Manhunt

The shortest route to Genoa would have taken Richter due east from Ax-les-Thermes over to the Mediterranean coast, but he’d never even considered that route. It would have meant keeping on minor roads, with numerous climbs and descents, and Richter needed speed now if he was going to make the rendezvous. So he had headed north out of Ax, and through Foix, taking the tunnel there to avoid the town centre, and then picked up the new autoroute spur near Pamiers. That took him north-east to the Autoroute du Sud, the main route east from Toulouse to the Mediterranean coast near Narbonne.

He passed the impressively massive walls of the fortress of Carcassonne, and vowed that one day he’d come back there and take a look around – when he wasn’t carrying a pistol in a shoulder holster on his way to meet a Russian defector, and possibly about to tangle with numerous SVR-sanctioned assassins.

At Narbonne he turned left, and settled down to covering the remaining distance as quickly as he could. He kept the Ford at between one hundred and forty and one hundred and fifty kilometres per hour – round about ninety miles an hour – which was above the posted speed limit, but not enormously so. The French helpfully placed large warning signs before every static radar trap, so he was able to ease off the accelerator as he went past, but he still kept his eyes open for the mobile units. They had a tendency to hide their vehicles off to the side of the autoroute and place only a tiny tripod-mounted radar gun on the hard shoulder. Those devices took some spotting.

Richter wasn’t worried about getting stopped by the gendarmes, because his diplomatic passport would ensure his being able to drive on within minutes, but he didn’t need even that amount of delay. And he particularly didn’t want some French police officer spotting the pistol he was carrying. Diplomatic passport or not, it would require some explaining, so he kept his eyes open.

Somewhere near Montpellier, he pulled into a service area, filled up the Ford’s tank, then ate a pre-packed chicken sandwich and swallowed a cup of instant coffee bought from a machine near the toilets. That was to be his lunch, consumed in under ten minutes. Then he got back on the road again.

He passed Nîmes, Arles and Aix-en-Provence, and bypassed Marseilles, the autoroute continuing east through spectacular hills and valleys lying north of Toulon, before dropping back down almost to sea level near Fréjus. By mid-afternoon, Richter was following the autoroute that ran to the north of the playgrounds of Cannes and Antibes, and then on through Nice and Monaco.

Just after three-thirty he entered Italy east of Menton, barely slowing down even as he crossed the border. He was now into the province of Liguria, which gave its name to the sea lying immediately to the south. A quick glance at the map showed him how the autoroute – now an autostrada – hugged the coast all the way to Genoa, still about one hundred miles ahead. It was time to make contact with Yuri, and also with Colin Dekker, who should be somewhere behind him.

Richter pulled into the next service area, topped up the Ford’s tank yet again, and took the opportunity for another coffee. Then he prepared a text for Yuri, telling the renegade Russian that he was currently near San Remo, and only about an hour from Genoa itself. He had no idea when Yuri would read this message, but it would remain in cyberspace until the Russian next decided to turn on his phone. Richter explained that he would stop somewhere near the outskirts of Genoa and wait there for a text containing details of the meeting place and time.

Next he called Dekker’s mobile, which rang about half a dozen times before it was answered, so Richter guessed the SAS officer must be on the road somewhere.

‘I’ve just crossed the Italian border, so I guess I’m about thirty miles ahead of you. I’ve stopped in a service area and just sent a text to our mutual friend.’

‘You want to hang on there until I reach you, then we can sort everything out?’

Richter glanced at his watch. ‘Yeah, why not? I’ll be in the cafe, checking if Italian coffee is any better than the muck they serve in France.’

Just under half an hour later, Colin Dekker entered the service area cafe, bought himself a drink and a sandwich, then walked over to Richter’s table and sat down opposite him.

‘Apart from one fill-up, I’ve not stopped since leaving Toulouse,’ Dekker explained, ripping open the plastic to get at the sandwich inside. ‘So I really need this: an Italian sarnie and a cup of hot brown whatever.’

‘What’s it supposed to be?’ Richter was peering at the cup Dekker had placed on their table.

‘I think I asked for coffee, but my Italian is pretty nonexistent, so for all I know it could be oxtail soup.’

Dekker chewed contentedly for a couple of minutes, then brushed some crumbs off the table and tried a sip.

Richter shook his head. ‘Until we know what Yuri’s got planned, I don’t have any real idea. And, anyway, I wouldn’t like to think I’m in charge of this little shindig. It’s really more your area of expertise than mine.’

Dekker grinned at him. ‘Maybe,’ he replied, ‘maybe not. You’ve done OK so far, I reckon, but whatever may happen in Genoa, we can already make some assumptions. Yuri will want to check you out, just to make sure you’re not one of the spooks on that list he got from Legoland. That means the meet will take place in the open, probably somewhere very public – lots of people, lots of traffic. My guess is that he’ll want to get you sitting on a bench or, better still, at an outside table of a cafe, so that he’ll be able to watch you, first from a distance, or maybe walk past two or three times to inspect you real close.’

Dekker glanced round, checking that no one else was within earshot. ‘Now that’s both a help and a hindrance. An open urban space means I should be able to find somewhere high up, maybe a rooftop or a balcony, where I can cover the whole area around you. The weapon’s fitted with a suppressor, so if I do have to get involved, nobody will know I’m there except you and whoever takes the bullet. Until the blood starts spreading, it’ll look like he’s just fainted or something, so you and Yuri will be able to thin out without anyone being any the wiser.’

He paused, then continued. ‘That’s the good news, then. The bad news is that, if the area’s really crowded, my biggest problem’s going to be identifying the bad guys. You and I can’t be linked by radio, because that would only worry Yuri. You’re supposed to be meeting him solo, so an earpiece and lapel mike would definitely cause problems. In a crowded place my big problem would be trying to decide which of the couple of hundred people wandering about below me is a Russian hit-man.’

‘The picture you’re painting doesn’t exactly fill me with confidence,’ Richter remarked.

‘Facts of life time. That’s the reality of the situation, or it might be, depending on whatever plan Yuri’s busy cooking up. Otherwise, what’s your intention, in general terms? Identify Yuri and then head for the hills with him?’

‘Pretty much, yes.’ Richter nodded. ‘All Simpson’s interested in is getting Yuri off the streets and safely over to the UK. He’s prepared to lay on an RAF jet or just about anything else that I ask for, just to make sure that happens.’

‘He must want Yuri very badly, so really this whole thing should be pretty simple. Yuri isn’t going to show at all unless he’s managed to avoid the Russian wet brigade. On the other hand, nobody can be following you or me, because nobody knows who the hell we are. So once Yuri’s happy that you’re not a spook, and that you’re on your own – I’ll be out of sight, of course – he should just identify himself to you, and then we’re out of there.’

‘Probably.’ Richter took the phone from his jacket pocket and peered at the screen. ‘No, actually, it’s Simpson.’ He scanned the few lines of text. ‘He wants to know where we are, and what’s happening.’

Richter put the phone on the table, but almost immediately its message tone sounded again.

This time, it was indeed Yuri. Richter read the message, then slid the phone across the table to Dekker. The text was fairly short and very much to the point.

Nervi. 1823. Cafe Belvedere. Piazza Centrale. Outside. Red umbrella.1839. Fallback +60. C: Is there a good hotel in this town? R: You could try the Consul. I’m staying there.

‘This guy sounds good,’ Dekker remarked. ‘Professional, too. He’s telling you all the right things, and he’s not making silly mistakes like arranging a meet on the hour or the half hour. You probably know what he means anyway, but let me just talk you through it. The rendezvous will be in a town or village called Nervi, which I guess is somewhere near Genoa. The meet will take place at the Café Belvedere, and you’re to sit down at a table outside at exactly twenty-three minutes past six. If for any reason you don’t make the RV by the first time suggested, the fallback time will be exactly one hour later. The exact timing is so that Yuri will be able to recognize you. Your confirming ident feature will be that you’ll be carrying a red umbrella. There are some in the motorists’ shop over there: I noticed them on the way in. At twenty-one minutes to seven, Yuri will sit down at your table, or maybe at the one next to it. That will obviously depend on how busy the cafe is. He may well say a few words to you: “Is this seat taken?” or something like that, but the challenge phrase will be “Is there a good hotel in this town?” so that’s what you have to listen for. And once he says that, you reply “You could try the Consul. I’m staying there”. That completes the challenge and response. If all that works, you get up, put Yuri in your car, and drive away.

‘Now this bit’s important, so listen carefully. As long as you’re satisfied that Yuri’s the real deal, and that it’s all clear and nobody’s watching you, take the umbrella with you when you stand up. If not, just leave it on the table, and I’ll take out anyone I see following you. I won’t try to follow you myself, because it might spook him if he spots my car, but I’ll be on the end of my mobile if you need help. It’s probably best, though, if you don’t call me or Simpson until Yuri’s sitting in a Hercules or something en route to Northolt – just in case he thinks you’re trying to set up an ambush somewhere. Are you clear on all that?’

‘Pretty much.’ Richter nodded, and glanced at his watch. ‘Now we need to get moving, find out where the hell this place Nervi is. And I’ve got a red umbrella to buy.’

‘I’ll head off.’ Dekker stood up and thrust out his hand. ‘It’ll take me a while to scope out the place, check the angles, and set up my perch. Good luck, Paul.’

Five minutes later, Richter tossed a red compact umbrella onto the passenger seat of his hired Ford, and pulled out the road atlas. He opened it at the page that showed Genoa, and quickly scanned the area around the city. He spotted Nervi almost immediately, a small town or maybe just a village situated on the coast just to the south-east of Genoa itself. He’d have to get through Genoa first, and he’d probably be reaching the city at about the time of the evening rush hour, but he guessed it would still only take him just over an hour to get to the destination Yuri had specified. And there was always a fallback rendezvous time, if he didn’t manage it quickly enough.

Clayton Richards shook his head. ‘None that we’re aware of. The last time anyone saw her for sure is when someone, presumably Kosov, boosted that scooter from the Italian girl.’

‘They still have teams covering the airports and railway stations, but with a much reduced presence now. I think they know she’s slipped through the net, and they’re just covering their asses in case she surfaces again in Rome. But I’m pretty sure she’s long gone. She probably took a coach out of Rome that first day, before the Russkies could deploy the extra manpower Moscow sent over here.’

‘A couple,’ Richards said. ‘The two we made positively were middle seniority SVR officers, and one of them is believed to be a part of Spetsgruppa Zaslon, though we have no way of confirming that without access to the personnel files at Yasenevo.’

‘And maybe not even then,’ Westwood remarked. ‘We’re not even sure that the officers seconded to Zaslon have that fact recorded anywhere, because it’s a real covert operation, even within the SVR. But your analysis is that they’re kill teams?’

Richards nodded. ‘If they can’t find her and take her alive, they’ll just kill her, yes. There’s not much doubt about that. Our watchers suggest that almost a hundred men have now been sent out from Moscow, and they sure haven’t come here for the coffee or the ice cream.’

Westwood got up and walked over to the large map of Italy that dominated one wall of Richards’s office. For a few moments he just stared at it, his fingers tracing the northern borders of the country.

‘She won’t try to get out at any seaport or airport,’ he mused. ‘That’d be real stupid, especially after the Brits passed on our warning.’

‘Yes. They probably still don’t know her name, because I didn’t tell them, but I passed on what we discovered about the Russians’ search tactics.’

‘I don’t know but, if we’ve guessed this right, they have to be in contact with her somehow. A mobile, maybe, or emails – something like that. The point is, I told them what we knew, and if there’s anybody competent at SIS – and there will be – they’ll have got the information to her somehow. So the real question is: how’s she going to get out of Italy? It’s got to be in a car or on a motorbike and I don’t think she’d risk public transport, so I guess she’s either stolen or hired something.’

Westwood turned back to the map and again studied the northern border. Then he tapped the area to the west of Ljubljana, the capital of Croatia.

‘I’m pretty sure she won’t run that way, and I also doubt if she’ll try crossing the Swiss border, because there she’d have to produce her passport, and the Russians will have notified the Swiss that she’s a wanted fugitive.’

‘So it must be France or Austria,’ said Richards, walking over to stand beside him and examine the map. ‘Those are the only two countries left, so which one do you reckon she’ll choose?’

‘It could be either, but my guess is France. It’s a huge country, and she’d find it real easy to lose herself there. And she’d only have one border to get over, too – apart from the Channel crossing to Britain.’

‘So what can we do?’ Richards asked. ‘It’s a border, about a hundred and fifty miles long, and she could decide to cross it pretty much anywhere. On any available roads, I mean. Otherwise, a lot of the terrain is really mountainous, because of the Alps, and those areas wouldn’t be easily passable.’

‘I think we need some help from above,’ Westwood decided, ‘and I’m not talking about God. Get me a line to Langley.’

Major Yuri Abramov had made a decision. He still wasn’t exactly sure of the game Raya had been playing, or how seriously he – or the higher echelons of the SVR – should be taking her claim to have discovered a potential traitor at Yasenevo. But he was certain that there must be an investigation, which was something that Colonel Zharkov seemed peculiarly reluctant to agree to.

He also knew that the only way to start the ball rolling was to go over Zharkov’s head, and he had little doubt how the colonel would react if he did. But he felt he owed Raya that much and, being network manager, he did have a channel he could use. Because of the crucial importance of database security on the Yasenevo computer system, he was authorized to contact the most senior security officer directly, bypassing all the normal bureaucratic channels of communication.

All he needed was access to a computer, and now Zharkov had left the office for a few minutes, he had the chance he needed.

Quickly, Abramov opened his internal email account, selected the correct address, security classification and routing priority, and typed a five-line message. When he’d finished, he paused for a few seconds to check what he’d written. Then, just as he heard footsteps approaching down the corridor, he pressed the Send button, and watched as the message vanished from his screen.

‘Yes.’ Westwood nodded. ‘Langley will be making a formal request to the NRO for all of the “Advanced Crystal” birds – the KH-12 satellites – to concentrate on northern Italy during their next passes, and until further notice.’

Located in Chantilly, Virginia, the National Reconnaissance Office was responsible for designing, building, and operating all the spy satellites sanctioned by the United States government. The designation ‘KH-12’ given to the Advanced Crystal vehicles – also known as ‘Ikon’, ‘Improved Kennan’ or ‘Key Hole’ – was unofficial. Paranoid about security, the NRO now allocated a random-number designation to the satellites it controlled, following repeated press and media references to earlier vehicles in the ‘KH’ series. The final known official use of the ‘KH’ designation was the KH-11 Kennan satellite series, the last one of which, KH-11/10, was launched on 1 March 1990 as part of the STS-36 mission of the Space Shuttle Atlantis. The very first KH-12 launch was by Titan IV rocket from Vandenberg Air Force Base on 28 November 1992, and the last known vehicle in the series, still in orbit, was KH-12/6, launched on 19 October 2005 from the same location.

‘So we have a handful of birds in orbit,’ Richards observed, doubt evident in his voice. ‘I’m not sure how much use a bunch of satellites a couple of hundred miles up is going to be if we’re looking for one woman on the ground somewhere in Italy.’

‘It won’t be,’ Westwood said, ‘but what they will do is allow us to see any incidents that take place on the border without having to rely on your contacts in the carabinieri to tell us about them. That’s only as long as one of the Ikon birds is within range, obviously. And if we do see anything happening that looks interesting, I’ve got a U2 sitting on the ground at Aviano ready to launch at fifteen minutes’ notice. It’s a NASA cab that’s over here to do high-level atmospheric sampling, but it’s still got all its cameras installed, and they’re dry rather than wet, so it can send the images direct into the TDRSS network. That means Langley will receive them within minutes, and can then squirt them straight over here.’

The Tracking and Data Relay Satellite System network was a system of communication satellites designed to transfer data from surveillance vehicles – which might currently be on the opposite side of the planet to the United States – to American ground stations as quickly as possible.

‘Pretty impressive stuff, bearing in mind that Kosov is clearly defecting to the British rather than to us. Just glad I’m not picking up the tab for that lot. But you really think she’s important enough to justify all this?’

Westwood grinned at him. ‘If she can give us an inside line into Yasenevo, then definitely. The British must be satisfied with her dowry, otherwise they wouldn’t even be trying to get her out of Italy.’

‘They did, and that’s why I’m sure they’re doing whatever they can to find her before the Russian hit squads do. Just in case we can pick her up before the Brits get their act together, I’ve also got a Lear 60 on its way over here. That’ll land at Fiumicino this evening, and it’ll wait there until further notice.’

He picked up the phone. ‘I think it’s time to talk to the Brits again – just to register our interest, as it were.’

Chapter Eighteen