Manhunt (37 page)

Richter nodded. ‘OK, you’re quite right. And, yes, she’s fine. Now, we had a problem at the rendezvous, and our friend from Hereford had to intervene. It looks like somehow
they tracked Raya to the RV, which means they’ve got an accurate starting point for a search. We need to get out of Italy, but I’m not going to risk trying to get into
France.’

‘So where will you cross?’

Richter glanced down at the route map open on his lap. ‘Switzerland is out of the question because there’ll be border checks there, so we’re heading for Austria. We’ll
try to cross just to the south of a place called Vinaders, on the main road between Bolzano and Innsbruck. If we get over OK, can you organize an aircraft for us at Innsbruck? Say at about one
o’clock tomorrow afternoon?’

‘Leave it with me. Where are you now?’

‘Just south of Piacenza, which is about sixty miles north-east of Genoa. We’re going to stay the night in the Hotel San Pietro in Lodi – that’s about halfway between
Piacenza and Milan. Then we’ll head for the Austrian border first thing tomorrow morning.’

‘So you should be back in London by tomorrow evening?’ Simpson asked.

‘With any luck, yes. We should—’

In the middle of his sentence, Richter pulled out the battery again.

‘Oops,’ he said, ‘it seems to have gone flat again. But if somebody in British intelligence
is
tracking my phone, at least they’ll know I was telling the truth
about where we were when we made that call.’

Raya smiled at him. ‘So what are we
actually
going to do?’

Richter took another look at the route map, then started up the Ford and headed for the car-park exit.

‘Well, we wouldn’t be able to make the French border until about midnight from here, at a guess, and it’s much easier for the police or anyone else to inspect vehicles and
their occupants when it’s quiet, like at night. So we’ll be better placed to cross in daylight, when the crossing point is busy, and when we’ll also be able to see if
anyone’s checking the vehicles. And if there is still a problem there, you might be able to cross the border on foot, up in the hills somewhere. Again, that would be a lot easier in
daylight.’

Raya frowned at this suggestion. ‘I’m not sure I like the idea of doing that by myself,’ she said. ‘Suppose there was a police patrol up there or something?’

‘You wouldn’t be alone,’ Richter said. ‘If we had to do that, either I would go along with you, or more likely Colin Dekker. And, I promise you, he’s perfectly
capable of taking on a bunch of
carabinieri
or any of your Russian pals.’

‘I’d still rather not do it. But where are we going now?’

‘We’re going to find somewhere where we can sleep tonight, but nowhere near Lodi, of course. Not a hotel, either, because by now I’m sure the
carabinieri
will have
circulated your description. And if my phone is being tracked, the Italians will probably have listed my name, too, and maybe even my passport details, and requested hotels to report to them if I
take a room.’

Richter drove on in silence for a couple of minutes, then glanced at Raya again.

‘There’s something I should tell you,’ he said, ‘because I think we need to discuss the implications. I was sent to France to act as bait for a traitor we knew was
working somewhere within British intelligence. I was supposed to be a defecting Russian cipher clerk who’d been working at Yasenevo. Anyway, the plan worked, and the man who’d been
selling stuff to your masters was caught. He’s in custody and on his way back to England right now.’

Raya nodded.

‘The man who recruited me – or conned me, to be exact – for this operation is pretty sure he’s now plugged the leak,’ Richter went on. ‘So if he’s
right, and our traitor is sitting handcuffed in the back of a car somewhere, who’s tracking my phone?’

‘There were two of them,’ Raya replied quietly. ‘We had
two
sources in Britain that I knew of.’

‘Oh, bugger,’ Richter muttered. ‘Can you identify them?’

‘Their names were never recorded in any of the files. But I know most of the information they passed to Yasenevo, so your security people might be able to identify them from that. They can
easily cross-reference the information.’

‘How did you find out about it?’

‘It was part of my job. I had access to almost every file held at Yasenevo.’

Richter whistled softly. He didn’t know a hell of a lot about the world of intelligence, but even he could see that Raya Kosov was an asset potentially worth her weight in gold – as
long as she did actually have the data she claimed.

‘But the files are still in Russia,’ he objected.

‘Yes, but I’ve been planning this for a long time, and I made enough preparations.’ And, with that, she lapsed into silence.

Richter drove around the outskirts of Piacenza heading to the west, and stopped at a large garage to fill the car with fuel. As he paid for it, using his credit card because Simpson already knew
where he was, he also drew five hundred euros from an ATM and bought four packets of sandwiches, some soft drinks, biscuits and chocolate bars.

Raya glanced at the bag as he sat down again in the car.

‘Dinner,’ Richter said shortly. ‘We really can’t risk going into a restaurant or cafe, just in case some off-duty
carabinieri
officer is sitting there and spots
us.’

Next he picked up the road that ran south of the autostrada, past Alessandria and Asti towards Turin. He followed this route as far as Asti itself, then turned north-west. And every time he saw
another car or a motorcycle, he watched it closely, checking for any signs of hostile intent, supremely conscious that not only were Russian hit squads looking for them, but also the Italian
authorities – and, by now, probably agents from the American CIA as well.

He finally stopped in the countryside near a small town called Piea, and indicated a sign over to one side of the road. Painted on it were the words ‘San Frediano’ and below that
‘B&B’, which was an almost universal shorthand. The sign indicated a narrow lane that wound up a gentle slope towards a sprawling house set on the side of a hill. It was perhaps
seventy yards off the road itself, with lights blazing from several windows.

‘That’ll do,’ he decided, and swung the car into the lane.

‘What is this place?’ Raya asked anxiously, as the Ford bumped along the track.

Richter explained the concept of bed and breakfast, something Raya had never encountered before.

‘No passports, no credit cards, and probably no records for the taxman,’ he finished. ‘Mainly passing trade, paying cash only. Just what we need. Now, we’ll go in
together, and you wear that floppy hat,’ he instructed, stopping the car just outside the house and turning to her, ‘and keep the sunglasses on. Just pretend you’re a celebrity
– somebody famous.’

‘I suppose I am now a celebrity of sorts,’ Raya replied. ‘Or at least a lot of people are very keen to see me.’

The house was obviously old, but had ample parking space on a gravel drive beside the property itself. It was big enough for about half a dozen cars, and the Ford would be well out of sight of
the road.

Richter knocked at the door, and a man in late middle age opened it a few seconds later.

‘Do you speak English?’ Richter asked.

‘Yes, a little.’

‘You have a room? My wife and I need a room for the night.’

The Italian opened the door wide and gestured for them to step inside the house. He had one double room left, with a view of the countryside in front of the house and back towards the road.
Richter wasn’t bothered about the vista, but a decent vantage point was important.

Telling the proprietor they’d take it, he left Raya inside the room, and walked back out to the car to collect their bags.

‘There’s only one bed,’ Raya pointed out when he returned.

‘We’ll work around it,’ Richter replied.

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means you’ll sleep in it, and I’ll sleep on it, so it won’t be a problem.’

In fact, it didn’t quite work out that way.

Monday

Piemonte, Italy

‘Where are you?’ Richter asked. ‘And what happened last night?’

He was using a public phone by the side of the road on the outskirts of Chieri, about fifteen miles west of Piea and ten miles south-east of Turin. Raya sat in the front passenger seat of the
Ford he’d parked a few yards away watching him as his eyes ceaselessly scanned the surrounding area.

‘At a service area on the autostrada north-east of Chivasso,’ Dekker said. ‘That’s about fifteen or twenty miles from Turin. You were right about the hotel, but we need
to talk face to face, just in case anyone’s listening in. Walls have ears, Echelon, and all that. So where do you want to meet?’

Richter looked at the road map he held in his left hand. ‘There’s a town named Roure about halfway between Turin and the French border. We’ll be at the first cafe on the
right-hand side of the road after you enter the place from the east.’

‘You’ve been there before?’ Dekker asked.

‘No, never. But this is Italy, so there will be a lot of cafes there, and there’s bound to be one on that side of the road. We’ve got about the same distance to go as you have,
so we should arrive at about the same time.’

‘Got it. I’ll see you there.’

Richter climbed back into the Ford, started the engine and pulled away from the kerb.

Raya eyed him from the passenger seat. ‘Now what?’ she asked.

‘Not good news, but I’ll let Colin Dekker explain when we meet him.’

‘You
do
trust this man Dekker?’ Raya sounded uncertain.

‘As much as I trust anyone else in this business, yes. He’s SAS, and nothing to do with British intelligence. He was only sent out here because he’s an expert sniper, and
Simpson, who recruited me, wanted to make sure that the rat we were trying to trap wouldn’t be able to walk away. Don’t forget, he’s also the reason we’re still free. If he
hadn’t stopped that man in the square in Nervi, you’d now be on a flight back to Moscow, and I’d probably be dead. So, yes, I do trust him.’

A little over an hour later, Richter stopped the Ford about fifty yards from a small cafe that lay just off the street, on the right-hand side. The paved area in front of it
was crowded with round plastic tables and matching chairs, and a small thicket of ‘Martini’ umbrellas had already been unfurled to provide some shade from the bright morning
sunshine.

As Richter and Raya approached, a stocky man wearing a light jacket stood up and waved to them. Richter angled across to join him at his table.

‘Raya, meet Colin Dekker, our watchful shadow. Colin, this is Raya Kosov – or “Yuri”, if you prefer.’

Dekker grinned at her. ‘No, I definitely prefer “Raya”,’ he said.

‘Are we safe meeting here?’ Richter asked.

‘Probably. It’s a public place and we’re both carrying personal weapons. More importantly, you used a public call box and I never gave Simpson, or anyone else, the number of my
mobile phone. Though I suppose they could find it out from Hereford, but in that case my boss would call to give me a heads-up. And he hasn’t rung me yet, but keep your eyes open
anyway.’

They all sat down and, after a few seconds, a waiter wandered over to take their order.

As soon as he was out of earshot again, Dekker leaned forward. ‘You were right, Paul,’ he said.

‘What happened?’

‘I got to Lodi just after eight-thirty, and found a spot where I could park the car and watch the Hotel San Pietro. Just before ten, two black Alfa saloons appeared in the street, and
drove past the place twice. Then they parked up, one either side of the building, and two men got out of one of them. They headed down the street running to one side of the hotel, presumably to
cover the rear of the building. A minute or so later, another four men climbed out of the cars. Two of them went inside the hotel, while the other two remained to cover the front.’

‘Presumably they then checked the register and found we weren’t there?’

‘Something simpler and more effective than that, because obviously you might have registered under false names. They needed the building totally cleared, so about thirty seconds later one
of them set off the fire alarm. Everyone, guests and staff alike, piled out onto the pavement outside. Those guys checked every woman under forty, and also every man. They each held a sheet of
paper, which I guess had Raya’s photograph on it. If you’d actually been there, they’d have found you for sure.’

‘Who were they?’ Richter asked, though he already knew the answer.

‘They certainly weren’t your friendly Italian
carabinieri
,’ Dekker said. ‘None of them was wearing a uniform, and they really hustled the people around, obviously
in a big hurry to get things done. A couple of men tried arguing, and they just flattened them with a single blow each time. Very competent. Those guys were obviously really experienced at close
combat, so I’m guessing they weren’t local thugs. More likely some of the professional hoods Moscow Centre flew out to find Raya and drag her back to Yasenevo.’

Raya shivered on hearing his words.

‘Anyway,’ Dekker went on, ‘they got everyone out of that place, checked their identities, realized that you and Yuri weren’t there, and buggered off just ahead of the
local fire brigade and the police. OK, that’s the good news. Now the bad news is that you were right: the only person who knew where you were supposed to be staying in Lodi last night was
that pink bastard Richard Simpson. Either he passed the information on to Moscow himself or he told somebody, and they did. Either way, you have to assume that Simpson’s organization or the
SIS, or maybe both, has been penetrated by the Russians.’

Richter nodded. ‘That ties up with what Raya’s already told me. She says the SIS has been compromised by two people. Stanway was obviously one of them, but it sounds as if the other
one is still in place, and still active. And, you’re right, it could be Richard Simpson, but I personally doubt that. Apart from anything else, he isn’t actually a part of
SIS.’