Manhunt (33 page)

By midday they’d reached a place called Calamecca, near the town of Pistoia and north-west of Florence. There they stopped for a bite of lunch at a small cafe.

‘It’s certainly pretty, going this way,’ Mario admitted, digging his fork into a plate of
tagliatelle carbonara
, ‘but we could have been in Genoa by now if
we’d taken the autostrada.’

Raya nodded. ‘But I’m really enjoying the journey,’ she said, ‘and I’m in no hurry.’

‘And who is he, this man you’re going to meet in Genoa?’ he probed.

‘He’s only a business associate,’ Raya said, which she thought probably sounded rather vague, but nevertheless contained an element of truth.

‘And will you want me to wait for you there, in case he doesn’t show up?’

Raya shook her head. ‘Thank you, Mario, but no. He will definitely be there.’ At least she could be sure about that. Whoever the British had decided to send would certainly turn up
at their rendezvous. ‘All I ask is that you get me to Genoa, or at least to somewhere fairly close by. Then I’ll be fine, and thank you again.’

‘I just wish we could have one more night together.’ Mario gave a wistful smile.

‘So am I, and I’m sorry, but I explained all that this morning. We’ve had a great time together, and we’ll part as good friends.’

‘Will you ever come back to Italy?’

‘Maybe,’ Raya said, with a slight smile of her own. ‘Who knows?’

They were back in the car twenty minutes later, Raya planning the next part of their route north.

Sluzhba Vneshney Razvyedki Rossi Headquarters, Yasenevo, Tëplyystan, Moscow

Major Yuri Abramov leant back in his seat, still staring at the computer screen. What he’d just read – and what Zharkov, still sitting beside him, had read
– was simply unbelievable.

He’d guessed that Raya’s message might contain a list of excuses, of reasons, or her personal justification for deciding to betray the SVR’s – and thus his own –
trust in her, and to flee to the West. But that wasn’t what he’d read here, for her message claimed that she hadn’t actually defected at all. When Zharkov read that passage
he’d snorted in total disbelief. But when he looked at the next section his brows furrowed with concern.

What Raya Kosov was claiming was that she’d fled for her life, not for asylum. She had, she said, detected the presence of a traitor within the SVR data system: somebody in a senior
position who was accessing highly classified files and illegally copying them, presumably to sell the contents to Western intelligence agencies. And she believed that this unknown traitor now knew
that she’d discovered what he was doing, and had already tried to kill her.

She claimed she’d been crossing the street near her apartment, when a man in a car had quite deliberately tried to run her down. The vehicle had suddenly mounted the pavement and
she’d only jumped to safety at the last possible moment. She’d been far too shocked to note its registration number, only that it was a small dark-grey car – a description fitting
most of the vehicles in Moscow – with a single occupant.

‘Treacherous bitch,’ Zharkov muttered.

‘You don’t believe her claim?’ Abramov asked.

‘Of course not.’ Zharkov looked at him sharply. ‘She’s just offering a lame excuse for her own defection. You’ll note that nowhere in this message does she ever
mention returning to Russia. That bitch knows exactly what she’s guilty of, and she’s just trying to muddy the waters with this ridiculous and spurious claim of hers.’

‘But she’s very specific about what she claims to have found,’ Abramov gestured to the text of the email still on the screen. ‘Surely it wouldn’t hurt to at least
investigate what she’s saying?’

The bulk of her message, in fact, was an extract from the security report Raya had been instructed to carry out by Abramov, and which she had placed in his safe before leaving Yasenevo for the
last time. The major had instructed her to check a random-selection of a hundred files classified Secret or below, and then to inspect the access records of at least ten per cent of them. That had
revealed no anomalies. But she’d also checked the access history, since the last full review, of every file classified Top Secret or above and that had thrown up an oddity which Raya claimed
she’d started to investigate.

A total of fifteen Top Secret files had clearly been accessed, but all record of that access had then apparently been removed, so she had no idea which officer was responsible. She had only
detected this intrusion because, on each of the files she’d checked, the date and time of the last access was recorded, and on those particular files the time stamp didn’t match the
last time actually recorded in the access record – which had to mean somebody had tampered with it.

That, Raya explained in her email, didn’t really make sense, because whoever had looked at the file clearly possessed the correct security clearance, otherwise he wouldn’t have been
able to open it. And if he had the right clearance, why did he then try to cover his tracks? The evidence only made sense in one context: the perpetrator didn’t want anyone to know he’d
looked at the files, because he was doing something with the information they contained, and that suggested some form of espionage.

Then Raya claimed to have inspected the communication records, purely as another obvious check she could carry out, and had found an anomaly there as well. Several lengthy calls had been made
over the last three months from an office in Yasenevo to a Moscow number. The problem was that the office in question was unlocked, unoccupied and not assigned to anyone, so she had no idea who had
been responsible for these calls. And when she then tried to run a check on the Moscow number, it was unlisted.

She’d gone into the vacant office to look around, but found nothing. As Raya had emerged, she noticed a figure at the far end of the corridor, apparently watching her, but too far away to
identify. And it was that same evening, just before she got home, that the attempt on her life had taken place. Whoever was driving the car had clearly had access to her personnel records at
Yasenevo, in order to have discovered her address, and that meant the treachery must reach into the highest levels of the SVR, and this was what Raya claimed had made her decide to run.

‘There’s a lot of information here,’ Abramov repeated. ‘Prudence dictates that we at least check what she’s saying.’

‘That would be a complete waste of time and effort,’ Zharkov snapped. ‘And it would also divert our attention from the main task, which is finding Kosov and dragging her back
here. In this matter, “prudence”, as you put it, is whatever
I
decide to do.’ He jabbed a finger at the computer screen. ‘This is pure fiction, none of it ever
happened. Look at the inconsistencies. She decides to look in the empty office, and the supposed traitor just happens to be in a position to see her? Rubbish. And if there really was an attempt to
run her down outside her apartment, the driver obviously had to know where she lived, so why didn’t he enter the building and finish the job?

‘No, none of this is real. It’s just Kosov trying to sow doubts in our minds over her own treachery. But I promise you this. When we’ve got her strapped naked on a table in the
basement of the Lubyanka, with electrodes hitched to her nipples and vagina, if she’s still able to claim that all this really took place, then I might have some further checks
run.’

Abramov felt a chill run down his spine as he listened, because he knew Zharkov was absolutely serious. If his minions did manage to find her, and brought her back to Moscow alive, Raya would
end her short life in one of the sound-proof cellars in the Lubyanka, begging for a quick death.

Nervi, Italy

‘This will be fine,’ said Raya, as Mario pulled the Fiat to a stop close to the centre of a small seaside resort.

They’d driven through the place once already, Raya keeping a sharp lookout for signs of hostile activity, but the village appeared totally normal and unthreatening, It was simply a typical
Italian seaside community, and she just hoped that, thanks to Mario and their ‘arrangement’, she’d managed to travel further and faster than the Russian security personnel would
have expected.

The large piazza situated near the centre would be ideal as a rendezvous, and all around there were plenty of cafes, bars and shops she could duck into, if she needed to.

‘Are you sure, Raya?’

‘Absolutely.’ She leant across to him and kissed him firmly on the lips. ‘Thank you for everything, Mario. It’s been a great weekend, and I’m really glad we met up.
Now, please go.’

The Italian still looked unhappy as Raya grabbed her bag and opened the passenger door.

‘You’ll be OK?’ he asked. ‘This is the right place?’

‘I’ll be fine.’ Raya nodded. ‘I’ve two small final favours to ask you, though,’ she said.

‘Anything. Just name it.’

‘First, don’t believe everything you read in the papers or see on television. Second, don’t tell anyone you saw me.’

‘What?’ Mario’s face clouded. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘You will, Mario, you will. Just remember what I said. Now, goodbye, and thanks again for everything.’ She closed the door firmly and stepped back onto the pavement.

The Italian stared at her for a few more seconds, his expression troubled, then he gave her a smile and a wave. As he drove away slowly down the street, Raya gave him a final wave, then she
turned away, choking back a sob. Mario was a decent human being, and she just hoped that this fleeting contact wouldn’t land him in trouble with the
carabinieri
or, much worse, with
the Russians.

She checked behind her once more, but the Fiat had disappeared. Now she had her own preparations to make. There were numerous tourist shops nearby, and she picked the largest one she could find,
relying on the number of people milling about inside. As she rummaged around the racks of clothing and accessories, she was very conscious that she had extremely limited funds. But she bought a
cavernous white shoulder bag to replace the one she was carrying – the same overnight bag that must have given her away at the airport.

Then she picked out a large floppy-brimmed hat that would completely overshadow her face, and the biggest and darkest pair of sunglasses on the rack. After checking the prices of the items
she’d selected, she decided she could just about afford a light jacket as well. Together, these purchases would radically change her appearance – to the extent, she hoped, that nobody
would be able to recognize her.

After that she walked around the town until she found a crowded cafe, realizing that safety lay in numbers. She ordered a
caffè latte
and took just a few sips, then headed for the
toilets at the rear. A few minutes later she emerged, in a change of jacket, and with her overnight bag wadded up inside the new shoulder bag. As expected, nobody at the bar gave her transformation
a second look.

When she’d finished the coffee, she opened the bag, pulled out the new hat and sunglasses and, with a muttered
grazie
to the barman, walked outside. On a quiet side street, she
tossed her overnight bag into a rubbish bin, then walked slowly on through the neighbouring Piazza Centrale, working out the details of the crucial rendezvous.

A few minutes later she turned on her mobile and nodded when she saw a message from the British man who’d been sent to meet her. Immediately she composed her reply and pressed the Send
button. When that was done, she turned off the phone, well aware that, as long as it was switched on, her position would be announced to anyone with access to the cellular service provider. With
the power off, on the other hand, she was invisible.

Then there was nothing else she could do until the rendezvous time arrived, so she continued to wander the streets like a window-shopper. But all the while she was looking out for any possible
problems, like a car full of
carabinieri
with copies of her photograph, while making sure she learned the layout of the town as accurately as possible. For her life might depend on knowing
the fastest way out of it.

Sunday

Southern France

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.