Ahead of the aircraft, a group of four peaks loomed up, in an almost square formation. The westerly pair were the ones Richter had decided to fly between — Pointe de Charbonnel and L’Albaron — and as the helicopter passed down their port side, about four miles away, he started easing the Piper into a gentle left-hand turn onto a northwesterly heading. Looking down, he saw two small towns almost directly below them. From the chart, they looked like Margone and Usseglio, both on the banks of the Stura di Viù river, which told him exactly where they now were. His new course would take them across the French border as quickly as possible, and also allow him to keep an eye on the helicopter, just in case its crew spotted them.
‘I think that peak is probably Croix-Rousse,’ Dekker said, looking at the chart and mangling the pronunciation. ‘And if it is, it’s actually on the border itself. So, once we get beyond that, we should start smelling the garlic.’
Below and behind them, the helicopter continued on its southbound track, apparently oblivious to their presence overhead.
In fairness to Richter, he had his hands full. He was piloting an aircraft he’d never flown before, and was still getting used to its instruments and controls. He was flying over unfamiliar and potentially hostile territory, without any kind of flight plan or even a clear idea of where he was going. And a lot of his attention was focused on the helicopter below them.
Which was why he didn’t see the Aeronautica Militare Aermacchi MB-339 until it roared past their right-hand wing tip.
Chapter Twenty-Three
‘Even for an administrator, you’ve been very stupid,’ Zharkov snapped, sitting down opposite Abramov. ‘What did you think you could achieve by approaching the general directly?’
‘I hoped he would make you do your job properly,’ Abramov replied, with spirit, hoping his action had wrong-footed this man. ‘I hoped he would order you to carry out a proper investigation here at Yasenevo, and to check what Raya Kosov claims to have discovered. And have you found her?’
For the first time since he had met Zharkov, the colonel looked unsure of himself, and Abramov guessed that he’d faced a fairly hostile reception from the general in charge of SVR security. His manner also suggested his men had failed to track down Raya Kosov, which the colonel’s next words confirmed.
‘Not yet. But we know roughly where she is, and we should have her by the end of the day.’
Abramov smiled inwardly at the man’s response, recognizing that Zharkov probably still had almost no idea where Raya had gone to ground, because if he had, she would already be in custody.
‘So where is she?’ he asked.
‘Northern Italy. We have all the borders covered, and our people there are working closely with the Italian police. Every means of transport she could possibly use is being monitored. She won’t get out of the country, that I can assure you. Now, Abramov, since you suggested Kosov’s ridiculous allegations are worth investigating, you can help us while we do so.’
‘Does this mean you no longer believe I was involved in her defection — or whatever you’re now calling it?’
Zharkov shook his head. ‘The general seems convinced of your innocence, but I do not share his view. I will be watching you very carefully from now on. I have decided to let you assist in the investigation only because you are familiar with the security procedures and computer systems, but everything you do will be checked and double-checked.’
‘Where do you want me to start? With the Top Secret files?’
‘No, I’ve already assigned one of my men to check those. You can inspect this office Kosov claimed somebody was using illegally, and find out exactly where this Moscow telephone number is located.’
Checking the number didn’t take long, and within a few minutes Abramov knew that the telephone which the unknown traitor — for, unlike Zharkov, he was prepared to accept that Raya had been telling the truth, until unambiguous evidence was provided to the contrary — had dialled, from Yasenevo, terminated in an office within the Lubyanka, in central Moscow.
‘The number’s in the Lubyanka?’ Zharkov asked yet again.
‘That’s what the trace reports, yes,’ Abramov replied.
‘Right, contact the Lubyanka security staff and tell them to identify which office that telephone is located in, and to go there immediately. Anyone they find in the room is to be arrested. If it’s empty, they’re to seal it pending my arrival.’ Zharkov stood up and walked to the door, then turned back to glare at Abramov. ‘Get up,’ he snapped. ‘You can come along as well.’
Andrew Lomas had received three more ‘wrong number’ calls, each providing him, through the Russian website, with a continuing update of information on the hunt for Raya Kosov.
The last message had been the most encouraging. Moscow, through the Russian Embassy in Rome, had enlisted the help of the Italian police and security forces, and this had now paid dividends. A car had been spotted close to the French border and, when a police officer had tried to stop the vehicle, the driver had accelerated away. Then both of the pursuing vehicles had been immobilized by two extremely accurate rifle shots, which was almost a confirmation that Raya Kosov was the fugitive inside the car. Lomas already knew, from a brief telephone call to his other asset, both of them using public phones, that the defecting officer was now accompanied by an ex-military pilot called Paul Richter, and by a specialist sniper from the SAS.
The Italians hadn’t caught Kosov yet, but the net was certainly tightening around her. The pursuers now knew, to within a mile or so, exactly where she was, and could concentrate all their resources in that area. The next message, Lomas was confident, would merely confirm that she had finally been captured. And then he, and more importantly, his senior asset in the SIS, a man code-named ‘Nick’, could relax. ‘Nick’ sounded suitably English, but was actually a contraction of Vnutrennik, a Russian word meaning ‘insider’, and was specifically used to mean a penetration agent. In this case, the use of this word was extraordinarily accurate.
The Piper rocked slightly sideways in the turbulence caused by the jet fighter powering past it, and Richter put both hands back on the control yoke.
‘Shit!’ Dekker said, and automatically reached for the case containing his sniper rifle.
Richter glanced sideways, saw what he was doing, and shook his head. ‘Forget it. Now he’s shown us that he’s here, he’ll stay behind us, where we’re nicely within range of whatever weapons he’s carrying. And any second now he’ll call and tell us what he wants us to do.’
Dekker stared out of the side window. The Aermacchi was in a tight right-hand turn that would bring it up behind the Piper.
‘How will he know what frequency we’re on?’
‘He’ll call us on Guard, which is twelve-fifteen megahertz. All civil aircraft are supposed to monitor it.’
The radio speaker suddenly crackled, and a heavily accented voice filled the cabin. ‘Unidentified aircraft, you are instructed to turn onto a heading of one one zero immediately, and commence descent.’
‘What are we going to do?’ Raya asked, her voice choking with fear.
‘Well, not what he tells us, that’s for sure,’ Richter said. ‘Not after all we’ve already been through.’
‘But that’s a jet fighter, for fuck’s sake,’ Dekker snapped. ‘How the hell are you going to outrun it? He’ll be all over us.’