‘At a service area on the autostrada north-east of Chivasso,’ Dekker said. ‘That’s about fifteen or twenty miles from Turin. You were right about the hotel, but we need to talk face to face, just in case anyone’s listening in. Walls have ears, Echelon, and all that. So where do you want to meet?’
Richter looked at the road map he held in his left hand. ‘There’s a town named Roure about halfway between Turin and the French border. We’ll be at the first cafe on the right-hand side of the road after you enter the place from the east.’
‘You’ve been there before?’ Dekker asked.
‘No, never. But this is Italy, so there will be a lot of cafes there, and there’s bound to be one on that side of the road. We’ve got about the same distance to go as you have, so we should arrive at about the same time.’
‘Got it. I’ll see you there.’
Richter climbed back into the Ford, started the engine and pulled away from the kerb.
Raya eyed him from the passenger seat. ‘Now what?’ she asked.
‘Not good news, but I’ll let Colin Dekker explain when we meet him.’
‘You do trust this man Dekker?’ Raya sounded uncertain.
‘As much as I trust anyone else in this business, yes. He’s SAS, and nothing to do with British intelligence. He was only sent out here because he’s an expert sniper, and Simpson, who recruited me, wanted to make sure that the rat we were trying to trap wouldn’t be able to walk away. Don’t forget, he’s also the reason we’re still free. If he hadn’t stopped that man in the square in Nervi, you’d now be on a flight back to Moscow, and I’d probably be dead. So, yes, I do trust him.’
A little over an hour later, Richter stopped the Ford about fifty yards from a small cafe that lay just off the street, on the right-hand side. The paved area in front of it was crowded with round plastic tables and matching chairs, and a small thicket of ‘Martini’ umbrellas had already been unfurled to provide some shade from the bright morning sunshine.
As Richter and Raya approached, a stocky man wearing a light jacket stood up and waved to them. Richter angled across to join him at his table.
‘Raya, meet Colin Dekker, our watchful shadow. Colin, this is Raya Kosov — or “Yuri”, if you prefer.’
Dekker grinned at her. ‘No, I definitely prefer “Raya”,’ he said.
‘Are we safe meeting here?’ Richter asked.
‘Probably. It’s a public place and we’re both carrying personal weapons. More importantly, you used a public call box and I never gave Simpson, or anyone else, the number of my mobile phone. Though I suppose they could find it out from Hereford, but in that case my boss would call to give me a heads-up. And he hasn’t rung me yet, but keep your eyes open anyway.’
They all sat down and, after a few seconds, a waiter wandered over to take their order.
As soon as he was out of earshot again, Dekker leaned forward. ‘You were right, Paul,’ he said.
‘What happened?’
‘I got to Lodi just after eight-thirty, and found a spot where I could park the car and watch the Hotel San Pietro. Just before ten, two black Alfa saloons appeared in the street, and drove past the place twice. Then they parked up, one either side of the building, and two men got out of one of them. They headed down the street running to one side of the hotel, presumably to cover the rear of the building. A minute or so later, another four men climbed out of the cars. Two of them went inside the hotel, while the other two remained to cover the front.’
‘Presumably they then checked the register and found we weren’t there?’
‘Something simpler and more effective than that, because obviously you might have registered under false names. They needed the building totally cleared, so about thirty seconds later one of them set off the fire alarm. Everyone, guests and staff alike, piled out onto the pavement outside. Those guys checked every woman under forty, and also every man. They each held a sheet of paper, which I guess had Raya’s photograph on it. If you’d actually been there, they’d have found you for sure.’
‘Who were they?’ Richter asked, though he already knew the answer.
‘They certainly weren’t your friendly Italian carabinieri,’ Dekker said. ‘None of them was wearing a uniform, and they really hustled the people around, obviously in a big hurry to get things done. A couple of men tried arguing, and they just flattened them with a single blow each time. Very competent. Those guys were obviously really experienced at close combat, so I’m guessing they weren’t local thugs. More likely some of the professional hoods Moscow Centre flew out to find Raya and drag her back to Yasenevo.’
Raya shivered on hearing his words.
‘Anyway,’ Dekker went on, ‘they got everyone out of that place, checked their identities, realized that you and Yuri weren’t there, and buggered off just ahead of the local fire brigade and the police. OK, that’s the good news. Now the bad news is that you were right: the only person who knew where you were supposed to be staying in Lodi last night was that pink bastard Richard Simpson. Either he passed the information on to Moscow himself or he told somebody, and they did. Either way, you have to assume that Simpson’s organization or the SIS, or maybe both, has been penetrated by the Russians.’
Richter nodded. ‘That ties up with what Raya’s already told me. She says the SIS has been compromised by two people. Stanway was obviously one of them, but it sounds as if the other one is still in place, and still active. And, you’re right, it could be Richard Simpson, but I personally doubt that. Apart from anything else, he isn’t actually a part of SIS.’
‘Well, somebody told Moscow, that’s for sure, and Simpson or his secret squirrel outfit had to be the conduit, at the very least. Unless there’s a tap on that number you called him on, of course.’
Richter shrugged. ‘I remember reading somewhere that the world of espionage and counter-espionage was known as the “wilderness of mirrors”, and I’m beginning to see exactly what the author meant. If you look at it a certain way, any truth can also be a lie, and each reflection shows something slightly different from the original. So who the hell can you trust?’
‘That’s a bloody good question,’ Dekker said, ‘but you’ll have to work out the answer for yourself. Personally, I don’t think Richard Simpson should be anywhere near the top of your list, but that’s your decision. More importantly, we need to decide what to do next — though I guess that getting out of Italy is pretty high on your agenda.’
‘Definitely.’ Raya nodded. ‘I won’t feel safe until we’re in France, and maybe not even then.’ She glanced round the cafe nervously, but saw nothing there to alarm her.
‘Yes, we need to get over the border,’ Richter agreed, ‘but I don’t want to just drive towards it along an ordinary road, because the Italians will have probably mounted watchers on most of the border crossings, and once we get stuck in a queue of vehicles, there’s no way out. I know European borders are supposed to be open these days, but because the Russians have involved the Eyeties, there are almost certainly some kind of checks now in place.’
‘So what can we do?’ Raya asked.
‘We lose one of the cars, and then we split up,’ Richter said, opening a road map on the table in front of him. ‘We’re here.’ He pointed out Roure. ‘The road we’re sitting beside follows the course of the River Chisone and runs in a semicircle northwards, and finishes up here’ — he pointed to a spot further to the west — ‘just beyond Sestriere, where it joins the main road. That road then becomes the Route Nationale 94 where it crosses the border into France, just east of Briançon.’