Finally he turned his attention to the sealed package. Totally anonymous, with no markings of any sort and wrapped in thick brown paper, it was reasonably heavy but flexible, like a soft-cover book about one inch thick. The parcel was sealed with red wax in three places, so as to prevent any casual peeking at the contents, but that wasn’t what Richter had in mind. He hooked his fingers under the sealed flap at one end, ripped the paper apart, held the package by the other end and shook it briskly, spilling the contents onto the passenger seat beside him.
A wad of paper slid out, secured by two elastic bands fitted criss-cross, which Richter pulled off, before studying the top sheet. It was typewritten in Cyrillic script, which fortunately he could read; for, like many keen young Royal Navy officers hoping for promotion, Richter had taken a course in Russian while he was serving in the Fleet Air Arm. In his case it hadn’t helped his career very much, or even at all, but at least he could read the language, and still speak it fairly fluently. His attention was immediately drawn to a single word stamped in red ink at both the top and bottom of the page — Sekretno — ‘Secret’ — and, for a brief few seconds, he wondered if ripping open the package had been a mistake.
Then he looked at the rest of the sheets and relaxed. The first six pages were also typewritten in Cyrillic, and each had the same red Sekretno stamps at top and bottom. The text appeared to be an extract from a Russian nuclear submarine’s sonar manual — an old submarine, Richter noted, recognizing the vessel as a Victor III, with well-known capabilities. Technically, the Russians might probably still regard details of this boat and its equipment as Secret, but in reality every Western navy now knew just as much about the old Victor as the officers and men who had originally sailed in her. And, apart from a single smaller envelope, also sealed, the rest of the package consisted entirely of blank sheets of A4 size photocopying paper.
‘In for a penny,’ Richter muttered. He extracted the other envelope and ripped it open.
Its contents were a surprise. They comprised half a dozen sheets of folded A4 size paper, closely typed, and at the top of the first one the title ‘SVR Briefing’. He scanned the pages, but didn’t bother reading them, deciding that he would do that later. Also in the envelope was a beige-coloured plastic card, one end of which had an apparently random series of holes punched into it. There was nothing else on the card apart from a small black-and-white photograph of a man that Richter recognized immediately — because it was of himself — along with the name ‘Anatoli Markov’ in Cyrillic script.
It was just as Richter had suspected. Collection of this package was just a ruse, despite Simpson’s insistence on its importance, and Richter now knew that he was being set up for something. The only thing in doubt was exactly what Simpson had planned for him.
The call from Vienna had been routed to the Hammersmith building switchboard from the SIS headquarters at Vauxhall Cross, simply because the man in Austria was an SIS asset and that was the only number he had. The message the caller had to pass on was simple enough — just a confirmation that the package had been collected — but he had also received specific instructions not to communicate with anyone except Richard Simpson.
Simpson wasn’t worried, but he had been getting slightly concerned as time had passed without receiving news from Austria, so he snatched up the internal phone the moment it rang.
‘Simpson,’ he said.
‘It’s Gunther,’ the voice replied, using the agreed recognition name. ‘Your man was late.’
‘How late?’
‘An hour or so. He was not driving a car, but arrived on foot. And he then sat in a cafe across the road, watching the house for about half an hour, before he came over and knocked on the door.’
For a few moments Simpson said nothing, thinking the situation through. ‘You confirmed his identity?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I checked his passport. And he took the package.’
‘Thank you. That’s what matters,’ said Simpson and disconnected. He next made a swift call to a number in Vienna, and listened with obvious dissatisfaction to the reply he received. Three minutes later he dialled the number of Richter’s mobile phone.
Richter was back on the road, again cruising at a steady one hundred and twenty kilometres an hour, when his mobile phone rang. He reached over to the passenger seat, picked up the phone and answered it. ‘Richter.’
‘Having fun?’ Simpson asked.
‘Not so’s you’d notice,’ Richter replied. ‘Why?’
‘We gave you a number of very specific instructions before you left London. One of the first of those instructions told you to collect a hire car from Hertz at the airport. I’ve just checked. The car’s still there, and you never appeared. Why?’
‘I got a better deal from Avis.’ Richter swung the Ford off the autoroute and into the next rest area. ‘I’m saving you money,’ he added as he braked the car and switched off the engine.
‘Don’t get smart with me,’ Simpson snapped. ‘Do you think this is some kind of a fucking game?’
‘Right now, Simpson, I have no idea what this is. What I do know is that I trust you about as far as I can spit a rat, and that’s not a hell of a long way.’
‘I told you all you needed to know, Richter, and none of it was difficult or dangerous. Why the hell can’t you just follow your orders?’
‘I am doing what you told me, but I’m also following Frank Sinatra. I’m doing it my way. I’ll make it to the rendezvous on the date you specified, with the package, but how I get there is my business. If you need me, you can call me, OK?’
‘No, Richter, it’s not OK. We expect—’
‘So what are you going to do about it?’ Richter interrupted. ‘Face facts, Simpson. I’m here, I’ve got the package, I’m in a car somewhere in Austria — and I’m going to get to the rendezvous on time. There’s nothing you can do about it, short of flying some other mug out here to take over from me.’
For a few moments Richter assumed Simpson had rung off, but then he heard a snarl through his earpiece. ‘Right, Richter, you listen to me. You keep the mobile switched on. You get to Toulouse by the date I told you. You do the job we’re paying you to do, because if you don’t, I’ll find you and I’ll make you wish you had.’
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ Richter said. ‘Anything else?’
‘Yes, the package you’re carrying is sealed, for a good reason. Make sure it stays that way until you hand it over.’
‘Why do you think I wouldn’t?’
‘You’ve broken every other rule, Richter. Why should I expect you to obey this one?’ Simpson rang off. Richter grinned, snapped the phone shut, and glanced over at the passenger seat, where the brown paper wrapping of the package still gaped open. He started the engine, checked his mirrors and accelerated away, heading for the Italian border.
Chapter Six
The call reached Raya Kosov a little after four in the afternoon. Normally calls originating through the civilian telephone system were rejected by the Yasenevo switchboard, but this caller had not only known Raya Kosov’s name but her extension number, so it was put through after the operator had checked with the internal security section and switched on the tape-recorder. Raya had been expecting it, expecting it for a long time, but it still gave her quite a shock.