Saturday
Pas-de-Calais, France
A little after one in the morning, in French time, Gerald Stanway drove his hired Ford Mondeo off the Eurotunnel train at the terminal just outside Calais. Within a few minutes he was heading for Paris on the A26 autoroute, driving at a few kilometres per hour above the legal speed limit.
In the boot of the car was a small suitcase containing enough clothes for the weekend, his washing kit and a couple of books. Nobody on either side of the Channel had bothered looking inside the case, or even in the boot. But it wouldn’t have mattered if they had, for Stanway’s Browning Hi-Power 9-millimetre semi-automatic pistol – which Lomas provided almost five years ago, only after repeated requests – wasn’t in the suitcase. Instead, it was wrapped in an old towel, together with two spare and fully loaded magazines, and hidden under the rear-seat squab.
Stanway knew all about documentation and the kinds of tracing action that the British intelligence establishment could and would employ, and had decided that the simplest option was just to be as open as possible about what he was doing, and where he was going.
So when he got home the previous evening, he’d used his landline phone to call the closest branch of Hertz, quoted his Gold membership number, and told the booking clerk exactly what he wanted. Ninety minutes later, the Mondeo had been delivered to his home address with a full tank of fuel, and valid Green Card insurance cover for continental travel. Stanway had chosen the unlimited mileage option, explaining that he was going off to enjoy a weekend in France, visiting some of the Loire chateaux and also stocking up on wine.
And to substantiate his cover story he would stop somewhere near the Loire later that morning, and use his credit card to buy a dozen or so cases. Once he was actually on the continent, he would simply drop off the British radar screen, because France operated barely a fraction of the surveillance cameras that infest the British Isles, and those they do possess are mainly found on the autoroutes or in major cities. Once he was near Orléans, he’d leave the autoroute and stay off it for the rest of his journey. Then, unless he was unlucky or unobservant enough to be caught speeding, his masters at Vauxhall Cross wouldn’t have the slightest idea where he had actually been.
There was virtually no traffic on the autoroute, and probably wouldn’t be, at least until he got closer to Paris. Stanway had estimated that he should reach Toulouse after about ten to twelve hours’ driving – say about fourteen hours maximum including stops – which would see him in the vicinity of Toulouse by mid afternoon, even after stopping to buy the wine. Then, of course, he had something else to do before he could continue south to Ax-les-Thermes, but he hoped that wouldn’t take too long.
He didn’t know when the two SIS officers were scheduled to interview the Russian clerk, but they would have to be briefed in Paris before leaving for Toulouse, and so he guessed they wouldn’t reach Ax-les-Thermes until Saturday afternoon, at the earliest, which should give him at least an hour or so to find where the clerk was staying. But even if he didn’t manage it in that time, Stanway wasn’t overly concerned. In fact, it was quite possible that the quickest way to find the Russian was to wait for the two Six officers to pitch up, since they might well be easier to identify, and then follow them. The only downside to that option was that if the clerk handed over the incriminating documents to the SIS men, he might have to take them out as well.
But Stanway wasn’t too bothered by the possibility of collateral damage. He was determined not to leave France until he’d resolved the situation, to his personal satisfaction, and if that meant killing three men rather than one, well, so be it.
Moscow
Raya Kosov woke early – in fact, she’d barely slept, or that’s what it felt like – and walked out of her tiny flat well before eight, clutching a bulky, black, leather-look overnight case and her handbag. She’d packed the case the previous evening, selecting a few of her favourite clothes as well as the usual toiletries and underwear, and including her precious CD player and a few music discs. She’d debated about taking her laptop computer, but had decided it simply wasn’t worth the risk. The customs or police or perhaps even FSB officers at the airport would be certain to want to inspect it, and not even her SVR credentials would be enough to deter them. And, anyway, she didn’t need it, because she already had another storage medium containing everything she wanted to take with her.
So, with regret, she’d left the laptop behind in her flat, after first carefully wiping the contents of one particular directory on the hard drive. She couldn’t rely on a simple deletion, though, and used a commercial utility program to perform multiple overwrites of the data, using random characters to ensure that nothing could ever be recovered, even by using a low-level disk sector editor. Then she’d finally switched off the computer and closed the lid, leaving it on the tiny desk in one corner of her living room.
The first part of her long journey that day was also the shortest. Raya simply walked out of the front door of her building and headed towards a bus stop, just as she did every day of her working week. The only difference was that this time she crossed the street to the stop on the other side of the road. For today, her destination lay to the north, at Sheremetievo Airport, rather than southeast of Moscow, at Yasenevo.
Ax-les-Thermes, France
Richter had spent a somewhat disturbed night, despite being tired after his journey. His fundamental problem was not knowing what the hell was going on, and he was acutely conscious that, for the first time since he’d stepped off the aircraft in Vienna, his location was fixed, and therefore known to Simpson and to anyone else he chose to tell. Before he climbed into bed, he’d jammed the back of a chair under the door handle, wondering if he was just being ridiculously paranoid.
The hotel had creaked and groaned as its timbers settled in the cool of the night, with sounds like the occasional pistol shot echoing around the old building. Richter seemed to have woken up almost every time it happened, his eyes wide open and staring into the darkness.
Breakfast, typically French, consisted of a couple of croissants, bread, butter and preserves, with either coffee or hot chocolate. After he’d finished, Richter went back up to his room, picked up the keys of his hired Ford, then headed to the car park. He started up the car, drove through the gateway, and pulled out on to the main road, heading south.
He continued through the town, carefully noting its layout, and followed the road that led eventually upwards to the Principality of Andorra. A mile or so beyond Ax, he turned back and retraced his route, driving up each side street in turn, but this time left the car on a street about a hundred yards from the hotel. The car park at the Hostellerie was certainly convenient but, having a single restricted entrance, Richter had realized immediately that it was also a potential trap. Parked out on the street, at least he couldn’t easily be boxed in.
He walked back to the hotel, went up to his room, checked that the unsealed packet of alleged ‘Secret’ papers was still locked inside his briefcase, then picked up the novel he was ploughing his way through. He left the hotel, waited for a gap in the traffic, crossed the road and walked some seventy yards down the street to the Auberge du Lac. This establishment was somewhat curiously named, as there seemed to be no substantial body of water anywhere nearby. He chose an outside table that offered a clear view of the Hostellerie de la Poste, and sat down. When the waiter appeared, he ordered a café alongé and a bottle of still water, laid his mobile phone on the table, and opened the novel. He adjusted the chair slightly to give himself an uninterrupted view along the road and settled down for what he expected would be a long and very boring wait.
Toulouse, France
Gerald Stanway reached Toulouse late that afternoon, feeling surprisingly alert despite having driven through the night. He had stopped for fuel and drinks at regular intervals, twice for snack meals, and once for almost an hour, fairly early that morning, at a vineyard outside Blois, where he had bought his stock of wine.
Toulouse is bordered by two ring roads – known as the interior and exterior périphériques – but Stanway ignored both and instead headed towards the centre of the city, looking for two things. He found the first, a small car-hire firm, within about fifteen minutes, but drove on past. Less than a hundred yards down the road, a blue ‘P’ sign beckoned, and moments later Stanway parked the Ford Mondeo on the third floor of the multi-storey car park. He locked the car and tucked the ticket into his wallet.
Then he removed his overnight bag and a small toolkit from the boot, and took the lift up to the fifth floor, where he investigated the rows of parked cars. Within a couple of minutes, he’d found what he was looking for: an elderly Renault with a thick layer of dust on it. He checked that nobody else was on that floor, and no security cameras either, then bent down behind the chosen vehicle.
Just as he’d expected, the number plates were attached with rivets. From his toolkit he took a small battery drill, a brand-new countersink bit already inserted in the chuck, then pressed the bit against the first rivet and squeezed the trigger. The noise was fairly loud, but it lasted only two or three seconds before the bit cut the rivet away. The second rivet took no longer, and less than two minutes later Stanway was heading back to the lift with both number plates and the toolkit hidden away inside his bag.
The car-hire firm was small, and the cars far from new, which suited him fine. Stanway had no trouble in explaining what he wanted. He needed a car, he said, for only twenty-four hours, and he would be paying the hire charge in cash, although he was happy to leave his credit-card details with the company as security. About half an hour after he’d entered the place, Stanway was driving away in a small five-year-old Peugeot hatchback.
That, he reckoned, should have sanitized his operation well enough. The only obvious link between him and what was about to happen at Ax-les-Thermes was his British-registered hire car, and that was now safely hidden in an anonymous car park in the middle of Toulouse. Even with all the resources available to it, Stanway doubted if MI5 or SIS would have any way of linking him to the French-plated Peugeot, especially once he’d changed the number plates, which he’d do as soon as he got clear of Toulouse and could find a quiet parking area.
Sheremetievo Airport, Moscow
It had gone better, and been easier, than Raya had expected. Her forged travel voucher had been accepted without question by the Aeroflot booking staff, once she’d shown her SVR identity card, and although the customs officers looked inside her case, as anticipated, they didn’t fully search it and barely even glanced at her CD player.
One of the Border Guards Directorate officers was rather more thorough, however.
‘Why are you flying to Rome?’ he asked, as she reached the head of the queue.
‘I have been ordered to report to our embassy there.’
‘For what reason?’
‘That is classified information. You’ve seen my identification and my travel voucher. If you’re not satisfied, you are perfectly at liberty to contact my superiors at Yasenevo.’
That was one reason Raya had wanted to travel at a weekend, for the chances of there being anyone at SVR headquarters who could authenticate her travel orders were slim in the extreme, but the duty staff would certainly be able to confirm her identity from their personnel lists. She’d toyed with the idea of flying somewhere a little closer, like the Czech Republic or Poland, but those states were still subject to influence from Moscow. Although getting to Prague or Warsaw might be easier for her, getting out of those countries would likely prove a lot more difficult, so she’d taken the gamble of choosing Italy as her destination.
The officer looked less than convinced, and Raya wondered if he might even try to contact Yasenevo. That shouldn’t create a problem, but she would rather he didn’t. The fact that an SVR officer was travelling outside the CIS would certainly raise a flag, official travel voucher or not. She decided to up the ante.
‘What’s your rank and name?’ she demanded, taking out a small notebook and pen.
‘Why?’
‘So that if I’m delayed here, I can include your name along with the reason I was late reaching Rome, in the report I will have to make to my superiors.’
Stalemate. They stared at each other across the scarred wooden desk, Raya looking cool and confident, her pen poised expectantly, the Border Guards officer openly hostile.
But it was he who dropped his eyes first, and he handed back her voucher and identity card. ‘Proceed,’ he snapped, and turned his attention to the next passenger waiting in line.
In the departure lounge she settled down in a corner with her book, though she doubted she’d be able to read a single word. The flight didn’t leave for another two hours and, despite her outwardly relaxed posture, she was going to be watching every single second for any sign of problems. This was her end-game and, if she was detained in Russia her gamble would fail – and then she had no illusions about the likely outcome. Once her flight landed in Italy, and she was safely outside the airport, then she could start to relax – but not before.
Ax-les-Thermes, France
Colin Dekker pulled the Renault Laguna into a small car park on the right-hand side of the road, just short of the centre of Ax-les-Thermes. They’d decided to walk around the town to get their bearings as soon as they arrived, and then they’d check into their pre-booked hotel to start the waiting game.
‘Not very big, is it?’ Dekker remarked as they reached the pedestrian area fronting the casino.
‘No,’ Adamson replied, ‘but it’s still big enough to miss somebody here. I hope Simpson’s right about this place. Come on, let’s get to the hotel.’
Toulouse, France
At Blagnac, Richard Hughes and David Wallis stepped off the Paris flight and separated almost as soon as they reached the arrivals hall. Hughes walked straight over to the Hertz desk and joined the end of a substantial and apparently unmoving queue, while Wallis found a seat in arrivals from which he could watch the illuminated flight-information boards. The flight from London that they’d been told to meet looked as if it was going to land a few minutes early, so hopefully they’d be on their way inside an hour.
Forty-five minutes later, Hughes was handed the keys and hire documents for a Renault Megane, and walked back to rejoin Wallis.
‘Is he here yet?’ he asked, as he sat down.
Wallis pointed at the arrivals board. ‘It landed nearly twenty minutes ago, so he ought to be walking through customs any time now. Any problems with the car?’
‘Only the queue to get to the desk.’
At that moment, a short, slim man with a balding head and pinkish complexion, and wearing an immaculate light-grey suit, emerged from the customs hall carrying a weekend case and a leather handbag of an aggressively male design. He glanced round a couple of times, then walked directly towards them.
‘You Wallis and Hughes?’ he demanded, and both men nodded. ‘Right, I’m Simpson. Let’s get this show on the road. Where’s the car?’
‘Outside, sir,’ Hughes said, stating the obvious, then led the way towards the nearest set of doors.
Within fifteen minutes, the Megane was heading away from Blagnac towards the Toulouse périphérique junction. Hughes was driving, Wallis in the front passenger seat studying the local area map Hertz had provided, and Simpson was reclining in the back, with his weekend case on the seat beside him.
Once they’d cleared the city and were heading for Foix along the N20, Simpson leant forward to address Hughes.
‘Pull up in the next lay-by,’ he ordered, his tone making it quite clear this wasn’t a request.
‘What briefing were you given in Paris?’ Simpson asked, after Hughes had switched off the engine.
‘We’re to drive down to Ax-les-Thermes, interview this defecting Russian cipher clerk and, if we’re satisfied with his dowry and what he can offer us, whistle up the RAF and then take him to London for interrogation. We were told that you’d be accompanying us, and would have all the contact details.’
‘That’s good. Right, the Russian’s name is Anatoli Markov, and he’s staying at the Hostellerie de la Poste at the northern end of the town. Our information is that he’s carrying a packet of documents extracted from the SVR archives. He probably won’t want to hand these over to you at the first meeting, but that doesn’t matter. I’m just as interested in what he can tell you about his job in Moscow. Concentrate on finding out exactly where he worked, who he worked with, the names of his superiors, his security clearance – that kind of thing. That’s all useful background that should help establish his bona fides.’
He drummed his fingers on the seat back. ‘But don’t push him too hard. Remember that he ran out of the embassy in Vienna when the Six people didn’t react quickly enough for him, and he’s been running ever since. That means treat him gently. If he doesn’t want to tell you something, just leave it. I’m more interested in what you feel about him, whether you think he’s the real deal or not. You’ve done this before?’
‘Once.’ Hughes nodded. ‘About five years ago with a Romanian who pitched up in Munich. We threw him back.’
‘We might do the same with Markov. It all depends on what he’s offering. The most important thing about this man is that he claims to know the identity of a high-level mole in the British intelligence apparatus, who’s been supplying information to the SVR, and that’s what I’m really interested in. So, I say again, treat him gently, and above all don’t frighten him off.’ Simpson passed a small piece of card to Wallis. ‘That’s my mobile number. Call me as soon as you’ve talked to the Russian.’
‘You’re not going to sit in on the interview?’ Hughes sounded surprised.
‘No,’ Simpson replied shortly. ‘I’ve got other things to do.’
Sluzhba Vneshney Razvyedki Rossi Headquarters, Yasenevo, Tëplyystan, Moscow
The Border Guards Directorate officer had taken his time in making a decision, but had eventually realized that he had nothing to lose by running a routine check on the attractive young SVR officer. He’d noted her name and department and, when he was able to do so, he left the departure gate and headed to his office. He checked the number of the SVR switchboard, and was eventually connected to the duty officer.
‘Who are you?’ the man demanded.
‘Border Guards Directorate, at Sheremetievo. This is a routine enquiry about one of your officers. Can you confirm that a Captain Raya Kosov is employed there at Yasenevo?’
‘Wait.’
The officer at Sheremetievo could hear the clicking of a keyboard in the background, while he waited for a response.
‘Yes, she is. Why do you want to know?’
‘She’s just been checked onto a flight to Rome. I just wanted to confirm that she’s been authorized to leave Moscow.’
There was another short pause as the SVR officer accessed another list. ‘Yes, she’s booked for a week’s compassionate leave, and has been issued with a travel warrant. Anything else?’
‘No, thank you.’
At Yasenevo, the duty officer put down the phone with an irritated expression on his face. The SVR and the Border Guards Directorate had never exactly seen eye to eye, a hangover from the old days when both organizations had been part of the KGB, where they frequently tried to score points off each other.
He looked down at the notes he’d made during their brief conversation, then one word seemed to leap off the page at him. Rome? That didn’t sound right, somehow, for compassionate leave, unless this officer had close relatives living outside the Confederation of Independent States. That wasn’t unheard of, but it certainly wasn’t very common.
Perhaps, he thought, he should check that he’d heard the man at Sheremetievo correctly. Then he realized he hadn’t made a note of his name or even his rank. And he wasn’t prepared to now ring the Directorate office at the airport, and end up looking like an idiot while he tried to identify the officer who’d called him.
Instead, he turned back to his computer and accessed the personnel records. The information available to him was strictly limited, so about all he was able to confirm was Raya Kosov’s name, rank, date of birth, her Moscow address, and her department and superior officer. There was no information about family members except for her mother in Minsk. So it was at least possible that she had some other relative living in Italy?
The duty officer leant back in his chair. He was very junior and comparatively inexperienced, but something about this business didn’t seem right. Would another junior officer – she was only a captain, after all – be allowed a week’s compassionate leave for anyone not a member of her immediate family?
For several minutes he sat in thought, considering his options. Then he looked up a number in his database, and reached for the telephone.
Ax-les-Thermes, France
Stanway slowed down as he entered Ax, thereby irritating two French drivers who were tailgating him. Both of them swept out and roared past the Peugeot, hooting derisively as they overtook. Stanway ignored them, concentrating on checking the layout of the town. He passed the Hostellerie de la Poste and the Auberge du Lac, but only glanced at them, for the moment identifying them as nothing more than possible locations for his quarry. He carried on down the main street, realizing that Ax-les-Thermes consisted primarily of buildings erected along both sides of the N20, and noted relatively few hotels.
The route he took almost mirrored the one Richter had followed earlier that morning. Stanway drove a short distance beyond Ax, towards Mérens-les-Vals, l’Hospitalet and Andorra, then returned and headed back through the town. As far as he could see, there were only about half a dozen hotels, so if Holbeche’s information was accurate, the clerk would be in hiding somewhere at the northern end of the town. That meant the most likely location for him was either the Hostellerie de la Poste or the Auberge du Lac.
While he decided what to do next, he pulled the Peugeot into a parking space opposite the casino, which was the second of the town’s main attractions, after the thermal springs that gave its name, and attracted visitors seeking relief from rheumatism and similar disorders.
He stuck money in the machine and placed the ticket on the dashboard – not wanting to attract attention by disobeying the parking restrictions – then made for a cafe beside the casino and ordered himself a grande café crème. He’d had a couple of tours in France and Stanway’s French was fluent and colloquial enough for him to easily pass as a native.
Maybe the obvious way to proceed was to check in to one of the two most likely hotels, and just use his eyes and ears to try to identify his quarry. The downside of that plan was that when one of the hotel guests turned up dead – the most likely outcome of this weekend – the French police would be bound to check all the local hotels, and then possibly detain all their guests for questioning. And that would be disastrous for Stanway, so he’d have to just wait and watch, identify his target, do the job and get out.
He finished his coffee, left three euros on the table, and headed back to his car. Four minutes later, he slotted the Peugeot into a vacant space in the unsurfaced car park beside the Auberge du Lac, and strolled towards it and into the bar.
Richard Simpson leant forward between the seats, as the Renault Megane entered the northern outskirts of the town.
‘Over there.’ He was pointing towards a hotel on the left-hand side of the road. ‘That’s the Hostellerie de la Poste, where Markov is staying. My information says he’ll remain in the hotel all this afternoon. He’ll be expecting you to approach him, and he should be easy enough to identify.’
‘Do you want us to book in there, as well?’ Wallis asked.
But that was the last thing Simpson wanted. To allow Gecko a clear run, he needed the minimum number of friendlies hovering around Richter.
‘No,’ he said, ‘you can book yourselves in to one of the more central hotels. Keep going now, and drop me off first.’
Without slackening speed, Hughes drove on, heading for the middle of Ax, where Simpson had a room reserved in one of the bigger spa hotels.
As soon as he’d taken his bags up to his room, Simpson left the hotel and made his way across the road to the open area in front of the casino, where he sat down on one of the benches. As he pulled out his mobile, it started ringing.
‘We’re in position,’ David Adamson said.
‘Where?’ Simpson demanded.
‘At the northern end of the town, covering the main road.’
‘OK, stay there for the moment, but I think you’ll probably be wasting your time. Gecko might well be here already and, if he isn’t, he could come in from a different direction, from the Andorra road, say. And he might well have swapped cars, so that he’s now using a Frog-mobile, not something on British number plates. Any sign of Richter – or a car on Austrian plates?’
‘I thought he was supposed to be here already?’
‘He is here. I just wondered if you’d seen him driving about, or anything. Or if you’d recognized him from the stuff I gave you.’
‘We’ve not seen him,’ Adamson reported, ‘but there’s an Austrian registered Ford Focus parked on a street not far from the hotel. Reckon that could be his?’
‘Probably,’ Simpson agreed. ‘Now, as soon as I know what time the two guys from Paris are going meet Richter at the hotel, I’ll call you in. You do know which hotel, don’t you?’
‘Yes, we scoped it out earlier. We can be there in around three minutes from the go signal.’
Simpson snorted. ‘Do at least try to be literate when you’re talking to me, Adamson. You’re starting to sound like an American cop in a bad B-movie.’
He ended the call, then dialled another number.
When his Nokia rang, Richter was sitting at a table by himself at one end of the terrace of the Auberge du Lac, the novel open in front of him, though he’d so far read barely a couple of chapters. There were several men inside the bar behind him, and a handful of people had appeared on the terrace since he’d taken his seat. There were three couples, one of them with two young children, and at the far end sat a single middle-aged man drinking coffee and reading a French newspaper. Richter had pegged him as a commercial traveller or businessman. All of them were well out of earshot.
‘Simpson. Where are you now?’
‘Ax-les-Thermes.’
‘Don’t try and get funny with me, Richter. Where are you exactly? At the hotel?’
‘No. I’m watching the hotel from along the road, just in case I don’t like the look of the people you’re sending to meet me.’
‘This is a training exercise, for God’s sake. We’re all on the same side here.’ Even as he said the words, Simpson smiled slightly. ‘Now, keep your eyes open, because they’ll probably be arriving any time now. They’re driving a silver Renault Megane with a local number – a thirty-one plate.’
‘They’re here already and arrived a couple of minutes ago. The Renault’s in the car park at the back of the hotel, and I can see it from here. So what now?’
‘Listen carefully. I’m not giving you a detailed briefing,’ he began, ‘simply because although you and I know that this is a training exercise the two men you’ll be meeting think it’s a genuine operation, and it’ll be interesting to see if you can fool them. So these are the ground rules. First, everything you say to these two men must be in Russian or in really poor English.’
‘And I presume one of these men will be wired for sound?’ Richter asked.
‘You presume correctly. Now, your name is Anatoli Markov, and you’re a defecting clerk on the run from your masters in the SVR, and currently seeking asylum in the West. Your dowry, so to speak, is the packet of papers you’re carrying. Keep that with you at all times, but don’t hand it over. The most you can do is show the men the first page, but don’t let them handle it. Just let them see the Sekretno stamps on it, and tell them you’ve got other papers squirrelled away somewhere. Your ace in the hole is that you know the identity of a traitor somewhere within British intelligence, who’s been copying files from Vauxhall Cross and selling them to the SVR. But, obviously, don’t tell them anything at all about this business, apart from the fact that you know who the person is.’
Richter snorted. ‘You’ve been reading too much John le Carré, Simpson. That scenario’s a total spy-fiction cliché.’
‘It may be, Richter, but that’s the way we’re playing it. Keep the meeting short – no more than about thirty or forty minutes. Talk only in general terms about where you work: you’re employed as a clerk at SVR headquarters at Yasenevo, in the south-east area of Moscow, which is why I needed you to be familiar with the contents of that briefing paper. I hope you’ve read it?’
‘Yes,’ Richter replied. ‘I wouldn’t want to try going on Mastermind with the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service as my specialist subject, but I think I’ve retained enough to bluff my way through a conversation.’
‘Good,’ Simpson said. ‘Invent some people you work with there, and a few superior officers. The people you’ll be talking to won’t know any better. You’ve still got that perforated plastic card, I hope. That’s something we knocked up here in London, but it’s an exact replica of a Yasenevo building pass. About the only way to tell it’s a fake would be to try to use it to actually get inside SVR headquarters. If you have to, show it to the SIS men, but don’t let them handle it or take it off you. It’s a part of your dowry, and you have to hang on to it.’
‘When do you want me to do this?’
‘I’ll call you in a few minutes. I just have to brief the SIS guys, so make sure you can get back to your hotel within about fifteen minutes. I’ll tell them to approach you, so go and sit in the lounge or the bar, somewhere public. When you’ve finished talking to them, arrange to have a second meeting sometime tomorrow, but not later today. As soon as you’ve finished, call me on this mobile number to let me know how it went, but ensure you’re well away from the hotel, so you can’t be overheard. Take a drive out somewhere, or go down into Ax proper and have a drink, something like that.’
‘Do I get to ask you any questions?’
‘You can ask, but there’s a limit to what I can tell you.’
‘Where are these two SIS officers from?’
‘Paris station, and they’ve been given the other half of the briefing.’
‘Very convenient for you that I just happened to be in the area with that packet of papers, isn’t it?’
‘Not really, no. It was always possible that the man we were expecting to pitch up in France wouldn’t make it, so your journey was always planned to include an exercise scenario as well.’
‘And now you don’t think this anonymous man is going to turn up, is that it?’
‘Right now, Richter, we don’t know. All I can tell you is that we’ve passed on your name and location to him, but the last time we heard from him he was still in Vienna. He could be in Ax right now, or on his way here, or still in Vienna. We just don’t know. We’ve been tracking him using the signal from his mobile phone, but he knows what he’s doing, and only switches it on whenever he wants to make a call.’
‘And the last time he did that was in Vienna, right?’
‘Exactly,’ Simpson said. ‘About two days ago.’
‘And if he turns up, what do I do about it?’
‘We’ve told him that you’re a Russian-speaking British military officer, which is approximately true, and that you’re using the name Anatoli Markov.’
‘Why, though? I mean, why am I pretending to be Russian for this guy? I’d have thought he’d be expecting to meet a Brit.’
‘Local colour, that’s all. He asked that we send out somebody who spoke his own language, and we decided that if you used a Russian name you both could appear more casual at the meeting itself. Two Russian tourists running into each other away from home, that kind of thing.’
‘Sounds like bullshit to me,’ Richter muttered.
It sounded like bullshit to Simpson, as well, but he didn’t say so.