A total of fifteen Top Secret files had clearly been accessed, but all record of that access had then apparently been removed, so she had no idea which officer was responsible. She had only detected this intrusion because, on each of the files she’d checked, the date and time of the last access was recorded, and on those particular files the time stamp didn’t match the last time actually recorded in the access record — which had to mean somebody had tampered with it.
That, Raya explained in her email, didn’t really make sense, because whoever had looked at the file clearly possessed the correct security clearance, otherwise he wouldn’t have been able to open it. And if he had the right clearance, why did he then try to cover his tracks? The evidence only made sense in one context: the perpetrator didn’t want anyone to know he’d looked at the files, because he was doing something with the information they contained, and that suggested some form of espionage.
Then Raya claimed to have inspected the communication records, purely as another obvious check she could carry out, and had found an anomaly there as well. Several lengthy calls had been made over the last three months from an office in Yasenevo to a Moscow number. The problem was that the office in question was unlocked, unoccupied and not assigned to anyone, so she had no idea who had been responsible for these calls. And when she then tried to run a check on the Moscow number, it was unlisted.
She’d gone into the vacant office to look around, but found nothing. As Raya had emerged, she noticed a figure at the far end of the corridor, apparently watching her, but too far away to identify. And it was that same evening, just before she got home, that the attempt on her life had taken place. Whoever was driving the car had clearly had access to her personnel records at Yasenevo, in order to have discovered her address, and that meant the treachery must reach into the highest levels of the SVR, and this was what Raya claimed had made her decide to run.
‘There’s a lot of information here,’ Abramov repeated. ‘Prudence dictates that we at least check what she’s saying.’
‘That would be a complete waste of time and effort,’ Zharkov snapped. ‘And it would also divert our attention from the main task, which is finding Kosov and dragging her back here. In this matter, “prudence”, as you put it, is whatever I decide to do.’ He jabbed a finger at the computer screen. ‘This is pure fiction, none of it ever happened. Look at the inconsistencies. She decides to look in the empty office, and the supposed traitor just happens to be in a position to see her? Rubbish. And if there really was an attempt to run her down outside her apartment, the driver obviously had to know where she lived, so why didn’t he enter the building and finish the job?
‘No, none of this is real. It’s just Kosov trying to sow doubts in our minds over her own treachery. But I promise you this. When we’ve got her strapped naked on a table in the basement of the Lubyanka, with electrodes hitched to her nipples and vagina, if she’s still able to claim that all this really took place, then I might have some further checks run.’
Abramov felt a chill run down his spine as he listened, because he knew Zharkov was absolutely serious. If his minions did manage to find her, and brought her back to Moscow alive, Raya would end her short life in one of the sound-proof cellars in the Lubyanka, begging for a quick death.
‘This will be fine,’ said Raya, as Mario pulled the Fiat to a stop close to the centre of a small seaside resort.
They’d driven through the place once already, Raya keeping a sharp lookout for signs of hostile activity, but the village appeared totally normal and unthreatening, It was simply a typical Italian seaside community, and she just hoped that, thanks to Mario and their ‘arrangement’, she’d managed to travel further and faster than the Russian security personnel would have expected.
The large piazza situated near the centre would be ideal as a rendezvous, and all around there were plenty of cafes, bars and shops she could duck into, if she needed to.
‘Are you sure, Raya?’
‘Absolutely.’ She leant across to him and kissed him firmly on the lips. ‘Thank you for everything, Mario. It’s been a great weekend, and I’m really glad we met up. Now, please go.’
The Italian still looked unhappy as Raya grabbed her bag and opened the passenger door.
‘You’ll be OK?’ he asked. ‘This is the right place?’
‘I’ll be fine.’ Raya nodded. ‘I’ve two small final favours to ask you, though,’ she said.
‘Anything. Just name it.’
‘First, don’t believe everything you read in the papers or see on television. Second, don’t tell anyone you saw me.’
‘What?’ Mario’s face clouded. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘You will, Mario, you will. Just remember what I said. Now, goodbye, and thanks again for everything.’ She closed the door firmly and stepped back onto the pavement.
The Italian stared at her for a few more seconds, his expression troubled, then he gave her a smile and a wave. As he drove away slowly down the street, Raya gave him a final wave, then she turned away, choking back a sob. Mario was a decent human being, and she just hoped that this fleeting contact wouldn’t land him in trouble with the carabinieri or, much worse, with the Russians.
She checked behind her once more, but the Fiat had disappeared. Now she had her own preparations to make. There were numerous tourist shops nearby, and she picked the largest one she could find, relying on the number of people milling about inside. As she rummaged around the racks of clothing and accessories, she was very conscious that she had extremely limited funds. But she bought a cavernous white shoulder bag to replace the one she was carrying — the same overnight bag that must have given her away at the airport.
Then she picked out a large floppy-brimmed hat that would completely overshadow her face, and the biggest and darkest pair of sunglasses on the rack. After checking the prices of the items she’d selected, she decided she could just about afford a light jacket as well. Together, these purchases would radically change her appearance — to the extent, she hoped, that nobody would be able to recognize her.
After that she walked around the town until she found a crowded cafe, realizing that safety lay in numbers. She ordered a caffè latte and took just a few sips, then headed for the toilets at the rear. A few minutes later she emerged, in a change of jacket, and with her overnight bag wadded up inside the new shoulder bag. As expected, nobody at the bar gave her transformation a second look.
When she’d finished the coffee, she opened the bag, pulled out the new hat and sunglasses and, with a muttered grazie to the barman, walked outside. On a quiet side street, she tossed her overnight bag into a rubbish bin, then walked slowly on through the neighbouring Piazza Centrale, working out the details of the crucial rendezvous.
A few minutes later she turned on her mobile and nodded when she saw a message from the British man who’d been sent to meet her. Immediately she composed her reply and pressed the Send button. When that was done, she turned off the phone, well aware that, as long as it was switched on, her position would be announced to anyone with access to the cellular service provider. With the power off, on the other hand, she was invisible.