He parked near the casino at the southern end of the town centre, and wandered off into the side streets situated on the west side of the main road. He was looking for a particular kind of shop, and soon he found just what he was looking for. He made two inexpensive purchases there, both of which he tucked into a large plastic bag. Then he walked back towards his car, but stopped off at a small supermarket to buy the final item he needed.
Back outside the casino, he glanced around for the Renault Laguna, but saw neither the car nor its driver, though he felt sure he was still under surveillance from some quarter. After that he drove back to the Hostellerie de la Poste, to begin his own preparations for whatever the night might have in store.
The moment the doors slid open at Stazione Trastevere, Raya stood up and moved towards them. But she didn’t immediately alight, and for several seconds just stared up and down the platform, looking out for any sign of danger. But all she saw was the bustle of passengers leaving the train, pushing their way through equally large crowds of people who were trying to get on it. Nobody stood out as a potential threat, but then, she realized, stepping down onto the platform, if the SVR were covering this station they’d most likely be waiting for her outside.
She paused at the station entrance, trying to check the street beyond, but she saw nothing to worry her, apart from the sheer volume of urban traffic. Cars were everywhere, as well as countless scooters and mopeds weaving in and out of the dense traffic, the sound of their buzz-saw exhausts ripping through the air as a counterpoint to the deep bass rumble of the diesel engines of trucks.
What she needed now was a bus or something else to get her away quickly from the station. Raya shot a final look in both directions, then stepped warily out into the street. A short distance away she spotted a tabacchi, or tobacconist, where she knew she could buy a bus ticket. Her rudimentary Italian proved unnecessary, as the proprietor spoke enough English to understand exactly what she wanted. A couple of minutes later she emerged clutching a comprehensive ticket that was good for all-day unlimited travel on buses, trams and the Rome metro. All she had to do then was find a bus or a tram or a metro station.
But, before she could make a move, a dark-coloured saloon car swept past her and squealed to a halt directly outside the station. Two burly looking men got out and hurried over to the entrance, their heads swivelling left and right as they scanned the passengers emerging. Raya didn’t need telling who they might be or who they were looking for.
Her heart thundering in her chest, she paused deliberately for a few seconds outside the tabacchi, peering in the window and using the reflection in the glass to watch what was happening in the station opposite.
One man had stopped directly in front, where he would be able to see everyone who used the main exit. The second man forced his way through the crowds and vanished inside the station itself. The reflection in the tabacchi window was slightly distorted, and nothing like as clear as a real mirror, so Raya couldn’t see what the driver of the car was up to: whether he was focusing his attention on the station, or scanning the people moving along the street.
Forcing herself to move slowly, Raya turned away to walk in the opposite direction, her senses preternaturally alert for the first shouted order that would mean one of them had spotted her. After several paces, she risked a quick glance over her shoulder.
Just then the driver, who had now climbed out of the vehicle and was standing beside it, with his door wide open, suddenly turned in her direction. Their eyes met, and in that instant Raya knew she’d been spotted.
A sudden yell followed immediately by an insistent blast on the car’s horn was all the confirmation she needed. She turned and ran, clutching the bag to her side, desperate to put some distance between herself and her pursuers.
Outside the station, the driver dropped back into his seat and slammed the car door shut. The engine was still running, and he immediately pulled the gear lever into reverse and began driving the car backwards up the street, into the teeth of oncoming traffic and weaving around cars and scooters as he went.
Even for Italian drivers, who generally seemed to regard any road signs as just part of the scenery, and tended to drive wherever and however they liked, this was too much. A frantic cacophony of blaring horns greeted his erratic progress, which then came to an abrupt halt when the rear of his vehicle encountered the front of an approaching cement lorry. The truck driver had no room to avoid the reversing car even if he’d wanted to, which he probably didn’t. So he just let the truck roll on until it struck the back of the reversing car with a satisfying crash. Then finally he applied the brakes.
Raya registered all this briefly as she ran, but it wasn’t the car that now bothered her. The man previously standing outside Stazione Trastevere had responded immediately to the yells of the car driver, and was now sprinting down the street towards her.
She risked another glance behind her. He was perhaps fifty yards back, and gaining steadily. Raya was no runner at the best of times, and her footwear — a pair of soft black leather shoes with kitten heels — would have been sufficient handicap even for a decent sprinter. She knew there was no chance of outrunning him, so she’d have to do something else.
Adamson’s mobile suddenly shrilled, almost startling him, and he reached over to retrieve it.
‘You don’t seem to be very good at this,’ Simpson declared, without preamble.
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means that Richter made you, and he even guessed you were here two-handed. The only thing he didn’t know was where exactly Dekker was positioned, but he assumed he’d be somewhere behind the hotel.’
‘I thought you told us Richter wasn’t a professional?’
‘He isn’t, and neither are you by the sound of it. Anyway, if Richter’s spotted you, it’s not too big a stretch of imagination to guess that Gecko might have as well. So stop pissing about and get the hell out of there, right now.’
‘What about Dekker, sir?’
‘He stays where he is,’ Simpson said. ‘I may be throwing Richter to the wolves, but I want Dekker out there to cover his back, and to take Gecko down if he gets the chance.’
‘I don’t think Dekker’s got any food or drink up there.’
‘That’s his problem, then. He’s SAS, isn’t he? Perhaps he can nibble on a few blades of grass or something, drink his own urine, that kind of thing. And it’ll only be for tonight, anyway, because if Gecko is here, that’s when he’ll have to strike.’
‘And where do you want me to go?’
‘Don’t tempt me.’ Simpson sounded extremely irritated. ‘Somewhere well away from the Hostellerie de la Poste, obviously. But if you can find a vantage point where you can still cover the building without erecting a large sign on the car announcing “This is a surveillance operation”, that would be good. Right, brief Dekker, then off you go.’
Raya took a deep breath and screamed as loudly as she could, and simultaneously angled herself slightly to one side of the pavement, a route that would take her close to the front of a cafe with several tables sitting outside.
Half a dozen young Italian men were already standing, their eyes fixed on the incomprehensible accident that had happened almost right in front of them. At the sound of distress they all spun round, taking in the scene in an instant. A young and pretty girl running for her life, pursued by a heavily built dark-suited man probably intent on rape or worse.