Manhunt (29 page)

Reaching back, Stanway flicked on the main light and stepped fully into the room, his pistol extended in front of him, as he aimed the barrel at a hunched shape he could see lying under the
bedcovers.

Sunday

Sluzhba Vneshney Razvyedki Rossi Headquarters, Yasenevo, Tëplyystan, Moscow

Major Abramov was still imprisoned in the darkened interview room. Sitting on a hard chair, he slumped forward over the table, sleeping fitfully. He felt uncomfortable,
exhausted, hungry and thirsty, because he’d had nothing to eat or drink since Zharkov had left him there several hours earlier. That, he guessed, was deliberate, for nobody had entered the
room since, or responded to his knocks on the locked door.

Suddenly the silence was broken by the sound of brisk footsteps approaching along the corridor outside. Then the door swung open, the main lights snapped on, and Colonel Yevgeni Zharkov strode
back in.

Abramov lurched upright, his aching joints protesting, and leant back again in his chair. Strictly speaking, he should have stood up when the senior officer entered, but he was too far gone to
care any more. He still guessed Zharkov would order his execution when all this was over, just because Raya Kosov had worked for him.

‘So have you arrested her?’ Abramov asked, as Zharkov sat down opposite him, looking pleased with himself.

‘Not yet, but we know where she is.’

Abramov immediately doubted the truth of that assertion. If Zharkov’s assassins really had located her, by now she’d either be dead or strapped heavily sedated to a stretcher on her
way back to Moscow. Despite his own problems, a tiny part of him still hoped Raya would make it to the West and elude the pursuit. But Zharkov’s next words simply stunned him.

‘And now we know for sure that you’re working with her, because last night she sent you an email.’

‘What?’ Abramov stared at the man. ‘She did what?’

‘I said she sent you an email, but it’s encrypted. So you will now decrypt it for me.’

‘But I—’

Zharkov smiled wolfishly. ‘You’re not refusing to assist us, I hope, Major? After all, if you really are as innocent as you claim, then perhaps this email will prove it and you can
go home.’

Abramov knew there was virtually no chance of that happening, no matter what the contents of this message that Raya had apparently sent.

‘No,’ he said, ‘I meant that I might not be able to decrypt it, because I don’t know what code she used. Where did she send it from?’

Zharkov hesitated for a moment, apparently deciding whether or not Abramov could derive some advantage from this piece of information. Then he shrugged and gave his answer.

‘She used a cyber cafe on the outskirts of Rome,’ he said. ‘Now, Major, we will go to your office and see if you are able to decipher this email. But mark my words, Abramov, if
you cannot produce the plaintext, there will be only one conclusion we can reasonably draw.’

And that would be confirmation of his guilt, Abramov thought.

As he preceded Zharkov down the corridor, he wondered about two things. First, what cipher Raya had employed, which probably wouldn’t be that difficult to work out, given that there was
only a handful in use in the section, email being inherently unreliable and insecure. Second, and far more importantly, what on earth had Raya got to say to him after her flagrant betrayal of both
him – and indeed the entire SVR? Was she gloating? Or apologizing? Or was there some other dimension to this entire affair that he had so far entirely missed?

West London

Andrew Lomas was wakened by the ringing of his mobile. He muttered in irritation as he switched on the bedside light, grimaced at the time indicated on his alarm clock,
and snatched up the phone.

‘Yes?’ he snapped.

‘Is that Mr Weaver?’ The voice was high-pitched, almost nasal.

‘No, you’ve got the wrong number, you idiot.’

‘Isn’t that seven-five-three-nine-eight-two?’

‘No, it bloody isn’t.’

Lomas punched the button to end the call and then sat upright in bed. There was a pad and pencil beside the clock, and within a couple of seconds he’d written down both the name and number
the caller had used: ‘Weaver’ and ‘753982’. The call wasn’t a wrong number. It was a coded message, and it meant he needed to take immediate action.

The name ‘Weaver’ meant there had been a leak of some sort from Moscow Centre – for instance a breach of security, a lost file or a defector – which Lomas thought might
well relate to the story of the Russian clerk that had so alarmed Gerald Stanway. Or it might be something completely different, something new. To find out anything more he needed to decode the
rest of the message.

Lomas strode out of his bedroom and into the lounge, pressed the button to power up his laptop, then went into the kitchen to make himself some coffee. By the time he got back to the computer,
the operating system had finished loading.

He first ran a program that generated spurious information resulting in a false IP address. That was necessary to conceal his physical location from any type of surveillance method in use. He
had no idea whether any intelligence service was taking the slightest notice of him, but running this IP program was a sensible precaution. He ran his Internet browser, checking that his apparent
location was outside the United Kingdom, and then input a website address from memory. The site was apparently located in Australia, but was actually based in Russia itself. Lomas accessed this
site regularly, but usually from a cyber cafe, and only ever visiting that establishment once.

When the homepage appeared on his screen, the site appeared to be very badly designed, and was purportedly intended for hobbyists interested in the manufacture of aboriginal musical instruments.
Lomas clicked the centre of the top border twice. Nothing happened for twenty seconds – which was about four times the attention span of the average browser. Then a new page appeared, which
simply contained a dialogue box, and nothing else. Lomas copied the six numbers the caller had given him into the box and then pressed the Enter key. There was another delay, this time for only
about five seconds, and then the screen cleared.

Lomas leant forward to read the text very carefully. Immediately he could understand why he had received the call. An important officer in the SVR had defected and, through her position at
Yasenevo, was ideally placed to reveal the identity, not only of Gerald Stanway, but also of a second penetration agent working inside the SIS – an agent for whom Lomas also acted as a
handler.

Lomas was instructed to warn and assist Stanway in any way he could, the message from Moscow stated, but ultimately the British agent was considered expendable. The greater prize was the other
agent, the more senior and much more important man, and Lomas was instructed to contact him as soon as possible, and brief him fully on the defection. Moscow Centre would keep Lomas fully informed
about the SVR’s pursuit of the traitor Raya Kosov, and it was hoped they would have her in custody within days or even hours, in which case the crisis would be over.

The final paragraph contained explicit instructions regarding what Lomas must do should Kosov somehow manage to make contact with any British intelligence organization or, even worse, actually
arrive on British shores. He smiled when he read that section. That might prove to be the most entertaining part of the entire operation.

Ax-les-Thermes, France

‘The light’s been switched on,’ Dekker said urgently into his microphone, though there was nothing Adamson could do from where he was. And little enough
that Dekker could do either, since his orders were perfectly clear.

He watched a figure enter the room, some kind of semi-automatic pistol in his right hand, then move to one side, out of sight of the open window.

‘Tango One’s in the room, but now out of sight. Standby. And there’s somebody else there as well.’

As Stanway levelled the pistol, and took a couple of cautious steps across the room, he suddenly became aware of a presence behind him. He half turned, swinging the pistol
towards the man who seemed to have materialized from nowhere. But he was too late . . . far, far too late.

The fair-haired man raised some kind of tube towards Stanway’s face, and suddenly he was enveloped in an eye-stinging spray that threatened to choke him. And then the agony was compounded
when some brutally hard object smashed down on his right forearm. He could actually hear the crack of the bones breaking.

In a reflex action, he squeezed the trigger, and the pistol bucked once and tumbled from his hand. Then the sudden sharp pain of his injury overwhelmed him, and he screamed in a long, blubbering
wail of utter and total agony.

Half-blinded and staggering, Stanway felt a sudden hard shove into his stomach and he stumbled backwards, tripped over the carpet, and landed with a crash on the floor. But his suffering
wasn’t over, even then. He heard a click from somewhere nearby, a powerful hand seized his left wrist firmly, and then a blade of some kind was driven clean through his hand, pinning it to
the wooden floor.

‘What the hell’s going on?’ Adamson demanded. ‘I heard a shot and a scream. Was that Richter or Gecko?’

In his agitation, he’d forgotten to use both code words.

‘I heard it, too, but didn’t see what happened,’ Dekker replied. ‘My view through that window is very restricted . . . Wait, just hang on.’

Through the telescopic sight, Dekker saw a figure move back into view at the window. Even though the man was back-lit, he could still tell that it was Richter. The figure waved, then dangled
what appeared to be a set of keys out of the window.

Dekker grinned to himself and stood up. The show was over.

‘Get mobile, Whisky,’ he said. ‘Target Romeo is fine. Call Simpson again and tell him that the trap is sprung. It’s time to go down there and see what sort of a rat he
managed to catch. If you get there before me, go around to the back of the hotel. Romeo’ll throw you down a set of keys, so you can let yourself in.’

Ten minutes later, Dekker and Adamson were both standing in Richter’s hotel room, looking down at the moaning figure lying on the floor. His right arm was badly broken,
and his left hand pinned to the bare floorboards by the five-inch blade of the flick knife Richter had bought that same afternoon in Ax. The man was still conscious and obviously in pain, a rough
gag thrust into his mouth and held in place with a binding of adhesive tape around his head.

Richter himself was lying comfortably on the bed, with Stanway’s Browning resting on the bedside table right next to him.

‘What did you use?’ Colin Dekker asked. ‘Was it mace or something?’

‘Nothing so exotic,’ Richter replied. ‘Just good old-fashioned hairspray. It has much the same effect, or at least for a few seconds, and that’s normally all you need.
Oh, thanks for the warning, by the way – the laser, I mean. That was a big help. Once I knew this comedian was on his way, I stood by the window listening, so I heard him on the gravel
outside. I’m not sure I would have detected it, if I’d still been lying on the bed.’

‘You were waiting somewhere outside the room for him?’

Richter nodded. ‘As soon as it got quiet in the hotel tonight, I walked down to reception, borrowed the key for the room opposite and unlocked the door. Then I put the key back so
he’d know where to find me. Once I was sure he was coming in, I walked across the hall and waited inside.’

Dekker nodded. Richter’s other improvisation in weaponry was a crowbar leaning against the wall beside the door.

‘You don’t fuck about, do you?’ the SAS officer suggested, with a slight smile. He pointed at the flick knife, and the blood still welling from the savage wound and pooling
around the man’s hand.

Richter shook his head. ‘No, not when people are trying to kill me. You got a problem with that?’

Dekker smiled again. ‘Hell, no,’ he said, ‘I’m on your side. As far as I’m concerned you could have used a couple of flick knives and a nail gun, too, and just
crucified the bastard. And if I’d been in here myself, I’d have helped you do it.’

‘It doesn’t sound as if you fuck about either,’ Richter said. ‘But it’ll be interesting to hear what Simpson has to say about all this.’

‘He should be on his way now,’ Adamson said, sticking his head out of the door as they heard footsteps on the landing. ‘No, it’s the hotel proprietor. I’ll go and
talk to him, and head him off. I’ve left the front door open, by the way.’

‘What was your brief?’ Richter asked, as Adamson headed away along the corridor.

‘Simple,’ Dekker replied. ‘Observation of the target room, meaning your hotel room, then I was supposed to take this guy down if he managed to get away safely from the hotel.
Preferably leaving him in a fit state to talk, of course. But you seem to have achieved that all on your own, so you’ve saved the Queen the price of a rifle bullet.’

‘I hope she’ll be pleased,’ Richter muttered. ‘You people from Hereford?’

‘Good guess,’ Dekker nodded. ‘I’m Regiment, but the other bloke, Adamson, he’s SIS, a spook, sent along just to hold my hand and smooth the way with the Frogs
because I don’t speak French. My job’s simple – I just shoot the bad guys.’

Footsteps again approached along the corridor, this time brisk and purposeful.

‘That sounds like our esteemed leader,’ Dekker said, ‘so you’d better mind your manners.’

Three seconds later, Richard Simpson strode into the room, looking as fresh and immaculate as ever. He glanced at Dekker, then at the figure moaning on the floor, and finally at Richter.

‘Dear God,’ he said. ‘What the fuck happened here?’

‘I’d have thought that was obvious,’ Richter said, the tone of his voice low and dangerous. ‘You set me up as a Judas goat . . . No, in fact that’s wrong. A Judas
goat is trained to lead other animals to slaughter, but is the one animal that’s always spared. In this case you didn’t give a flying fuck whether I lived or died. You just used me as
bait, as an unarmed target for this comedian. Then I suppose, once he’d shot my head off, you’d have called the French plods and had him arrested? Devious little pink bastard,
aren’t you?’