ Adamson said. ‘I’ll call Simpson and give him a heads-up.’

‘Enjoy,’ Dekker muttered, still watching the slowly moving figure.

Stanway neither saw nor heard anything to suggest that anyone was still awake inside the Hostellerie de la Poste, so he moved back to the front door of the building, fishing in his pocket for
the stolen key. As in many French hotels that Stanway had used in the past, next to the room key on the keyring was one that opened the main door, so that guests returning late could let themselves
into the building without ringing the bell and disturbing others.

And Stanway was particularly keen not to disturb anyone that night.

He slid the key into the lock, turned it carefully and pushed on the door. A moment later, he vanished into the building.

‘Sierra, Whisky, he’s inside. Through the front door, and it looked as if he simply used a key. You don’t think we’ve just been watching the barman
creeping back after a night out somewhere?’

‘No chance,’ Dekker said. ‘This guy’s either Gecko or some tea leaf who’s really good with locks. And I guess we’ll find out which of those pretty
soon.’

Stanway walked across to the reception desk and replaced the room key he’d taken earlier. Then he used the slim beam of a pencil torch to check all the other keys, and
nodded in satisfaction. The only key not hanging on a hook behind the desk was for room 11, on the first floor, so that had to be where he’d find the blond-haired Russian clerk.

He took out the Browning, slipped across to the staircase rising in one corner of the entrance hall, and began ascending it cautiously, keeping right over to one side, where he hoped the wooden
treads might not creak too much. In under half a minute, he’d reached the first-floor landing, and twenty seconds after that he was standing outside a wooden door with the number
‘11’.

Stanway found himself sweating slightly under the stress of what he was planning to do. For a few seconds he just stood there, wiping his hands on his trousers before reaching out for the door
handle.

He turned it slowly, and the door swung inwards easily, without even a creak. For an instant, Stanway was puzzled. He’d expected to find the door locked at the very least, and possibly
jammed with a chair or something. He looked again at the room number, confirming he’d got it right, then, flicking on his torch, opened the door wide enough to see further into the room. The
beam moved across clothes hung over the back of a chair, then a briefcase standing nearby, next over to the bed. It just had to be the right room.