Authors: James Barrington
It was a long way from being the smoothest start ever. The Vespa leapt forward, its engine screaming in protest, the front wheel almost lifting off the road, but Raya didn’t care. She was
moving, already moving faster than any man could run, and right then that was the only thing that mattered.
She accelerated as hard as she could down the street, which continued straight for perhaps a hundred yards. Halfway along it, she risked changing up into second gear, then braked hard for the
T-junction at the end. Only then did she risk a glance down the street.
The scooter’s owner had scrambled to her feet, and was staring straight along the street towards her. Raya could guess what the girl was thinking but, right then, pissing off an Italian
teenager was frankly the least of her worries.
The SVR officer stood in the middle of the street, eighty-odd yards away from her, now well out of effective pistol range. He was talking into a mobile phone, no doubt calling for help and
providing a description of the scooter Raya was riding. The Vespa had got her out of trouble, but she couldn’t stay with it long. She’d be altogether too exposed, and there was a good
chance a policeman might stop her for not wearing a helmet.
What she had to do was get well clear of this district before any other SVR men turned up, then ditch the Vespa and lose herself somewhere in the sprawling city of Rome.
Ax-les-Thermes, France
He had to do it that same night, Stanway knew, because he needed to be back at his desk on Monday morning. As he’d have to drive all day on Sunday to achieve that,
the Russian clerk would have to die tonight.
He’d found a cafe a few miles up the road, and stopped there to eat a very early and very average dinner, and now he was on his way back to Ax-les-Thermes, heading south down the N20. As
soon as he entered the village, he noticed that the Renault Laguna was no longer parked opposite the Hostellerie de la Poste.
That could simply mean that the SIS officers sent to debrief the Russian defector had checked out of the hotel, that continued surveillance wasn’t considered necessary. Or it could mean
that they were already satisfied with what the defector had told them, and had decided to move him elsewhere, in order to start processing him. Stanway had no way of knowing which. If they’d
moved the Russian, Stanway would have to abandon his plans and try again the following week, after he’d found out where the man was being held. But that would probably be both difficult and
messy.
As he drove past the front of the hotel, he shot a glance to his left. The dining-room windows were wide open, it was a warm evening, and he could see, perfectly clearly, the fair-haired man
sitting eating a meal by himself in the corner.
‘Excellent,’ Stanway breathed, and continued down the road without stopping, the Peugeot becoming just one more vehicle in a long line of cars heading south.
Palazzo Margherita, Via Vittorio Veneto, Rome, Italy
‘So what in hell’s got our Russian friends so riled up? Any ideas?’
Clayton Richards III laced his hands behind his head, leant back in his leather swivel chair, and stared across his desk at the junior CIA officer who had just brought in the surveillance
report.
Richards was the Central Intelligence Agency’s Chief of Station in Rome, and he headed up the covert CIA section that resided in the big, square-cornered building on the Via Vittorio
Veneto, which housed the Embassy of the United States of America to the Italian Republic.
‘They’re obviously looking for someone, sir,’ George Edwards said, ‘but right now we’ve no idea who. A little under an hour ago they scrambled a whole bunch of
personnel. The first team went out to Fiumicino, and a second group headed to Termini. Others positioned themselves outside various railway stations situated between the airport and the city. That
much we do know.’
Before Edwards could continue, there was a brief double-knock on the door.
‘Come,’ Richards ordered, and it swung open.
A tall, slim, dark-haired man stepped into the room. ‘Mind if I sit in on this?’ he asked politely.
Richards got to his feet and nodded. He might be the most senior CIA officer stationed within Italy, but this new arrival was John Westwood, the Company’s Head of Espionage, a Langley big
wheel, currently over in Rome for a liaison visit.
‘Of course, sir,’ Richards said. ‘Please take a seat.’
Westwood strode across the room and sat down in one of the leather easy chairs positioned against the wall opposite Richards’s desk.
‘Edwards has just been telling me about the recent activity noticed from the Russian Embassy,’ Richards explained.
Westwood nodded. ‘I’m curious about that, so please continue.’
‘Yes, sir. We noticed that they sent men out only to Fiumicino, not to Ciampino, so we assume whoever they’re looking for was known to be on a flight due to land there. And the fact
that they were also covering the railway stations suggests that the aircraft was already on the ground. So if their target had already landed and they missed him at the airport, they’d try to
pick him up as he walked out of one of the railway stations. The further implication is that their target is either hostile or a fugitive, and most likely the latter, because if they were looking
for a criminal, they surely would have asked the
carabinieri
for help, but the Italian police have not so far been contacted. So increasingly it looks as if Moscow may have a
defector.’
Edwards paused to glance at both men in turn, and Richards nodded for him to continue.
‘We checked all today’s inbound flights, and one of them stood out immediately. An Aeroflot from Sheremetievo landed at Fiumicino just a few minutes after the Russkies scrambled
their teams, but
before
any of them could reach the airport. That’s obviously why they’ve been covering the railway stations as well. We’re trying to get a passenger list
for that same Aeroflot flight, but it’s not going to be easy – and might even be impossible if the SVR have already sealed it. That’s what we’d do, too, in the same
circumstances. Our guys have been tailing the Russian teams, but they’ve been keeping well back for obvious reasons. The Russians have been issued with identification details of their target,
because our guys have noticed the pages of details in their hands. They don’t seem to amount to more than a few lines of text and a photograph. We’ve got people out there with
high-resolution cameras, but trying to get a decent shot of the paper has so far been near impossible. Now, the next—’
He was interrupted by a knock on the door, and strode across to open it. Edwards held a brief conversation with the man outside, then closed the door and walked back over to Richards’s
desk, looking slightly puzzled.
‘There’s been a development,’ he said, ‘but I’m not sure about the reliability of this information. We’ve just received reports about a disturbance outside
the Stazione Trastevere. That’s on the main Ferrovie Regionali route between Fiumicino and the main station at Termini,’ he added, for Westwood’s benefit.
‘What kind of a disturbance?’ Richards asked.
‘Apparently a car was in a collision with a lorry, but that’s common enough in Rome. What’s rung bells is that at least one pistol shot was fired at the scene, and a man was
injured.’
‘The putative defector, maybe?’ Westwood asked.
‘No, sir. Or, at least, it doesn’t sound like it. According to what I’ve been told, the injured man was a bystander who tried to intervene to stop a pursuit. The odd
thing,’ he finished, ‘is that, according to this report, the fugitive was a woman.’
Rome, Italy
A little under an hour later, Raya was standing at the counter of a small cafe in a narrow side street just off the Via del Corso, and not far from the Piazza del Popolo
on the old northern edge of the city, and taking her first sip of a
cappuccino
. She preferred standing inside rather than sitting at one of the tables outside, for two good reasons. First,
she had read enough about Rome to know that the price of a cup of coffee depended on where you drank it, and by standing at the counter she would pay about a quarter of the amount charged for
sitting at an outside table. But the second reason was perhaps more obvious: she needed to keep out of sight.
She’d driven the Vespa about halfway across the city, before pulling it to a stop by the roadside and abandoning it. She’d tucked the keys under the seat, and hoped the young Italian
girl would eventually recover it. Though she felt bad about stealing it, the vehicle had undoubtedly saved her life.
From then on, she’d stuck with public transport, solely buses, in fact, ending up at the northern end of the Via del Corso about fifteen minutes earlier. In a public toilet, she removed
the dark make-up, the contact lenses and finally the black wig, which was now itching like crazy.
Standing there in the cafe, Raya felt herself truly starting to relax for the first time since she’d left her Moscow apartment that morning – even though it now seemed like weeks
ago. There was no way at all that those Rome embassy men could still be tracking her. For the moment, at least, she was safe.
What had surprised her was the degree of surveillance she’d witnessed, and how quickly the SVR had moved once the alarm was raised. And to have nearly caught her twice, they must have
deployed virtually every agent available. This was a clear and unequivocal measure of their determination to find her before she could contact any Western intelligence service.
She’d picked up a bus and railway timetable, as well as a tourist map of Italy, which she’d put down on the counter beside her cup. She began studying routes and timings and costs,
and trying to work out exactly what to do next, while simultaneously trying to avoid the gaze of two young Italian men standing a little further down the bar. They’d stared at her
intermittently ever since she walked in, but at least their interest was obviously carnal rather than homicidal, so she was cheerfully unconcerned. The attention of over-eager young men she was
well used to dealing with; what she couldn’t handle so easily were the thugs from the SVR.
One thing was for sure, if she was going to get out of Rome alive, she’d have to avoid all the railway stations, and obviously the airports as well. But at least there was another option.
The SVR might have the manpower to cover every railway station and airport in and around Rome, but there was no way that they could also mount surveillance on all the bus stops. There were
literally hundreds of them, served by over two hundred separate bus companies, so that had to be by far her best choice unless . . .
Another thought struck her, and she stood for a few moments, considering. She realized that she’d barely escaped death twice already that day, and it really would be bad luck if the SVR
managed to spot her trying to get out of Rome on a coach. Even so, a private car would obviously provide the best option of all, since she’d be completely undetectable amidst the sheer volume
of traffic.
But if she was going to attempt that route, she had to do it quickly, because the SVR might soon enlist the aid of the Italian police after painting her as a fugitive from justice on some really
serious charge, resulting in roadblocks and increased surveillance on all modes of traffic attempting to exit the city.
It all depended, she decided, on what such a strategy would cost her – and not necessarily in purely monetary terms. She glanced over at the two young Italian men and gave them a
half-smile. Perhaps, she mused, eyeing them critically, it wouldn’t be too high a price to pay.
A few minutes later, her mind made up, she walked over to stand close to them.
‘Do either of you speak English?’ she asked sweetly, not trusting her rudimentary Italian for this encounter. If neither of them did, there would be other men in other bars and
cafes. Somewhere, soon, she would find what she was looking for.
The one standing closest to her nodded. He looked about twenty-five, and the other one slightly younger.
‘Yes, I work as a tour guide,’ he said. ‘My name is Mario Villani and I speak English and French.’ He added, ‘My friend here just speaks Italian.’
Raya smiled at him again. ‘And do you have a car, Mario?’ she asked.
Again the young man nodded.
‘Are you doing anything tonight? I need to get to Civitavecchia as quickly as possible. I can pay you for the petrol or . . . perhaps we can come to some other arrangement?’
‘What kind of arrangement?’
‘I’ll tell you when we’re in the car,’ Raya said briskly. ‘Let’s go.’
Saturday
Palazzo Margherita, Via Vittorio Veneto, Rome, Italy
‘It looks as if the trail’s gone cold,’ George Edwards reported, as he re-entered the room.
Richards and Westwood were still sitting in the Chief of Station’s office, relaxing in easy chairs with a coffee pot and the remains of a plate of sandwiches littering the table in front
of them.
‘Our guys are still keeping a close eye on the Russians, but they now seem to have split up their teams. They’ve kept watchers outside some of the larger railway stations, but most
of them are just driving around the major streets, concentrating on the bus routes. We reckon they must have lost sight of their target, and now they’re just driving around, hoping to spot
her.’
‘So you do think it’s the woman who was being chased near the Stazione Trastevere?’ Richards asked.
‘Yes, we’re now reasonably sure the Russians are looking for a woman. One of our surveillance teams managed to get a couple of good shots of the briefing pages they’re waving
about, and the photograph’s definitely of a woman. We’ve tried enhancing the images as much as we can, but we can’t get a picture clear enough to resolve her features. So we still
don’t know who she is.’
‘Is there anything else you can do about that?’ Westwood asked. ‘Maybe it’s time we stopped just following the Russians about and started doing something for ourselves.
Like getting proactive?’
Richards stared at him. ‘You got a suggestion?’