Lomas was instructed to warn and assist Stanway in any way he could, the message from Moscow stated, but ultimately the British agent was considered expendable. The greater prize was the other agent, the more senior and much more important man, and Lomas was instructed to contact him as soon as possible, and brief him fully on the defection. Moscow Centre would keep Lomas fully informed about the SVR’s pursuit of the traitor Raya Kosov, and it was hoped they would have her in custody within days or even hours, in which case the crisis would be over.
The final paragraph contained explicit instructions regarding what Lomas must do should Kosov somehow manage to make contact with any British intelligence organization or, even worse, actually arrive on British shores. He smiled when he read that section. That might prove to be the most entertaining part of the entire operation.
‘The light’s been switched on,’ Dekker said urgently into his microphone, though there was nothing Adamson could do from where he was. And little enough that Dekker could do either, since his orders were perfectly clear.
He watched a figure enter the room, some kind of semi-automatic pistol in his right hand, then move to one side, out of sight of the open window.
‘Tango One’s in the room, but now out of sight. Standby. And there’s somebody else there as well.’
As Stanway levelled the pistol, and took a couple of cautious steps across the room, he suddenly became aware of a presence behind him. He half turned, swinging the pistol towards the man who seemed to have materialized from nowhere. But he was too late… far, far too late.
The fair-haired man raised some kind of tube towards Stanway’s face, and suddenly he was enveloped in an eye-stinging spray that threatened to choke him. And then the agony was compounded when some brutally hard object smashed down on his right forearm. He could actually hear the crack of the bones breaking.
In a reflex action, he squeezed the trigger, and the pistol bucked once and tumbled from his hand. Then the sudden sharp pain of his injury overwhelmed him, and he screamed in a long, blubbering wail of utter and total agony.
Half-blinded and staggering, Stanway felt a sudden hard shove into his stomach and he stumbled backwards, tripped over the carpet, and landed with a crash on the floor. But his suffering wasn’t over, even then. He heard a click from somewhere nearby, a powerful hand seized his left wrist firmly, and then a blade of some kind was driven clean through his hand, pinning it to the wooden floor.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ Adamson demanded. ‘I heard a shot and a scream. Was that Richter or Gecko?’
In his agitation, he’d forgotten to use both code words.
‘I heard it, too, but didn’t see what happened,’ Dekker replied. ‘My view through that window is very restricted… Wait, just hang on.’
Through the telescopic sight, Dekker saw a figure move back into view at the window. Even though the man was back-lit, he could still tell that it was Richter. The figure waved, then dangled what appeared to be a set of keys out of the window.
Dekker grinned to himself and stood up. The show was over.
‘Get mobile, Whisky,’ he said. ‘Target Romeo is fine. Call Simpson again and tell him that the trap is sprung. It’s time to go down there and see what sort of a rat he managed to catch. If you get there before me, go around to the back of the hotel. Romeo’ll throw you down a set of keys, so you can let yourself in.’
Ten minutes later, Dekker and Adamson were both standing in Richter’s hotel room, looking down at the moaning figure lying on the floor. His right arm was badly broken, and his left hand pinned to the bare floorboards by the five-inch blade of the flick knife Richter had bought that same afternoon in Ax. The man was still conscious and obviously in pain, a rough gag thrust into his mouth and held in place with a binding of adhesive tape around his head.
Richter himself was lying comfortably on the bed, with Stanway’s Browning resting on the bedside table right next to him.
‘What did you use?’ Colin Dekker asked. ‘Was it mace or something?’
‘Nothing so exotic,’ Richter replied. ‘Just good old-fashioned hairspray. It has much the same effect, or at least for a few seconds, and that’s normally all you need. Oh, thanks for the warning, by the way — the laser, I mean. That was a big help. Once I knew this comedian was on his way, I stood by the window listening, so I heard him on the gravel outside. I’m not sure I would have detected it, if I’d still been lying on the bed.’
‘You were waiting somewhere outside the room for him?’
Richter nodded. ‘As soon as it got quiet in the hotel tonight, I walked down to reception, borrowed the key for the room opposite and unlocked the door. Then I put the key back so he’d know where to find me. Once I was sure he was coming in, I walked across the hall and waited inside.’
Dekker nodded. Richter’s other improvisation in weaponry was a crowbar leaning against the wall beside the door.
‘You don’t fuck about, do you?’ the SAS officer suggested, with a slight smile. He pointed at the flick knife, and the blood still welling from the savage wound and pooling around the man’s hand.
Richter shook his head. ‘No, not when people are trying to kill me. You got a problem with that?’
Dekker smiled again. ‘Hell, no,’ he said, ‘I’m on your side. As far as I’m concerned you could have used a couple of flick knives and a nail gun, too, and just crucified the bastard. And if I’d been in here myself, I’d have helped you do it.’
‘It doesn’t sound as if you fuck about either,’ Richter said. ‘But it’ll be interesting to hear what Simpson has to say about all this.’
‘He should be on his way now,’ Adamson said, sticking his head out of the door as they heard footsteps on the landing. ‘No, it’s the hotel proprietor. I’ll go and talk to him, and head him off. I’ve left the front door open, by the way.’
‘What was your brief?’ Richter asked, as Adamson headed away along the corridor.
‘Simple,’ Dekker replied. ‘Observation of the target room, meaning your hotel room, then I was supposed to take this guy down if he managed to get away safely from the hotel. Preferably leaving him in a fit state to talk, of course. But you seem to have achieved that all on your own, so you’ve saved the Queen the price of a rifle bullet.’
‘I hope she’ll be pleased,’ Richter muttered. ‘You people from Hereford?’
‘Good guess,’ Dekker nodded. ‘I’m Regiment, but the other bloke, Adamson, he’s SIS, a spook, sent along just to hold my hand and smooth the way with the Frogs because I don’t speak French. My job’s simple — I just shoot the bad guys.’
Footsteps again approached along the corridor, this time brisk and purposeful.
‘That sounds like our esteemed leader,’ Dekker said, ‘so you’d better mind your manners.’
Three seconds later, Richard Simpson strode into the room, looking as fresh and immaculate as ever. He glanced at Dekker, then at the figure moaning on the floor, and finally at Richter.
‘Dear God,’ he said. ‘What the fuck happened here?’
‘I’d have thought that was obvious,’ Richter said, the tone of his voice low and dangerous. ‘You set me up as a Judas goat… No, in fact that’s wrong. A Judas goat is trained to lead other animals to slaughter, but is the one animal that’s always spared. In this case you didn’t give a flying fuck whether I lived or died. You just used me as bait, as an unarmed target for this comedian. Then I suppose, once he’d shot my head off, you’d have called the French plods and had him arrested? Devious little pink bastard, aren’t you?’