At Blagnac, Richard Hughes and David Wallis stepped off the Paris flight and separated almost as soon as they reached the arrivals hall. Hughes walked straight over to the Hertz desk and joined the end of a substantial and apparently unmoving queue, while Wallis found a seat in arrivals from which he could watch the illuminated flight-information boards. The flight from London that they’d been told to meet looked as if it was going to land a few minutes early, so hopefully they’d be on their way inside an hour.
Forty-five minutes later, Hughes was handed the keys and hire documents for a Renault Megane, and walked back to rejoin Wallis.
‘Is he here yet?’ he asked, as he sat down.
Wallis pointed at the arrivals board. ‘It landed nearly twenty minutes ago, so he ought to be walking through customs any time now. Any problems with the car?’
‘Only the queue to get to the desk.’
At that moment, a short, slim man with a balding head and pinkish complexion, and wearing an immaculate light-grey suit, emerged from the customs hall carrying a weekend case and a leather handbag of an aggressively male design. He glanced round a couple of times, then walked directly towards them.
‘You Wallis and Hughes?’ he demanded, and both men nodded. ‘Right, I’m Simpson. Let’s get this show on the road. Where’s the car?’
‘Outside, sir,’ Hughes said, stating the obvious, then led the way towards the nearest set of doors.
Within fifteen minutes, the Megane was heading away from Blagnac towards the Toulouse périphérique junction. Hughes was driving, Wallis in the front passenger seat studying the local area map Hertz had provided, and Simpson was reclining in the back, with his weekend case on the seat beside him.
Once they’d cleared the city and were heading for Foix along the N20, Simpson leant forward to address Hughes.
‘Pull up in the next lay-by,’ he ordered, his tone making it quite clear this wasn’t a request.
‘What briefing were you given in Paris?’ Simpson asked, after Hughes had switched off the engine.
‘We’re to drive down to Ax-les-Thermes, interview this defecting Russian cipher clerk and, if we’re satisfied with his dowry and what he can offer us, whistle up the RAF and then take him to London for interrogation. We were told that you’d be accompanying us, and would have all the contact details.’
‘That’s good. Right, the Russian’s name is Anatoli Markov, and he’s staying at the Hostellerie de la Poste at the northern end of the town. Our information is that he’s carrying a packet of documents extracted from the SVR archives. He probably won’t want to hand these over to you at the first meeting, but that doesn’t matter. I’m just as interested in what he can tell you about his job in Moscow. Concentrate on finding out exactly where he worked, who he worked with, the names of his superiors, his security clearance — that kind of thing. That’s all useful background that should help establish his bona fides.’
He drummed his fingers on the seat back. ‘But don’t push him too hard. Remember that he ran out of the embassy in Vienna when the Six people didn’t react quickly enough for him, and he’s been running ever since. That means treat him gently. If he doesn’t want to tell you something, just leave it. I’m more interested in what you feel about him, whether you think he’s the real deal or not. You’ve done this before?’
‘Once.’ Hughes nodded. ‘About five years ago with a Romanian who pitched up in Munich. We threw him back.’
‘We might do the same with Markov. It all depends on what he’s offering. The most important thing about this man is that he claims to know the identity of a high-level mole in the British intelligence apparatus, who’s been supplying information to the SVR, and that’s what I’m really interested in. So, I say again, treat him gently, and above all don’t frighten him off.’ Simpson passed a small piece of card to Wallis. ‘That’s my mobile number. Call me as soon as you’ve talked to the Russian.’
‘You’re not going to sit in on the interview?’ Hughes sounded surprised.
‘No,’ Simpson replied shortly. ‘I’ve got other things to do.’
The Border Guards Directorate officer had taken his time in making a decision, but had eventually realized that he had nothing to lose by running a routine check on the attractive young SVR officer. He’d noted her name and department and, when he was able to do so, he left the departure gate and headed to his office. He checked the number of the SVR switchboard, and was eventually connected to the duty officer.
‘Who are you?’ the man demanded.
‘Border Guards Directorate, at Sheremetievo. This is a routine enquiry about one of your officers. Can you confirm that a Captain Raya Kosov is employed there at Yasenevo?’
‘Wait.’
The officer at Sheremetievo could hear the clicking of a keyboard in the background, while he waited for a response.
‘Yes, she is. Why do you want to know?’
‘She’s just been checked onto a flight to Rome. I just wanted to confirm that she’s been authorized to leave Moscow.’
There was another short pause as the SVR officer accessed another list. ‘Yes, she’s booked for a week’s compassionate leave, and has been issued with a travel warrant. Anything else?’
‘No, thank you.’
At Yasenevo, the duty officer put down the phone with an irritated expression on his face. The SVR and the Border Guards Directorate had never exactly seen eye to eye, a hangover from the old days when both organizations had been part of the KGB, where they frequently tried to score points off each other.
He looked down at the notes he’d made during their brief conversation, then one word seemed to leap off the page at him. Rome? That didn’t sound right, somehow, for compassionate leave, unless this officer had close relatives living outside the Confederation of Independent States. That wasn’t unheard of, but it certainly wasn’t very common.
Perhaps, he thought, he should check that he’d heard the man at Sheremetievo correctly. Then he realized he hadn’t made a note of his name or even his rank. And he wasn’t prepared to now ring the Directorate office at the airport, and end up looking like an idiot while he tried to identify the officer who’d called him.
Instead, he turned back to his computer and accessed the personnel records. The information available to him was strictly limited, so about all he was able to confirm was Raya Kosov’s name, rank, date of birth, her Moscow address, and her department and superior officer. There was no information about family members except for her mother in Minsk. So it was at least possible that she had some other relative living in Italy?
The duty officer leant back in his chair. He was very junior and comparatively inexperienced, but something about this business didn’t seem right. Would another junior officer — she was only a captain, after all — be allowed a week’s compassionate leave for anyone not a member of her immediate family?
For several minutes he sat in thought, considering his options. Then he looked up a number in his database, and reached for the telephone.
Stanway slowed down as he entered Ax, thereby irritating two French drivers who were tailgating him. Both of them swept out and roared past the Peugeot, hooting derisively as they overtook. Stanway ignored them, concentrating on checking the layout of the town. He passed the Hostellerie de la Poste and the Auberge du Lac, but only glanced at them, for the moment identifying them as nothing more than possible locations for his quarry. He carried on down the main street, realizing that Ax-les-Thermes consisted primarily of buildings erected along both sides of the N20, and noted relatively few hotels.