Sunday
Liguria, Italy
‘How are we going to get out of Italy?’ Raya asked again.
‘I think the best option is the most obvious route: we go over the border and into France,’ Richter said. ‘And we’ll need to cross soon, before the opposition can get their act together again. They can’t possibly cover the whole border, not now that controls have been virtually abolished under Schengen, so I think a little bit of disinformation might help us as well.’
‘What do you mean?’
Richter didn’t answer directly. ‘You still think that somebody’s been tracking my phone?’
‘That’s the only explanation I can think of for what happened there, yes.’
‘Right, so we’ll take advantage of that. We’ll head inland for a while, keeping off the main roads, then I’ll turn the phone on again and make a call . . . But first I need to talk to Colin Dekker.’
He drove on along the minor road till he spotted what he was looking for in a small town called Torriglia.
When he’d pulled in earlier at a service area just over the Italian border, Richter had picked up a route map and an accommodation guidebook. Now, as he stopped the car on the side of the street, he pulled them both out of the door pocket and studied them carefully for a few minutes.
‘Right,’ he muttered, ‘that should work. Then he stepped out of the car, strode across to the public phone he’d spotted, and called Dekker’s mobile number.
‘I was getting worried about you,’ the SAS officer said, as soon as Richter identified himself.
‘Join the club,’ Richter replied. ‘I’ll make this quick. It’s possible my mobile’s being tracked, and I’d like to confirm that, and also try throwing the opposition off the scent. But to do that I’ll need your help.’
‘You’ve got it. You’ve already switched the phone off and pulled the battery?’
‘Yes. Now, what I’m planning is this.’
For a couple of minutes Richter outlined exactly what he wanted Dekker to do.
‘Got all that, and none of it should be a problem. How do you want to communicate? You’ll use a public phone – like you are now?’
‘Yes, that’s safest.’
‘OK, Paul. I’ll head that way right now. Take care of yourself, and keep your eyes open. Very tasty totty, by the way. I was hoping Yuri would be some hairy-arsed heavyweight with a face like a brick shithouse. Some people’, Dekker finished, ‘have all the luck.’
‘Tell me that again once we’re back in London.’
Just under two hours later, as the evening light started to fade, Richter pulled the car into an open parking area on the outskirts of Piacenza, where it would be just another anonymous saloon in a car park full of similar vehicles.
‘Are you sure about this?’ Raya looked worried.
‘It’s worth a try, and if it doesn’t work, we’re no worse off than we were before.’
He picked up his mobile, reinserted the battery and switched it on. As soon as he had a signal, he dialled the number Simpson had given him.
‘Where the hell are you, Richter?’ Simpson demanded, the moment he answered the call, ‘and what the hell’s going on? I’ve been trying to get hold of you for hours.’
‘And good evening to you, too. I forgot to charge the phone. That’s why it’s been off, and it’ll probably only last a few minutes now.’
‘Do you have the package?’
‘If you mean Yuri, yes.’
‘Is she OK?’
Richter paused for a second before he replied. ‘How do you know Yuri’s a woman?’ he asked.
‘Because I’m bloody well informed, Richter,’ Simpson snapped. ‘In this case, we aren’t the only people who know about her defection. As I told you before, our cousins across the Atlantic are also trying to get in on the act. I’ve been talking to a man named John Westwood who – unusually for an American – actually seems to know what he’s doing. He’s a Company man, and somehow managed to get hold of one of the briefing sheets the Russian watchers were using in Rome. So unless Yuri’s a real master of disguise, the person sitting next to you should be a girl named Raya Kosov.’
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.