Manhunt (50 page)

‘He might not actually be on Moscow Centre’s payroll,’ Masterson said. ‘If he’s motivated primarily by ideology, there might be no money trail for us to follow. And
even if he’s a mercenary traitor, the funds will probably be paid into some offshore tax haven, or maybe a Swiss bank account.’

‘Stanway was certainly in it for the money,’ Simpson remarked. ‘I had a call from one of his interrogators, and apparently he’s singing like a caged canary. Mind you,
they’ve been using a certain amount of chemical stimulus on him to loosen his tongue. We now even know the name of his handler, and we’ll be paying him a visit any day now, once
he’s properly identified.

‘Stanway knew only his handler’s name, Andrew Lomas, and had no phone number or address for him. They communicated by chalk marks on walls and other old-school spy craft. Whenever
they had to talk directly to each other, it was always from one public phone to another. But Lomas did have an unregistered and untraceable mobile phone for emergencies only, and we’re
checking that one now against the home and mobile numbers of all the senior SIS officers, just in case one of them ever called it. And we’re waiting for the call records for Stanway’s
mobile as well.’

About an hour later, one of Simpson’s men entered the conference room, carrying several sheets of paper. Walters broke off his study of the Appreciation file, and he and Masterson joined
Simpson at the end of the table to study the data they had so far obtained. Richter peered over Walters’s shoulder as the three men examined the phone records.

‘That’s the mobile that Stanway claims Lomas uses,’ explained Simpson, pointing at one page.

‘Is there any correlation?’ Richter asked.

‘Not that my people have been able to spot.’

Richter nodded, his eyes never leaving the pages spread out on the end of the table. The data had already been scanned, in an attempt to identify any of the senior SIS officers who might have
been called by Lomas, but nothing had been found.

‘One thing I notice from this,’ Richter said, pointing at the same sheet, ‘is that Lomas hardly ever made or received a call using this mobile, but he did so yesterday.
Somebody called him during the afternoon. But what number is that?’

‘Not one of our suspects,’ Walters said. ‘That letter “P” besides the entry means the calling number was a public phone, so it could have been absolutely
anybody.’

‘Can you get the records for that public phone as well?’ Richter asked.

‘Yes, of course.’ Simpson nodded. ‘If you can give me a good reason, that is.’

‘Just a hunch right now,’ Richter said. ‘And can you also get the location of the mobile at the time when the call was received, the numbers and call records of any public
landline phones near that location, and also the location of the public phone the call came from? And find me a decent-sized London A–Z, please.’

Ten minutes later, the same man reappeared with another half-dozen sheets and the map book.

Richter took them from him, and ran his eyes down the list of numbers. Then he compared the position of the public phone from which the call to Lomas’s mobile had been made with one of the
pages in the A–Z, and checked some of the other data on the lists. Then he sat back with a slight smile.

‘What is it?’ Simpson demanded.

‘Three things,’ Richter said. ‘First, the public phone box is just around the corner from the Russian Embassy. Second, when Lomas received the call, he was standing
here.’ He pointed to a spot in the Shepherd’s Bush area. ‘He was then right beside a public phone box and, if you look at the records, about fifteen minutes before that, somebody
had used that public phone to call the Russian Embassy. I’ve never been a big fan of coincidence, and I realize I’m quite new at this game, but I’ll bet Lomas made that first
call, and then whoever he spoke to at the embassy trotted outside the building to find a public phone, and called Lomas’s mobile.’

‘You’re probably right,’ Simpson said, ‘but I’m not sure how that helps.’

‘That’s the third thing. It was raining yesterday afternoon, as I recall.’

‘So?’

‘When Moscow found that Raya had done a runner, I’m sure Lomas was given a whole list of instructions and orders to follow. He’s too experienced a professional to use a phone
that could be traced to him, which is why he used a public phone box to contact the Russian Embassy. I’m wondering if he could also have contacted his – what do you call it? – his
agent-in-place from the same phone box, simply because it was raining and it would have saved him having to walk around looking for another one to use. I think it might be worth checking these
phone records against the numbers you have for the SIS officers.’

Simpson rubbed his chin thoughtfully, then nodded. ‘Do it,’ he instructed Masterson.

Within a couple of minutes Masterson muttered an exclamation, and ran a green highlighter along a line on one of the mobile-phone records.

‘Somebody called this mobile from that phone box just after Lomas finished his call. The call was probably innocuous in nature, just in case anybody was listening in, but my guess is it
was Lomas, as the case officer, telling his asset to either lie low or maybe get the hell out of town.’

Simpson looked down at what his officer had found, and nodded. ‘That was good work, Richter. I’ll get the wheels in motion.’

‘Who is it?’ Richter asked.

‘Holbeche,’ Simpson replied shortly, and walked out of the room.

Heathrow Airport, West London

A grey-haired middle-aged man clutching a briefcase and a carry-on bag joined a short queue at the Business Class section of the Air France check-in desk. He was still
waiting in line when two other men appeared beside him.

‘Not flying the flag today, Malcolm?’ Richard Simpson asked.

‘Hello, Richard,’ Holbeche replied. ‘No, I couldn’t get a seat on BA. The bloody flight’s full, so I’m having to go with the French. I’ve a bit of
business to take care of over in Paris. I didn’t expect to see you here.’

‘I’m sure you didn’t.’

‘Is there a problem?’

‘Yes, there is,’ Simpson replied. ‘We know that Andrew Lomas called you yesterday afternoon, and I guess he told you to run.’

‘Andrew Lomas?’ Holbeche paled slightly. ‘I don’t think I know him.’

Simpson shook his head regretfully. ‘Oh, I think you do, Malcolm. After all, he’s been your case officer for probably twenty years. We know that now, because of the information Raya
Kosov brought out of Moscow. And I also know that you’re not really going to Paris. Or at least that’s not your final destination. I guess there’s an Aeroflot out of Charles de
Gaulle later today, heading for Sheremetievo, and you’re already booked onto it.’

Holbeche said nothing, and Simpson nodded.

‘Now, we can do this the hard way or the easy way,’ he said. ‘The easy way is for you to simply turn around and walk out of the terminal with the two of us.’

Holbeche lowered his head, then reached inside his jacket and pulled out a 9-millimetre Glock 26 subcompact pistol. He aimed the weapon directly at Simpson’s stomach and smiled
bitterly.

‘Did you really think you could get onto an aircraft carrying that?’ Simpson asked, apparently unfazed by the threat.

‘With my diplomatic passport and a carry permit issued by the Metropolitan Police, it wouldn’t have been difficult,’ Holbeche said. ‘Now get the hell out of my way,
Simpson.’

‘I’m sorry, Holbeche, but you’re going nowhere.’

Two other men appeared behind Simpson, each holding a semi-automatic pistol aimed at the Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service. A couple of passengers standing nearby suddenly noticed the
drawn weapons, and a woman began screaming. Instantly, it seemed, chaos erupted in that particular section of the terminal. People were running and shouting, desperate to get away from these armed
men standing near the Air France desk. But Holbeche, Simpson and the two other men remained stationary, seemingly oblivious to what was going on all around them.

Holbeche ignored the two armed men confronting him, and stared only at Simpson. ‘I’ve had a good run, Richard,’ he said. ‘Twenty-odd years – nearly a quarter of a
century – working my way up through the ranks in the service, and at the same time cementing my position as the most important single asset the SVR has ever had. Did you know that
they’ve already made me an honorary general at Yasenevo?’

‘But now it’s all over,’ Simpson snapped. ‘You’ve nowhere to go.’

‘I suppose you’re planning a trial to be held,
in camera
, so that no one will ever know just how thoroughly compromised British intelligence has been. And I’d be
pensioned off, stripped of my knighthood, questioned for months by one of those slimy reptiles that you employ. And then I’d end my days in contented obscurity somewhere. Not a bad deal
really.’

Simpson shook his head. ‘As I said to Richter only last week, the days when traitors to Britain could get just a slap on the wrist are over, at least as far as I’m concerned. After
we’ve questioned you and we’ve milked you dry, I’ll make sure that you die, and preferably painfully. You’re a dead man walking, Holbeche. You just don’t know how long
you’ve got left.’

Holbeche shook his head. ‘That’s never going to happen, Simpson. You know it and I know it.’

Quite deliberately, he raised the Glock to point it at Simpson’s head, and the beginnings of a smile appeared on his face.

The two men behind Simpson fired instantly, the two shots so close together that they sounded almost like a single report.

Holbeche was knocked backwards by the double impact of two 9-millimetre bullets smashing into his chest. He staggered backwards, the Glock tumbling from his hand.

Simpson stepped forward, picked up the weapon, and then knelt down beside the fallen man to feel for a pulse in his neck. Then he stood up and turned to face the men who’d just fired the
fatal shots.

‘Good shooting,’ he said. ‘I’m going back to the office now. I’ll have a D Notice issued within the hour to cover this, so if the Met plods give you any trouble,
refer them to me.’

Then Simpson turned on his heel and strode away.

Hammersmith, West London

The questioning continued through the afternoon, as Raya answered queries about various aspects of the SVR files she had copied from the Yasenevo database.

She was now sufficiently comfortable talking to Walters and Masterson that, when she left the conference room with Richter late that afternoon, she allowed the two men to retain her CD player
and transfer all of her files onto the laptop for further analysis.

They met Simpson out in the corridor, heading back towards the conference room.

‘Any news?’ Richter asked.

Simpson nodded. ‘Holbeche has resigned, permanently. We caught him trying to board a flight to Paris, and he admitted to me that he was a Russian mole.’

‘And he resigned?’ Richter asked.

‘In a manner of speaking, yes. He pulled a gun on me and a couple of my men took him down. He was dead before he even hit the ground.’

‘So that’s it? We can all relax?’

‘Yes, that’s it. Holbeche is dead and Stanway’s busy telling us everything he knows. We’ve now found and eliminated two very costly and dangerous penetration agents
inside the SIS and, thanks to Raya here, we’ve obtained enough high-quality data about the SVR to keep our analysts busy for years to come. All in all, it’s a good result.’

They all continued down the hallway towards the building’s main doors, where they paused. Simpson shook hands with both of them.

‘Don’t worry about gaining asylum, Raya,’ he said. ‘As soon as we’ve finished this debriefing, I’ll ensure that we find you a new identity and somewhere
decent to live. In the meantime, are you still happy hanging around with Richter?’

Raya nodded. ‘Perfectly, thank you. Tonight, we’re going out for a traditional English meal.’

‘Good. Just make sure he takes you to a reasonable restaurant, and doesn’t try to make you pay half the bill.’

London

It was a reasonable restaurant. In fact, it was the oldest privately owned restaurant in London, Rules in Covent Garden. Richter had been lucky to find a table, because
usually there was a waiting list. It served classic English food: no fancy bits, no nouvelle cuisine thankfully, just good solid food perfectly cooked. Raya opted for the fish and chips served, of
course, in a copy of the
Financial Times
, while Richter chose one of his favourites, steak and kidney pudding – not pie.

Afterwards, they found a taxi in Bedford Street and, about half an hour after they’d left the restaurant, they walked into the lobby of their hotel near Heathrow and went straight up to
their room.

They’d only been there about ten minutes when the phone rang, and Richter answered it.

‘Mr Wilson?’ Richter had chosen a fairly simple alias. ‘This is the reception desk downstairs. I have a Mr Simpson here to see you. Can you come down?’

‘What’s it about?’ Richter asked.

There was a pause and a muttered conversation in the background, then the female receptionist returned to the phone.

‘He says something’s come up about today’s briefing, and he needs to see you. It will only take a few minutes.’

‘OK, I’ll come down.’

‘How did he know we were staying here?’ Raya asked.

Richter smiled at her. ‘I haven’t known Richard Simpson very long, but I do know that he’s always very well informed. We could have been followed by one of his men that first
night, when we drove here from Hammersmith. Anyway, I won’t be long. Just keep the door locked until I get back.’

Richter checked the Browning was loaded, just in case, replaced it in his shoulder holster, then let himself out of the room.

As he emerged from the room and started walking down the corridor, a door further along opened and a man with black hair and almost black eyes stepped out. The door was marked
‘Chambermaid – Staff Only’ and in the small room behind it, a blonde-haired Polish girl lay helpless on the floor, her wrists and ankles secured with wrapping tape and a rough gag
covering her mouth. She was still unconscious from the blow she’d received to the back of her head about five minutes earlier.