If anybody asked him, he explained that he was employed as a ‘creative consultant’ — which could mean pretty much whatever you wanted it to mean — for a graphic-design company based in Liechtenstein. The company actually existed, and his monthly commission cheques bore the company logo and contact details, but it was simply a KGB front: a device which allowed Lomosolov to receive a regular supply of clean funds to support his lifestyle.
In fact, after a period during which he established himself in London, Lomosolov’s — or rather Lomas’s — real job was acting as a case officer for a number of other agents in Britain, two of whom were employed within the security establishment. One of these had been operational even before Lomosolov himself arrived in Britain, but the other had been supplying information for a much shorter period of time. This man was code-named Gospodin, but Lomas knew, from his pre-departure briefings in Moscow, that his real name was Gerald Stanway.
Their actual meetings were very infrequent, normally never more than once every three months. Lomas’s principal task in servicing Stanway was simple enough: he merely cleared one of the current fifteen dead-drops whenever he received notification that Stanway had deposited some material. The routine for that was simple enough as well.
Each evening, Lomas walked from his apartment in Harwood Road, not far from Fulham Broadway Underground station, and through the streets of London, following a variety of routes as he mingled with the homeward-bound commuters, just another face in the thousands. Whichever route he took, he always walked down Collingham Road, and every time he passed the church he looked at the wall.
He also checked five other locations during his walk, but the church wall was always the last one. He frequently found marks at the other five places, too, but he’d never seen one on the church wall. This was because the first five indicated which dead-drop Stanway had filled, but the last one was reserved for emergency use only.
Lomas was so used to passing the wall and seeing nothing there at all that he’d actually taken three steps past before he registered that the chalked circle was even there.
He stopped so abruptly that the woman walking behind him, carrying four bulky carrier bags, cannoned into him. She cursed under her breath as she stepped around him. Lomas muttered apologies before briskly retracing his steps. He checked the street carefully for possible witnesses, before approaching the mark on the wall. As he drew level with it, he reached up and swiftly drew a cross within the circle, then stepped away quickly and carried on down the street, mentally planning the fastest route back to his apartment.
Richter pulled off the A2 autoroute and into a service area a few miles north of Wolfsberg, and filled up the Ford’s petrol tank. It was still well over half full but he always liked to have plenty of fuel, just in case. He was actually stepping through the entrance of the cafeteria in search of something to eat when his mobile phone rang again. He turned round immediately and went back outside, before pressing the button to answer.
‘What now, Simpson?’
‘How did you know it was me?’
‘As far as I know, nobody else has this number.’
‘Right,’ Simpson snapped, ‘where are you?’
‘Austria, and about to sample a genuine Austrian motorway sandwich. Where else do you want me to be?’
‘Geneva — and as soon as possible. Is that going to be a problem?’
‘No,’ Richter replied. ‘As long as you don’t stop the credit card or cancel my passport, I can go anywhere at all. But I won’t make it today. It’s now gone three, and I reckon I’m still about three hundred kilometres from the Swiss border — and also on the wrong side of the Alps. Whereabouts do you want me to go in Geneva?’
‘At the moment,’ Simpson said, ‘we don’t know, so just check into a hotel somewhere near the city. And make sure you leave that mobile switched on.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of doing anything else,’ Richter said.
‘Call me when you stop somewhere tonight, and also when you reach Geneva. I’ll give you my mobile number.’
Richter noted the number, terminated the call, and turned back towards the cafeteria door.
The moment Gerald Stanway reached home he changed into a tracksuit and trainers, then headed down the stairs and out into the street, before jogging off on his usual route around the quieter local streets. He passed the circle which now contained a chalked cross, giving it the briefest possible sidelong glance, and continued on around the block. Fifteen minutes later, he was back in his apartment and standing under a stinging-hot shower.
As he dried himself, he glanced at the wall clock, mentally calculating times and distances. Dressed casually in flannel trousers, open-necked shirt and lightweight jacket, he went into the lounge and called a cab. Like most residents of central London, Stanway had long accepted the fact that owning a car in the city was a complete waste of time and money. He travelled everywhere by tube, bus or cab, and if he had to drive anywhere outside the city, he would call up Hertz or Avis and have them deliver a car to his flat.
Entering his study, he sat down at the computer and opened up Microsoft Word. A fresh empty document appeared automatically, so he typed a few lines of text, read through what he had written twice, and then clicked on the print icon. The laser hummed for a few seconds and then spat out a single sheet. Stanway knew that the output from a laser or ink-jet printer was completely anonymous and untraceable, unlike that produced by any kind of typewriter.
Having once more read the text as hard copy, he nodded and folded the sheet twice. He next clicked the cross in the top right-hand corner of the Word window, and selected ‘no’ when the program asked if he wanted to save the open document. He definitely wanted no record of what he had just written anywhere on the hard disk.
It was seven-thirty local time when Paul Richter pulled the Ford off the A4 autoroute at San Martino Buon Albergo, one of the longest place names he ever recalled coming across. He’d crossed the Italian border at Arnoldstein, where the A2 autoroute transmuted into the A23, and swung south towards a stretch of the Mediterranean that his new road map called the Golfo de Venezia.
Finding a small hotel on the edge of Verona, he parked the car at the rear of the building and climbed out. He plucked his overnight bag from the boot, then recovered the briefcase, which now contained the opened packet he’d collected in Vienna and not much else, from the back seat, before he headed around to the hotel’s reception to check in.
As soon as he was settled in his room, he called Simpson.
‘It’s Richter.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Two gentlemen.’
‘What…? Are you drunk?’
‘No, I’m perfectly sober — in fact, I’m a teetotaller. I’m now in a hotel on the outskirts of Verona. As in “Two gentlemen of Verona”. You’ve heard of this bloke Shakespeare, have you?’
‘Don’t try to get clever with me, Richter. When I ask you a question, just give me a straight answer, OK?’
‘I’ll bet you were the most popular boy in your class at school, weren’t you?’
‘Don’t be impertinent. When do you think you’ll reach Geneva?’
‘Probably mid-afternoon tomorrow. Any further instructions?’
‘Nothing yet. Just call me when you arrive.’
The cab arrived twenty minutes later, and Stanway told the driver to take him to Tottenham Court Road, near the Goodge Street Underground station. He paid the driver, then headed towards a nearby side street.