Manhunt (44 page)

As they approached the autoroute, they all glanced back, towards Albertville. The south-bound traffic was now very light, suggesting that there was still an obstruction of some kind.

‘That was a good call, Colin. I wouldn’t want to be stuck back there, whatever the reason. So we stay on this route, yes?’

It may have been just a minor road, but being a French minor road, it was straight and well surfaced and, twenty minutes later, Richter turned north-west at Montmélian. They were now
approaching Chambéry.

‘We have to go right through the town and out the other side,’ Dekker advised him. ‘There’s a lake up to the north, with the town’s airport situated just to the
south of it.’

French gendarmes have a habit of lying in wait behind hedges and around blind corners, armed with radar guns to trap speeding motorists. Usually, by the time a driver has seen
them, it’s too late, and his speed and registration number would already have been recorded. A demand for money would pop into his letter box a few days later.

It was a little over an hour after they’d left Aime, and just south of a village named Challes-les-Eaux, south-east of Chambéry, when Richter powered the Renault down a straight
stretch of the D1006, and headed straight past two gendarmes leaning across the bonnet of a dark blue car. One of them was holding a radar gun.

‘Shit,’ he muttered, watching in his rear-view mirror. He wasn’t worried about a speeding fine, obviously, but he was certain the stolen car’s registration number would
be widely circulated by now. Even as he watched, he saw the two men gesticulating wildly, before they hurried around and climbed into their car. Only seconds later, it was turning onto the road
behind them.

Sluzhba Vneshney Razvyedki Rossi Headquarters, Yasenevo, Tëplyystan, Moscow

‘Are you absolutely certain of your facts?’ General Morozov asked. He was the senior SVR security officer, and Zharkov’s direct superior.

Yuri Abramov nodded. ‘The number that the call diverter in the Lubyanka was set to contact is definitely the one listed in the directory for Colonel Zharkov’s apartment in Moscow.
Those are the facts, sir, and I submit that they’re beyond dispute. Of course,’ Abramov added, ‘it’s possible that the directory was wrong, and that—’

‘No,’ the general interrupted. ‘I’ve already checked Zharkov’s personnel file, and that directory listing is accurate. It’s just that the colonel has always
been considered one of my most trusted officers, and a man who I’ve always felt I could rely on absolutely. And now this.’

For a few seconds the general just sat in his chair, with arms resting on the wide desk in front of him, lost in thought and seeming almost to have forgotten that Abramov was still present.

Finally he roused himself. ‘Right,’ he said briskly, ‘so now we have to start investigating him, as well as repairing the damage caused by this disastrous defection of the
Kosov woman.’

A thought suddenly occurred to Abramov. Knowing Raya’s undoubted ability with computer systems, he wondered if perhaps she could have rigged the call diverter to falsely implicate Colonel
Zharkov. But, for her to do that, there must have been some contact between the two of them in the past, something that caused such serious friction that she’d dare attempt something like
that. But, as far as he knew, Raya had never even met Zharkov, because they worked in entirely separate sections of the SVR. But Abramov realized he was obliged to at least voice his
suspicions.

‘Sir, just a small point. Do you think there’s any possibility of the two incidents being related? Considering that our suspicions over the colonel have been raised simply by what
Kosov said in her email.’

The general looked interested now. ‘You’re suggesting Kosov might be trying to get revenge on Zharkov for some reason?’

Abramov nodded.

‘I frankly doubt it,’ Morozov said. ‘I’ve already reviewed Zharkov’s file, and there’s no mention there of him even knowing she existed. But it might be worth
checking her file as well, so I’ll get one of my officers to do that.’

‘And me, sir?’

‘You can assist with the investigation into Colonel Zharkov’s actions, since my team can probably make use of your specialist knowledge of the SVR computer systems.’

That sounded reasonable, but Abramov could read between the lines. Morozov had no intention of allowing him to check Raya Kosov’s personnel file, in case he added or deleted something that
might be germane to her defection. And having Abramov on the team investigating Zharkov was simply a way of ensuring that the general and his staff could keep an eye on him.

But at least he wasn’t locked up in a room by himself any longer.

Monday

Near Chambéry, France

‘How far now, Colin?’ Richter asked urgently, getting as much speed as he could out of the Renault.

Dekker had been looking behind, but quickly glanced back at the map. ‘About ten miles, that’s all,’ he replied.

‘That car won’t catch us,’ Richter said, ‘but by now he’ll be radioing for back-up. Let’s hope there aren’t too many police cars between here and the
airport.’

The road was virtually straight, but they were meeting more traffic now because of the built-up areas fast approaching, and Richter was forced to drop his speed.

‘There’s an airport,’ Raya said urgently, pointing to the right as they drove out of Challes-les-Eaux.

‘Yeah,’ Dekker replied, ‘but it’s the wrong one.’

‘That’s just a little civilian field,’ Richter added. ‘It’s probably used for gliders and light aircraft, that kind of thing. I doubt the runway’s anything
like long enough to handle a Lear.’

‘Traffic lights ahead,’ Dekker said, ‘and go straight on.’

As they approached, Richter weaving past cars and vans whenever he could, the lights suddenly turned red. In his mirror, he could see the French police car maybe half a mile back, its headlamps
on and roof lights flashing. Travelling quickly, it was now too close.

‘Hang on,’ he said, swerving around a slowing articulated lorry and pulling over into the right-hand lane. A horn sounded loudly behind him as the lorry driver expressed his
displeasure.

Traffic was already driving in both directions across the junction, but Richter just powered ahead, past the red traffic lights. He hit the brakes hard as a white van passed a few feet in front
of the Renault’s nose, then picked a gap in the crossing traffic and accelerated hard. The driver of a small grey Peugeot did an emergency stop as Richter shot across in front of him, but the
driver behind him didn’t react as quickly. There was a rending crash as his vehicle smashed into the back of the Peugeot, but by then Richter was already well past.

‘That might help,’ he muttered, glancing back. ‘Nothing like a traffic accident in the middle of a junction to slow everything down.’

The road swung around to the left and straightened up, then the traffic lanes got narrower as they approached a roundabout.

‘Keep going straight,’ Dekker instructed. ‘There are three roundabouts, one after the other.’

As they drove around the third one, Richter spotted another police car, lights flashing, heading directly towards them, but it carried on straight along the road towards the junction where the
crash had just occurred.

They were now close to the centre of Chambéry, where the traffic was getting much more congested. The bad news was that Richter had to slow right down, but on the other hand their car was
now just one more anonymous Renault in a town filled with French-made vehicles, so spotting them was going to be much more difficult for the local gendarmes.

Dekker directed him onto the Avenue de la Boisse, a north-bound road that ran alongside a railway line and then past a station. ‘Stay on this road,’ he said, ‘and maybe keep
the speed down a bit. We’re pretty close now, only about five miles away.’

They were still driving in a heavily built-up area, so Richter actually had little choice but to keep going with the flow of traffic. At the next intersection, following Dekker’s
instructions, he pulled onto the north-bound autoroute. It was a non-toll section, which meant there were no payment booths where they could be stopped.

Richter wound the speed up as soon as they cleared the junction. A couple of miles later, he hit the brakes and pulled off the urban autoroute, and back onto a normal road which ran to the west
of a village named Voglans.

Dekker pointed ahead of them, towards another roundabout. ‘Turn left there,’ he said. ‘We’ve arrived.’

As Richter swung round the roundabout, he saw another police car heading down the road straight towards them. There was nothing he could do about it, so he accelerated the Renault towards the
airport, hoping that the gendarmes hadn’t spotted them.

As the police vehicle carried straight on down the road towards Chambéry, Richter started to breathe more easily. He glanced to his left and saw what was probably a general aviation
terminal, used by private pilots. Dwarfing the handful of light aircraft parked in front of the hangar was the unmistakable sleek black shape of a Lear 60.

‘That looks like our ride,’ he said, then glanced in his mirror again.

The French police car was performing a U-turn in the road, the lights on its roof bar now flashing.

‘We’ve got more trouble,’ he said.

‘There’s a surprise,’ Dekker replied, turning round in his seat to look back.

‘You’ll have to stop him, or we’ll never get on board that aircraft,’ Richter said, swinging the car off the road and towards the terminal building. ‘Then can you
cover the pair of us as well?’

‘No problem. Just drop me here,’ Dekker instructed, seizing his rifle.

Richter slewed the car to a stop, waited until Dekker had climbed out, then surged forward, with tyres screeching, towards the Lear jet.

There was a pair of steel gates barring their way across to the hardstanding, but they looked more for show than security.

‘Brace yourself,’ he yelled to Raya, and powered the car straight towards the point where the gates met.

The Renault jolted under the impact, but the gates flew apart instantly. Richter pulled the car to a stop, about twenty yards from the Lear, and switched off the engine.

‘Let’s go,’ he said, grabbing Dekker’s rifle case.

‘What about Colin?’ Raya asked, picking up her bag.

‘He’ll be here any second.’

As if in response, they both heard the crack of a rifle somewhere behind them.

The passenger door of the Lear was open, and a dark-haired man wearing a grey suit was standing beside the aircraft, looking towards them. Above him, Richter could see two men sitting ready in
the cockpit.

He hurried across the hardstanding, Raya beside him, and they stopped beside the aircraft.

‘John Westwood?’ he asked, and the man nodded. ‘My name’s Paul Richter, and this is Raya Kosov. If you can tell your guys to kick the tyres and light the fires,
we’d appreciate getting this taxi into the air as soon as possible.’

Westwood nodded. ‘You’re very trusting,’ he said with a slight smile. ‘I could have a couple of guys inside the aircraft ready to shoot you down right now, and then take
Raya straight back to the States with us.’

‘You could certainly try,’ Richter agreed, ‘but you’d never get off the ground. There’s a man behind me, watching you through the sights of a sniper rifle. If you
try and pull a gun, you’ll be dead, then he’ll blow out the tyres on the landing gear, and we’d just take our chances at avoiding the French.’

Westwood glanced behind Richter, but apparently spotted nothing. His smile growing broader, he opened his jacket to show that he was unarmed. As he did so, a tiny red spot of light appeared in
the exact centre of his chest.

‘I told you.’ Richter pointed.

‘It was just a hypothetical scenario,’ Westwood replied. ‘I always keep my word.’

‘Sure you do,’ Richter didn’t look entirely convinced, ‘but I’m going to check anyway.’ He pulled out his Browning, motioned to Raya to stay where she was,
and climbed the steps up into the cabin, which was empty.

‘Now I believe you,’ he said, returning to the door of the aircraft. ‘Right, let’s go.’

As Raya climbed up the steps, Richter waved to where he thought Dekker might be hiding. Moments later, the SAS officer emerged from the bushes and ran across to the aircraft, the sniper rifle
slung over his shoulder.

In seconds, all four of them were safely inside the Lear’s luxurious cabin. Westwood closed the exterior door and stepped across to the cockpit entrance. ‘We’re all aboard,
Frank. Get us out of here.’

‘Yes, sir.’

A man emerged from the cockpit, glanced without apparent surprise at Richter and Dekker, who were both pointing pistols at him, and checked that the exterior door was properly secured. With a
nod to Westwood, he then returned to the cockpit and closed the intervening door.

As the jet engines spooled up, Richter glanced at Dekker. ‘OK?’

‘No problem.’ That expression seemed like a mantra for the SAS man. ‘I just took out the front tyre on the plod-mobile, as it came around the corner.’

The speaker system switched on, and a Midwestern voice filled the cabin. ‘Please make sure your seat belts are fastened. We’ve been instructed to hold here in dispersal, Mr Westwood,
at the request of local law enforcement. But we guessed you probably wouldn’t want to do that, so we’re heading for the runway right now.’

The Lear swung around and started moving quickly, heading south down the taxiway leading towards the end of the runway.

Richter peered out of the window beside him. Chambéry had the usual range of crash and rescue service vehicles and, as he stared at one of the buildings, red-painted steel door shutters
started to roll up, and the fronts of a couple of heavy fire engines emerged.

‘They’re going to try and block the runway,’ he said urgently.

‘Relax, Mr Richter,’ Westwood said. ‘The guys in the cockpit are ex-USAF fighter jockeys. They’ll find a way past them.’

Richter doubted that any pilot, no matter how experienced or talented, could ‘find a way past’ a couple of ten-ton fire engines blocking the runway, but he lapsed into silence
because there was nothing he could do about it. If he’d seen the fire engines, obviously the flight-deck crew would have seen them as well.