professional. He was a deep-cover illegal in Britain for years, and for
at least the last ten of them he was running the head of the Secret Intelligence Service as a source for the SVR. We had no inkling this man even existed until we got to interrogate Malcolm
Holbeche. What he certainly isn’t going to do is take a taxi to any hotel that he’s actually staying at. So where did you pick him up?’
‘We had a bit of luck then,’ Perini admitted. ‘We circulated all the hotels in Caserta, searching for a guest who looked like Lomas or who was using the name Günther. As
we had expected, that produced no results, and neither did canvassing taxi drivers and car-hire firms. But, like you, we have watch teams permanently in place around all the foreign embassy
buildings in Italy, and three days ago—’
‘Don’t tell me Lomas actually went to an East European Embassy?’ Simpson interrupted.
Perini shook his head. ‘No, and we didn’t expect him to either. But we did wonder if he was in Italy to receive instructions, or perhaps to deliver a report, so we blanketed the
whole area. We positioned pursuit crews – on motorcycles, Mr Simpson – outside all buildings known to be used by East European officials and businesses in the Caserta, Naples and
Salerno areas. Each operative was briefed to follow any known or suspected intelligence officer, to stay out of sight, and to report any contact with anyone who looked anything like Lomas.
‘For the first few days we used up a lot of petrol and covered a lot of kilometres, and discovered absolutely nothing that we didn’t already know. And then, as I said, three days ago
we got lucky. One of our watchers followed a mid-level consular official, believed to be an SVR agent, to a restaurant on the eastern outskirts of Salerno. He went inside and bought a drink at the
bar, and appeared to be waiting for someone. Our operative followed him into the restaurant, bought herself a drink and—’
‘A woman?’ Simpson asked, recalling the motley collection of hairy-arsed men employed in the same role by MI5 and to a lesser extent by SIS.
Perini nodded. ‘We have always used women in preference to men. They tend to be more observant, and they can get into most places a lot easier, and with far fewer questions asked, than any
man. They are also rarely perceived as a threat. Anyway, our operative sat and sipped her drink and waited. About fifteen minutes later a man entered the restaurant and walked straight over to the
bar. He greeted the consular official like an old friend, then they had a drink together and a light lunch.’
‘But it wasn’t Lomas,’ Richter said.
Perini looked surprised. ‘You’re quite right. It wasn’t Lomas. How did you know?’
‘I didn’t,’ Richter said, ‘but from what we know of the man, he always tries to use cut-outs. My guess is that the man the official was meeting was just a go-between sent
by Lomas to receive a verbal briefing, or whatever, on his behalf.’
The Italian nodded again. ‘We don’t know what information was exchanged but, when the two men parted, our operative decided to follow the unknown male. It was a good decision –
he climbed into a car and drove off, heading east. All the motorcycles our people use are fitted with long-range tanks, which is just as well because he kept on going for over two hundred
kilometres. He finally led her to an isolated villa just outside a town called Matera. That’s on the main road between Taranto and Salerno, and about one hundred and twenty kilometres –
around seventy-five miles – west of Brindisi. As the man went inside, she stationed herself in a position from which she could cover the front of the villa. She stayed there, tucked behind
some bushes on the hillside, for the rest of the day.
‘She had called in a progress report as soon as she reached the restaurant, and another when she got to the villa, but neither her description of the man she’d
at least the last ten of them he was running the head of the Secret Intelligence Service as a source for the SVR. We had no inkling this man even existed until we got to interrogate Malcolm
Holbeche. What he certainly isn’t going to do is take a taxi to any hotel that he’s actually staying at. So where did you pick him up?’
‘We had a bit of luck then,’ Perini admitted. ‘We circulated all the hotels in Caserta, searching for a guest who looked like Lomas or who was using the name Günther. As
we had expected, that produced no results, and neither did canvassing taxi drivers and car-hire firms. But, like you, we have watch teams permanently in place around all the foreign embassy
buildings in Italy, and three days ago—’
‘Don’t tell me Lomas actually went to an East European Embassy?’ Simpson interrupted.
Perini shook his head. ‘No, and we didn’t expect him to either. But we did wonder if he was in Italy to receive instructions, or perhaps to deliver a report, so we blanketed the
whole area. We positioned pursuit crews – on motorcycles, Mr Simpson – outside all buildings known to be used by East European officials and businesses in the Caserta, Naples and
Salerno areas. Each operative was briefed to follow any known or suspected intelligence officer, to stay out of sight, and to report any contact with anyone who looked anything like Lomas.
‘For the first few days we used up a lot of petrol and covered a lot of kilometres, and discovered absolutely nothing that we didn’t already know. And then, as I said, three days ago
we got lucky. One of our watchers followed a mid-level consular official, believed to be an SVR agent, to a restaurant on the eastern outskirts of Salerno. He went inside and bought a drink at the
bar, and appeared to be waiting for someone. Our operative followed him into the restaurant, bought herself a drink and—’
‘A woman?’ Simpson asked, recalling the motley collection of hairy-arsed men employed in the same role by MI5 and to a lesser extent by SIS.
Perini nodded. ‘We have always used women in preference to men. They tend to be more observant, and they can get into most places a lot easier, and with far fewer questions asked, than any
man. They are also rarely perceived as a threat. Anyway, our operative sat and sipped her drink and waited. About fifteen minutes later a man entered the restaurant and walked straight over to the
bar. He greeted the consular official like an old friend, then they had a drink together and a light lunch.’
‘But it wasn’t Lomas,’ Richter said.
Perini looked surprised. ‘You’re quite right. It wasn’t Lomas. How did you know?’
‘I didn’t,’ Richter said, ‘but from what we know of the man, he always tries to use cut-outs. My guess is that the man the official was meeting was just a go-between sent
by Lomas to receive a verbal briefing, or whatever, on his behalf.’
The Italian nodded again. ‘We don’t know what information was exchanged but, when the two men parted, our operative decided to follow the unknown male. It was a good decision –
he climbed into a car and drove off, heading east. All the motorcycles our people use are fitted with long-range tanks, which is just as well because he kept on going for over two hundred
kilometres. He finally led her to an isolated villa just outside a town called Matera. That’s on the main road between Taranto and Salerno, and about one hundred and twenty kilometres –
around seventy-five miles – west of Brindisi. As the man went inside, she stationed herself in a position from which she could cover the front of the villa. She stayed there, tucked behind
some bushes on the hillside, for the rest of the day.
‘She had called in a progress report as soon as she reached the restaurant, and another when she got to the villa, but neither her description of the man she’d
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