French gendarmes have a habit of lying in wait behind hedges and around blind corners, armed with radar guns to trap speeding motorists. Usually, by the time a driver has seen them, it’s too late, and his speed and registration number would already have been recorded. A demand for money would pop into his letter box a few days later.
It was a little over an hour after they’d left Aime, and just south of a village named Challes-les-Eaux, south-east of Chambéry, when Richter powered the Renault down a straight stretch of the D1006, and headed straight past two gendarmes leaning across the bonnet of a dark blue car. One of them was holding a radar gun.
‘Shit,’ he muttered, watching in his rear-view mirror. He wasn’t worried about a speeding fine, obviously, but he was certain the stolen car’s registration number would be widely circulated by now. Even as he watched, he saw the two men gesticulating wildly, before they hurried around and climbed into their car. Only seconds later, it was turning onto the road behind them.
‘Are you absolutely certain of your facts?’ General Morozov asked. He was the senior SVR security officer, and Zharkov’s direct superior.
Yuri Abramov nodded. ‘The number that the call diverter in the Lubyanka was set to contact is definitely the one listed in the directory for Colonel Zharkov’s apartment in Moscow. Those are the facts, sir, and I submit that they’re beyond dispute. Of course,’ Abramov added, ‘it’s possible that the directory was wrong, and that—’
‘No,’ the general interrupted. ‘I’ve already checked Zharkov’s personnel file, and that directory listing is accurate. It’s just that the colonel has always been considered one of my most trusted officers, and a man who I’ve always felt I could rely on absolutely. And now this.’
For a few seconds the general just sat in his chair, with arms resting on the wide desk in front of him, lost in thought and seeming almost to have forgotten that Abramov was still present.
Finally he roused himself. ‘Right,’ he said briskly, ‘so now we have to start investigating him, as well as repairing the damage caused by this disastrous defection of the Kosov woman.’
A thought suddenly occurred to Abramov. Knowing Raya’s undoubted ability with computer systems, he wondered if perhaps she could have rigged the call diverter to falsely implicate Colonel Zharkov. But, for her to do that, there must have been some contact between the two of them in the past, something that caused such serious friction that she’d dare attempt something like that. But, as far as he knew, Raya had never even met Zharkov, because they worked in entirely separate sections of the SVR. But Abramov realized he was obliged to at least voice his suspicions.
‘Sir, just a small point. Do you think there’s any possibility of the two incidents being related? Considering that our suspicions over the colonel have been raised simply by what Kosov said in her email.’
The general looked interested now. ‘You’re suggesting Kosov might be trying to get revenge on Zharkov for some reason?’
Abramov nodded.
‘I frankly doubt it,’ Morozov said. ‘I’ve already reviewed Zharkov’s file, and there’s no mention there of him even knowing she existed. But it might be worth checking her file as well, so I’ll get one of my officers to do that.’
‘And me, sir?’
‘You can assist with the investigation into Colonel Zharkov’s actions, since my team can probably make use of your specialist knowledge of the SVR computer systems.’
That sounded reasonable, but Abramov could read between the lines. Morozov had no intention of allowing him to check Raya Kosov’s personnel file, in case he added or deleted something that might be germane to her defection. And having Abramov on the team investigating Zharkov was simply a way of ensuring that the general and his staff could keep an eye on him.
But at least he wasn’t locked up in a room by himself any longer.
Chapter Twenty-Five
‘How far now, Colin?’ Richter asked urgently, getting as much speed as he could out of the Renault.
Dekker had been looking behind, but quickly glanced back at the map. ‘About ten miles, that’s all,’ he replied.
‘That car won’t catch us,’ Richter said, ‘but by now he’ll be radioing for back-up. Let’s hope there aren’t too many police cars between here and the airport.’
The road was virtually straight, but they were meeting more traffic now because of the built-up areas fast approaching, and Richter was forced to drop his speed.
‘There’s an airport,’ Raya said urgently, pointing to the right as they drove out of Challes-les-Eaux.
‘Yeah,’ Dekker replied, ‘but it’s the wrong one.’
‘That’s just a little civilian field,’ Richter added. ‘It’s probably used for gliders and light aircraft, that kind of thing. I doubt the runway’s anything like long enough to handle a Lear.’
‘Traffic lights ahead,’ Dekker said, ‘and go straight on.’
As they approached, Richter weaving past cars and vans whenever he could, the lights suddenly turned red. In his mirror, he could see the French police car maybe half a mile back, its headlamps on and roof lights flashing. Travelling quickly, it was now too close.
‘Hang on,’ he said, swerving around a slowing articulated lorry and pulling over into the right-hand lane. A horn sounded loudly behind him as the lorry driver expressed his displeasure.
Traffic was already driving in both directions across the junction, but Richter just powered ahead, past the red traffic lights. He hit the brakes hard as a white van passed a few feet in front of the Renault’s nose, then picked a gap in the crossing traffic and accelerated hard. The driver of a small grey Peugeot did an emergency stop as Richter shot across in front of him, but the driver behind him didn’t react as quickly. There was a rending crash as his vehicle smashed into the back of the Peugeot, but by then Richter was already well past.
‘That might help,’ he muttered, glancing back. ‘Nothing like a traffic accident in the middle of a junction to slow everything down.’
The road swung around to the left and straightened up, then the traffic lanes got narrower as they approached a roundabout.
‘Keep going straight,’ Dekker instructed. ‘There are three roundabouts, one after the other.’
As they drove around the third one, Richter spotted another police car, lights flashing, heading directly towards them, but it carried on straight along the road towards the junction where the crash had just occurred.
They were now close to the centre of Chambéry, where the traffic was getting much more congested. The bad news was that Richter had to slow right down, but on the other hand their car was now just one more anonymous Renault in a town filled with French-made vehicles, so spotting them was going to be much more difficult for the local gendarmes.
Dekker directed him onto the Avenue de la Boisse, a north-bound road that ran alongside a railway line and then past a station. ‘Stay on this road,’ he said, ‘and maybe keep the speed down a bit. We’re pretty close now, only about five miles away.’
They were still driving in a heavily built-up area, so Richter actually had little choice but to keep going with the flow of traffic. At the next intersection, following Dekker’s instructions, he pulled onto the north-bound autoroute. It was a non-toll section, which meant there were no payment booths where they could be stopped.
Richter wound the speed up as soon as they cleared the junction. A couple of miles later, he hit the brakes and pulled off the urban autoroute, and back onto a normal road which ran to the west of a village named Voglans.