‘Roger,’ Dekker replied, a military response normally meaning ‘received and understood’ or, as in this case, ‘loud and clear’. Only amateurs resorted to hack phrases like ‘wall to wall’ or ‘five by five’.
‘Sitrep,’ Adamson continued. ‘I’m now in front of the building, with a clear view of the entrance. No activity. Confirm your position and status.’
‘Position as briefed,’ Dekker muttered. There was nobody behind him in the copse of trees as far as he knew, but a loud voice apparently emanating from a bush was the kind of thing that could attract attention. ‘I’m locked and loaded. Clear view of the target.’
In the centre of Ax-les-Thermes, Richard Simpson consulted his watch, and opened his mobile phone again.
‘Richter, this is Simpson. Get yourself back to the hotel now.’
‘I’m on my way. Oh, one last question. Are these two pointy-heads from Paris carrying weapons?’
‘Of course not,’ Simpson snapped. ‘For them, this is just a routine initial debriefing of a potential source. Neither of them will be armed. Why do you ask?’
‘The usual, Simpson. You know, a matter of mutual trust, spitting a rat, that kind of thing. I just like to know what I’m up against. If they are carrying, I might feel the need to borrow whatever it is. Just in case.’
‘They’re not carrying pistols or anything else, Richter. You have my word on that. But, even if they were, remember there are two of them, both highly trained professionals, and only one of you. So how, exactly, would you “borrow” one of their weapons?’
‘I’m a professional too, Simpson, just in a different field. And don’t worry — I’d find a way.’
Simpson lowered the phone from his ear and looked at it thoughtfully. Not for the first time since this operation began, he wondered if he was underestimating Richter, and he wished the timescale had permitted a thorough background check on this man on whom the success or failure of his plan now very largely depended.
Richter picked up his book, paid the bill for the drinks, and headed away from the Auberge du Lac, along the road leading to his own hotel. He then glanced both ways, checking for oncoming traffic, but the road was fairly quiet and he was able to cross immediately.
He strode through the front entrance of the Hostellerie de la Poste, took the stairs two at a time to his room, and tossed the book on the bed. He rinsed his face in cold water at the sink, and for a few moments just looked at his reflection in the mirror.
‘You’re a fucking idiot, Richter,’ he muttered. ‘You just know this is all going to end in tears.’
‘Sierra, this is Whisky.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Target Romeo has just entered the hotel. No other movement.’
‘Roger.’
In the copse, Dekker altered the position of the sniper rifle slightly, and scanned the bedroom windows at the rear of the hotel. He saw movement in one of the windows on the first floor, above the car park, and increased the magnification on the scope a couple of clicks. Through the high-quality Zeiss optics, the face of the fair-haired man in the hotel room sprang into view.
‘Contact,’ Dekker radioed. ‘First floor, second window from the left. Identity confirmed.’
Inside the Hostellerie de la Poste, Richter picked up the packet of ‘Secret’ papers, tucked the faked SVR pass into his jacket pocket, locked the room door and headed along the landing and down the stairs. He crossed the hall and entered the empty lounge, sitting down at a round table in one corner, which offered a clear view of the room. He ordered a Coke in halting and guttural French from the barman, since he seemed to have been drinking coffee all day and thought he could do with a change.
As the Coke arrived, so did two other men, and Richter immediately knew who they were. They were similar in appearance — about six feet tall, dark hair, solidly built, and wearing black shoes and grey suits — and ordered drinks at the bar before turning round to face Richter.
Then they walked over to stand side by side in front of his table.
‘Are you Mr Markov?’ one asked, in English.
Richter inclined his head slightly. ‘Markov, da. Anatoli Markov.’
‘Do you speak any English?’ the same man continued, very slowly and clearly.
Richter shook his head. ‘No English, no,’ he said. Let the buggers work for it, he thought.
‘No problem,’ the man said, switching smoothly into Russian with, Richter thought, just a hint of a Georgian accent. ‘My name is Richard Hughes and my colleague here is David Wallis. Do you have any identification on you? A passport, perhaps?’
Richter shook his head. ‘I was stationed in Moscow,’ he said. ‘So I had only my internal passport, and I left that in Russia.’
‘So how did you get out of the country?’ Wallis asked.
‘Friends,’ Richter said. ‘Few borders present a problem if you have friends.’
‘You worked at Yasenevo,’ Hughes said, ‘so do you still have your building pass?’
‘Yes.’ Richter reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and held up the buff-coloured plastic card. ‘You can look,’ he said, ‘but not touch.’
‘Can we take a picture of it?’
‘Of course.’
‘Good.’ The two men sat down at the table, and Hughes gestured to Wallis, who produced a small digital camera from his pocket. Richter obligingly placed the card on the table and waited while Wallis took two pictures of it, the camera flashing each time. Then Richter turned it over to allow the SIS officer to photograph the reverse side.
‘Right,’ said Hughes, pointing at the envelope on the seat beside Richter. ‘We understand you have some papers with you. Are they in that envelope, perhaps?’
‘Some are, but some I have elsewhere, in safe keeping.’
‘May we see them?’ Wallis asked.
‘No, not yet. I was expecting to be contacted here by somebody from British intelligence. I have shown you my identification, but I still do not know exactly who you two are. I will offer you nothing else until I am satisfied with your credentials.’
Wallis glanced at Hughes, then shrugged his shoulders.
‘Very well.’ Both men produced small leather wallets and placed them on the table in front of Richter, who studied them with genuine interest, never having seen an SIS officer’s identification before. He took out a pen and notebook and carefully copied down the two names. Then he slid the wallets back towards their owners, and sat back in his chair.
‘So, Gospodin Wallis and Gospodin Hughes, that tells me your names and who you work for, but I still do not know what authority you have. If you are satisfied with who I am, is either of you senior enough to offer me asylum?’
Again Wallis and Hughes exchanged glances.
‘That’s not the way it works, Anatoli,’ Hughes said. ‘I think we’re satisfied with your identity, but there’s a long way to go before we even start talking about asylum. We need to be certain that the information you have brought out with you is important enough to make it worth our while sending you to Britain, then setting up a new identity for you, teaching you English, providing enough money for you to live on — and all the rest of it. And that means we have to see the product, in order to assess it.’
‘The product?’ Richter asked, a puzzled frown appearing.
‘The papers you brought with you from Yasenevo.’
Richter looked from one to the other, then nodded in understanding.
‘I will show you the first page only,’ he said, ‘and that is all. No touching, no pictures, OK?’