‘It could be either, but my guess is France. It’s a huge country, and she’d find it real easy to lose herself there. And she’d only have one border to get over, too — apart from the Channel crossing to Britain.’
‘So what can we do?’ Richards asked. ‘It’s a border, about a hundred and fifty miles long, and she could decide to cross it pretty much anywhere. On any available roads, I mean. Otherwise, a lot of the terrain is really mountainous, because of the Alps, and those areas wouldn’t be easily passable.’
‘I think we need some help from above,’ Westwood decided, ‘and I’m not talking about God. Get me a line to Langley.’
Major Yuri Abramov had made a decision. He still wasn’t exactly sure of the game Raya had been playing, or how seriously he — or the higher echelons of the SVR — should be taking her claim to have discovered a potential traitor at Yasenevo. But he was certain that there must be an investigation, which was something that Colonel Zharkov seemed peculiarly reluctant to agree to.
He also knew that the only way to start the ball rolling was to go over Zharkov’s head, and he had little doubt how the colonel would react if he did. But he felt he owed Raya that much and, being network manager, he did have a channel he could use. Because of the crucial importance of database security on the Yasenevo computer system, he was authorized to contact the most senior security officer directly, bypassing all the normal bureaucratic channels of communication.
All he needed was access to a computer, and now Zharkov had left the office for a few minutes, he had the chance he needed.
Quickly, Abramov opened his internal email account, selected the correct address, security classification and routing priority, and typed a five-line message. When he’d finished, he paused for a few seconds to check what he’d written. Then, just as he heard footsteps approaching down the corridor, he pressed the Send button, and watched as the message vanished from his screen.
Just over half an hour later, Westwood replaced the phone.
‘Success?’ Richards asked.
‘Yes.’ Westwood nodded. ‘Langley will be making a formal request to the NRO for all of the “Advanced Crystal” birds — the KH-12 satellites — to concentrate on northern Italy during their next passes, and until further notice.’
Located in Chantilly, Virginia, the National Reconnaissance Office was responsible for designing, building, and operating all the spy satellites sanctioned by the United States government. The designation ‘KH-12’ given to the Advanced Crystal vehicles — also known as ‘Ikon’, ‘Improved Kennan’ or ‘Key Hole’ — was unofficial. Paranoid about security, the NRO now allocated a random-number designation to the satellites it controlled, following repeated press and media references to earlier vehicles in the ‘KH’ series. The final known official use of the ‘KH’ designation was the KH-11 Kennan satellite series, the last one of which, KH-11/10, was launched on 1 March 1990 as part of the STS-36 mission of the Space Shuttle Atlantis. The very first KH-12 launch was by Titan IV rocket from Vandenberg Air Force Base on 28 November 1992, and the last known vehicle in the series, still in orbit, was KH-12/6, launched on 19 October 2005 from the same location.
‘So we have a handful of birds in orbit,’ Richards observed, doubt evident in his voice. ‘I’m not sure how much use a bunch of satellites a couple of hundred miles up is going to be if we’re looking for one woman on the ground somewhere in Italy.’
‘It won’t be,’ Westwood said, ‘but what they will do is allow us to see any incidents that take place on the border without having to rely on your contacts in the carabinieri to tell us about them. That’s only as long as one of the Ikon birds is within range, obviously. And if we do see anything happening that looks interesting, I’ve got a U2 sitting on the ground at Aviano ready to launch at fifteen minutes’ notice. It’s a NASA cab that’s over here to do high-level atmospheric sampling, but it’s still got all its cameras installed, and they’re dry rather than wet, so it can send the images direct into the TDRSS network. That means Langley will receive them within minutes, and can then squirt them straight over here.’
The Tracking and Data Relay Satellite System network was a system of communication satellites designed to transfer data from surveillance vehicles — which might currently be on the opposite side of the planet to the United States — to American ground stations as quickly as possible.
‘Pretty impressive stuff, bearing in mind that Kosov is clearly defecting to the British rather than to us. Just glad I’m not picking up the tab for that lot. But you really think she’s important enough to justify all this?’
Westwood grinned at him. ‘If she can give us an inside line into Yasenevo, then definitely. The British must be satisfied with her dowry, otherwise they wouldn’t even be trying to get her out of Italy.’
‘But I thought you said they’d denied all knowledge of her?’
‘They did, and that’s why I’m sure they’re doing whatever they can to find her before the Russian hit squads do. Just in case we can pick her up before the Brits get their act together, I’ve also got a Lear 60 on its way over here. That’ll land at Fiumicino this evening, and it’ll wait there until further notice.’
He picked up the phone. ‘I think it’s time to talk to the Brits again — just to register our interest, as it were.’
Chapter Nineteen
The Café Belvedere was located in the Piazza Centrale, a reasonably large open space with a street running through the middle. Close to the centre of the small town, it was more or less surrounded by three- and four-storey buildings, which were a mix of commercial and residential properties. Colin Dekker had parked his car in a side street about a hundred yards away from the square, and then carried out a quick surveillance as he checked possible firing angles.
The buildings around the square were too close together for his liking, but a street that opened up on one side of the piazza offered quite a clear view of the Café Belvedere itself. He strolled along it and quickly picked out one building that looked the most promising. It was an old and somewhat battered three-storey residential block, containing probably four apartments per floor, and with an open roof where the residents could hang out their washing. As he eyed the top of the building, he could see the edge of a blue sheet flapping in the light wind that was blowing off the Gulf of Genoa.
It was probably his best option, so Dekker strode confidently along the pavement and entered the building through its unlocked main door. There was no lift, so he took the stairs. Behind another door, on the top landing, he found a narrow flight of stairs leading upwards to the roof.
Half a dozen washing lines were strung between upright steel posts, and a low parapet extended around the edge of the roof, about three feet high. In one corner stood a small stone-built shed with a steel door and two windows. Peering through one of the windows, Dekker could see ladders, scaffold poles, paint pots and other equipment, so presumably it was used for storing materials for maintenance of the building.
More importantly, the space between one side of the shed and the parapet offered an excellent view of most of the piazza at the far end of the street. He could see the whole of the Café Belvedere, and for a reasonable distance to either side of it. It was probably as good a vantage point as he was likely to find.