One of the search team escorted Abramov back to his office, and stood watching while the major tried to analyse the diverter’s history. It was quickly clear to Abramov that somebody had wiped any earlier numbers from the device, and apart from the telephone number that he now knew belonged to Colonel Zharkov’s apartment, there was only one other recorded. He wrote it down on a piece of paper, then ran a check on the directory system. But that produced no information and, wherever that particular number terminated, it was not a location known to the SVR.
Back in the colonel’s office, Abramov explained what he’d found.
‘Leave it with me now,’ Morozov instructed. ‘I’ll organize a back-trace of that number.’
The next message Andrew Lomas received from Moscow through the Australian website was completely unexpected, bearing in mind the earlier communications.
He had genuinely expected simply to receive confirmation that Raya Kosov had been captured somewhere in northern Italy, and then handed over to the Russian authorities. Instead, he was told that, against all odds, she had somehow managed to escape into France, and had then climbed into a North American registered executive jet, which had flown north. Moscow’s assessment of the situation was that the aircraft was making for London, so it was now up to Lomas to ensure that Kosov was unable to pass on any classified information to the British. And, more importantly, he must make certain she wouldn’t be able to betray the identity of the jewel in Moscow’s crown — the high-level SIS officer who had been working for the Russians for over twenty years.
Lomas closed the Internet connection and sat back in his chair to consider his next move. The first thing to do was obvious: identify the destination of the aircraft in which Kosov was travelling. That was probably the easy bit because, if it was heading for London, it wouldn’t land at any of the three major civilian airports, Heathrow, Gatwick or Stansted, for a variety of reasons. That left only one choice, RAF Northolt, a military airfield conveniently located just north of Heathrow, with easy access to London and also the benefit of being closed to the public. It seemed to him the only possible destination.
He knew he would never be able to gain access to the airfield, but that didn’t present an insurmountable problem. He didn’t need to actually enter RAF Northolt, only find out where Raya Kosov was taken when she left the airfield. Once he knew that, he could decide exactly how to carry out the orders he’d received from Moscow Centre.
Lomas considered his next move carefully. It would mean breaking cover but, in the circumstances, he felt he had no option. There was no way that he could complete his assignment without help — and expert help at that.
Twenty minutes later he left his apartment and walked for about a quarter of a mile through the rain-soaked streets of West London. He picked a public phone box at random and made a call to a man he’d never met but whose name he knew very well. Although Lomas was using a public phone, he still had to be very careful in what he said and how he said it, because the man at the other end of the line was sitting in Harrington House at 13 Kensington Palace Gardens. It was home to the Russian Embassy in London, and all lines going into the building would almost certainly be monitored by British intelligence.
He used a series of code words couched in seemingly innocent and innocuous sentences to establish his bona fides, and finished by requesting a callback. He gave the Russian a telephone number which didn’t exist, but which he knew was held in a highly classified file inside the embassy, together with the real number to which the callback should be directed. That was a pay-as-you-go mobile phone which Lomas used just often enough to keep it active, but which he never used for any kind of sensitive conversation.
Less than a quarter of an hour later, during which time the Russian SVR officer had to leave the embassy and find a phone box, Lomas’s mobile rang. He answered it and then issued a series of urgent orders in Russian.
When he’d finished, Lomas used the public phone to make another very brief call. The man who answered sounded irritated, which was unsurprising. Most busy men would react that way if a car-insurance salesman called their personal mobile phone with details of some fatuous special offer during the working day. But, when Lomas ended the call, he felt certain that the other man had completely understood his message.
The Lear 60 landed smoothly a little under ninety minutes later. The pilot had filed an in-flight flight plan while the aircraft was somewhere over central France. There had been no delays, caused by air traffic or otherwise, in their approach and final landing. Their escort duty over, the pair of F-16s had peeled off as the Lear crossed the coast of southern England, and then headed north for their own landing at RAF Mildenhall in Suffolk.
The executive jet followed the ground controller’s instructions and taxied across to a hardstanding beside a small terminal building, well away from any other aircraft. As the twin jet engines spooled down, their roar dying away to a diminishing whine, the three of them unbuckled their seat belts and stood up. They followed John Westwood to the exterior door and waited while one of the flight crew emerged from the cockpit to unlatch it.
It had been hot and sunny in southern France and northern Italy, but Richter was unsurprised to discover that it was raining in London. The tarmac around the aircraft glistened in the early evening gloom, reflecting the sheen of lights that illuminated the hardstanding or shone from the windows of the terminal building.
‘That’s just bloody typical,’ he muttered, as he splashed through a succession of shallow puddles between the Lear and the terminal itself. He had an umbrella in one hand with which he was trying to protect Raya’s hair from the rain, while in the other he was carrying her bag.
‘Yeah,’ Dekker agreed. ‘Say what you like about the bloody Frogs, but they do have better weather than us.’
John Westwood followed behind the small group, because there were things he needed to do inside the terminal, including paying landing fees for the Lear and arranging for a bowser to refuel it. The pilots were out of flying hours, so he wasn’t going to make it back to the States until the following day. He needed to find accommodation, either somewhere on the base itself or in a local hotel, for himself and the two pilots.
Richter pushed open the door and walked inside the building. To his right was a waiting area sporting a few low tables and easy chairs, and on his left a reception desk behind which stood two uniformed senior RAF non-commissioned officers. He turned towards them and reached into his pocket for the diplomatic passport, which he hoped would be enough to avoid complications with the duty customs and immigration officers who might already be on their way over. He still didn’t know exactly what they would make of Raya, or whether her Russian passport would even allow her out of the airport. And the Browning pistol in his shoulder holster was almost certainly going to raise eyebrows.
His plan, such as it was, was to try to talk his way through the ranks of officials he expected to meet and, if that didn’t work, to call Simpson and let him sort it out. It was, after all, ultimately not Richter’s problem.
But, before he reached the desk, he heard an unpleasantly familiar voice calling out to him from behind. ‘And about bloody time, too.’
Richter turned immediately, and was rewarded by the unwelcome sight of Richard Simpson, as immaculately groomed as ever, rising from one of the easy chairs and walking over towards him. His complexion appeared slightly pinker than before, possibly an indication of the irritation he was doubtless feeling.