Manhunt (40 page)

But he was ignoring everything except getting the aircraft into the sky. The Piper was feeling lighter, that almost indefinable sensation felt through the controls as the aircraft approached
sixty knots – which he guessed was about take-off speed. Moments later, he eased back gently on the yoke. The nose lifted, and the bouncing and juddering ceased, as the Piper lifted smoothly
into the air, about a hundred yards from the far end of the grass strip.

Richter kept the throttle fully open and continued climbing as quickly as he could – which wasn’t that fast. He was used to a Harrier’s 50,000 feet-per-minute rate of climb,
and the Piper felt more like it was going up at only fifty feet a minute.

‘Thank God for that,’ Raya murmured, both hands firmly clutching her seat belt.

‘Can we get to England in this thing?’ Dekker asked.

‘No,’ Richter said shortly, raising the undercarriage as the Piper picked up speed. ‘With full tanks it can cover about eight or nine hundred miles, but we’d never make
anything like that distance. We’ve just shot our way out of Italy, and there’s absolutely no reason why the Italians shouldn’t ask the French to force us down somewhere. If we
tried going all the way, we’d find a couple of Mirages or something on either side of us really soon. And if we didn’t land where and when they told us, they’d probably just shoot
us down.’

‘So what’s the plan?’

‘Simple. We’re out of reach of the Italians now, so we use this aircraft simply to hop over the border into France, pick our own landing spot, and then vanish.’

Richter checked the altimeter. They had climbed to an indicated altitude of just over 3,000 metres, and were probably already five or six miles from the grass strip, but still heading east,
towards Turin. He continued the climb. Attached to the dashboard of the Piper was a plastic plate with radio frequencies, various speeds and other information written on it. In fact, the kind of
stuff that a pilot flying in this area would need to have immediately available. At the bottom of the plate were two heights indicated in metres.

The first number was 2,160, which was probably the elevation of the grass landing strip, so the pilot would know what his altimeter should be telling him when he reached the touch-down point.
The second was just over 5,000 metres, which Richter guessed was the safety altitude for this area, which would guarantee clearance above even the highest peaks in all weather conditions. That was
the altitude he was going to aim for, as long as the Piper could reach it – and it was probably pretty close to the plane’s maximum ceiling.

But, first, it was time he altered course.

Palazzo Margherita, Via Vittorio Veneto, Rome, Italy

Clayton Richards looked up as somebody knocked at the door of his office, before stepping inside. It was a junior officer clutching a sheaf of photographs.

‘From Langley, sir,’ he said. ‘The latest downloads from the last Ikon satellite pass.’

‘Thanks,’ Richards growled, then cleared a space on his desk and spread out the pictures so that he and Westwood could look at them together.

The definition was high and the images were amazingly clear, but there was nothing the designers of the satellite cameras could do about the laws of physics, so there was a limit to what could
be seen from even a state-of-the-art, high-speed platform travelling some two hundred miles above the ground.

Helpfully, one of the analysts at the NRO had annotated the photographs before sending them to CIA Headquarters, so the Franco-Italian border was clearly marked, as was Turin and several of the
larger towns in the area. In response to Westwood’s specific request, they’d also indicated two apparently abandoned
carabinieri
cars on the road outside the town of Cesana
Torinese. That was interesting, and served to confirm the report Richards had already received about an ‘incident’ near the border.

But what was even more interesting was another pair of Italian police cars to be seen just east of Pinasca. One was stationary on the road, but the other was clearly in motion, driving down a
narrow track towards a building located in a field. And beyond that building was the unmistakable white shape of a small civilian aircraft.

‘That’s them,’ Westwood muttered. ‘Five gets you ten, whoever the Brits sent out to pick up Raya Kosov is a pilot, and he’s going to fly her out of
Italy.’

‘That’s a hell of a leap of logic, sir,’ Richards said.

‘No, it makes sense,’ Westwood insisted. ‘The first incident occurred on the same road, near Cesana Torinese, so they had to be driving east. They spotted the hangar, took a
chance there’d be an aircraft in it, and they’ve stolen it. Gotta admire that kind of thinking.’

‘But they can’t make it to England in that little thing, can they?’

‘No. That’s why I’ve got the Lear here. Get me a car and driver to take me to Fiumicino right now. Then contact the U2 through Aviano Operations, and tell the pilot to get
airborne asap, and concentrate on the area around Pinasca. I need to know where that civil aircraft is heading. Tell him I’ll call Aviano from the Lear, once we’re in the air, so they
can patch me straight through to the pilot.’

Above Piemonte, Italy

There were various maps and charts to be found in the aircraft cabin, but Richter didn’t think he’d need to use most of them. As long as they headed more or
less west, and he managed to avoid flying into the top of a mountain, they’d eventually end up where they wanted to go. And Richter figured it was more important, at that moment, for him to
keep looking out of the window rather than bury his head in an aviation chart. They’d been only about thirty miles from the Italian border when they took off, so within the hour, and with a
modicum of luck, they should be on the ground again, but this time in France.

‘We’ll head north,’ he decided.

‘North?’ Dekker and Raya replied, almost simultaneously.

‘Only so as to try to mislead the Eyeties on the ground,’ Richter explained. ‘They can still see us, remember. If we simply reverse direction and head straight for
Briançon, that’s where they’ll tell the French to start looking for us. And they’ll definitely be talking to the gendarmes any time now. If they think we’re heading
north, trying to get to Switzerland, or even Germany or Austria, that will widen the search area, and right now that’s very important for us.’

‘Yeah, makes sense,’ Dekker said. ‘And I take back what I said before. You
can
fly an aircraft – even one you’ve not flown before.’

‘The Queen seemed to think so too. That’s why she paid me for years.’

Richter looked ahead, mentally planning his route. Directly in front, he could see a couple of small lakes and, beyond them, the urban sprawl of Turin. To his left, ranges of mountains extended
in all directions and, perhaps ten miles away, the black ribbon of the A32 autostrada snaking along the base of the Val di Susa.

‘Right,’ he said, pressing the left rudder pedal and turning the yoke to the left, then starting the Piper in a left-hand bank. ‘We’ll start tracking north.’

He stabilized the aircraft on a northerly heading, then reached down and pulled out the navigation charts. He flipped through them until he found a topographical chart, and opened it up.

‘I’ll hold it for you,’ Dekker suggested, and took hold of one side of it.

‘Thanks.’

With the tip of his finger, Richter traced a route running north, and across the autostrada.

‘We’ll turn west about here,’ he said, ‘between Pointe de Charbonnel and L’Albaron. That’s actually on the French border. Then I want to head west over open
country, not fly over towns where people might see us, or even over major roads, and that route seems to be about the best option.’

‘Not a bad choice.’ Dekker nodded. ‘We’ll have to fly over that minor road there, the D902, but after that there’s nothing much on the ground until we reach some of
these small Alpine villages. And most of them seem to be located at the limits of dead-end roads, so I guess they’re mainly ski resorts. And that means they should be pretty much deserted at
this time of year. Where will you land?’

‘Buggered if I know,’ Richter said. ‘We’ll need to get clear of these mountains first, then I’ll start looking. All I’ll need is a reasonably level piece of
ground, about five hundred yards long, preferably grass, that’s not too far out in the sticks – because, once we abandon this aircraft, we’ll be walking.’

‘We’ll find a car,’ Dekker promised, ‘one way or the other.’

They’d just crossed the autostrada a couple of miles east of Borgone Susa, when Dekker pointed ahead.

‘What?’

‘A glint of something just over there. Something moving,’ Dekker replied.

Then Richter saw it too. A sudden oval shimmer of light, in view for just a bare second or two, then disappearing again. But, unlike Dekker, he knew exactly what it was, and it wasn’t good
news.

‘That’s a helicopter rotor disc,’ he said. ‘I thought the Italians might have a chopper or two patrolling this area, searching for us, and it looks to me like that
one’s following the line of the border fairly closely.’

‘But we’re OK up here, aren’t we?’ Dekker asked. ‘I mean, we’re well above it, and this plane must be faster than a chopper, surely?’

‘We are above it, yes, and most light, fixed-wing aircraft are quicker than most helicopters, yes. If that’s just a surveillance bird, it shouldn’t be a problem. But if
it’s a gunship, and the crew manage to spot us, we’re in trouble.’

‘And the Italians have helicopter gunships, do they?’ Dekker asked.

Richter nodded grimly. ‘They even build one of their own: it’s called a Mangusta, and it’s a bit like an Apache with attitude. It’s got a twenty-millimetre cannon, and it
can carry quite a bouquet of missiles – Stingers, TOWs, Mistrals and Hellfires. This Arrow could just about outdistance the chopper in a straight line, but we’d never be able to outrun
its missiles.’

‘Oh, shit.’

‘That about sums it up.’

For the moment, Richter did nothing. It was just possible that the helicopter was a private aircraft that simply happened to be in the area, in which case it was no threat to them. Even if it
was a military or police aircraft, running surveillance along the border, it wouldn’t be a problem, because the crew would be looking down, trying to identify anyone crossing into France by
not using the roads. What he feared, though, was that news of their theft of the Piper Arrow had already been broadcast, and that the Italian military was now involved.

‘Give me that chart,’ he demanded. Dekker handed it over.

Richter studied it for a few moments, then passed it back. ‘We might be OK,’ he said. ‘The closest military base is near Caselle Torinese, just north of Turin. There’s no
way a gunship could have got from there to here by now, even if it had been crewed up and ready to launch the moment we stole this aircraft. And if the Italians were looking for us on the ground, a
gunship wouldn’t do them any good.’

‘So you reckon that’s maybe just a police chopper, something like that?’

‘Most likely, yes, but just keep your eyes on it.’

Richter had now coaxed the Piper up to an indicated altitude of just over 5,000 metres, which felt pretty near its maximum ceiling because the rate of climb had fallen dramatically, despite the
Lycoming engine still being at almost full throttle. The helicopter looked as if it was about 1,500 metres below them, and was heading south. It still appeared to be following the Franco-Italian
border, which in that area ran more or less north-east to south-west. As the Piper was flying north, Richter reckoned they should get behind the helicopter within a couple of minutes.

Ahead of the aircraft, a group of four peaks loomed up, in an almost square formation. The westerly pair were the ones Richter had decided to fly between – Pointe de Charbonnel and
L’Albaron – and as the helicopter passed down their port side, about four miles away, he started easing the Piper into a gentle left-hand turn onto a northwesterly heading. Looking
down, he saw two small towns almost directly below them. From the chart, they looked like Margone and Usseglio, both on the banks of the Stura di Viù river, which told him exactly where they
now were. His new course would take them across the French border as quickly as possible, and also allow him to keep an eye on the helicopter, just in case its crew spotted them.

‘I think that peak is probably Croix-Rousse,’ Dekker said, looking at the chart and mangling the pronunciation. ‘And if it is, it’s actually on the border itself. So,
once we get beyond that, we should start smelling the garlic.’

Below and behind them, the helicopter continued on its southbound track, apparently oblivious to their presence overhead.

In fairness to Richter, he had his hands full. He was piloting an aircraft he’d never flown before, and was still getting used to its instruments and controls. He was flying over
unfamiliar and potentially hostile territory, without any kind of flight plan or even a clear idea of where he was going. And a lot of his attention was focused on the helicopter below them.

Which was why he didn’t see the
Aeronautica Militare
Aermacchi MB-339 until it roared past their right-hand wing tip.

Monday

Sluzhba Vneshney Razvyedki Rossi Headquarters, Yasenevo, Tëplyystan, Moscow

‘Even for an administrator, you’ve been very stupid,’ Zharkov snapped, sitting down opposite Abramov. ‘What did you think you could achieve by
approaching the general directly?’

‘I hoped he would make you do your job properly,’ Abramov replied, with spirit, hoping his action had wrong-footed this man. ‘I hoped he would order you to carry out a proper
investigation here at Yasenevo, and to check what Raya Kosov claims to have discovered. And have you found her?’

For the first time since he had met Zharkov, the colonel looked unsure of himself, and Abramov guessed that he’d faced a fairly hostile reception from the general in charge of SVR
security. His manner also suggested his men had failed to track down Raya Kosov, which the colonel’s next words confirmed.