The Run Around cm-8 Read online

  ‘Quite sure?’ he demanded.

  ‘Nothing’s been overlooked, Mr President.’ James Bell, the Secretary of State, replied respectfully although the two men were old friends from Congress days. Bell’s appointment had been his reward not only for successfully masterminding Anderson’s election the first time but for retaining those Congress links and associations, minimizing over the past six years any conflict between Capitol Hill and the White House.

  ‘It’s got to be more than just getting them around the same table,’ insisted the President, unnecessarily. ‘There’s got to be some hard, concrete proposal at the end of it. A homeland.’

  ‘We’ve worked on it for a year, six months before anything leaked publicly,’ reminded Bell. ‘Jordan want it and Syria want it and Egypt want it and Arafat wants it and the very fact that Israel is finally prepared to come face-to-face is proof that they want it, too.’

  Anderson, who was a hard-boned, heavy featured, angular man, swung his chair around from the Oval Office desk, so that he could look out over the gardens and the Washington Monument beyond. He said: ‘So what about Moscow?’

  ‘I personally sounded them out, during the visit in July,’ reported the Secretary of State. ‘There wasn’t any doubt. They want it settled as much as everyone else. It’s gone on too long, like a running sore.’

  ‘You think we can trust them?’ Anderson had a Texan’s suspicion of anything communist, which had made the international gatherings during his presidency difficult. He didn’t even like the colour red.

  ‘The Middle East has been draining the Soviets dry for years. Now their reforms mean they’ve got to divert money away from the military and from military aid and into their domestic economy,’ said Bell. He was a shiny cheeked, roly-poly man who didn’t intend returning to his New York law practice when Anderson’s term was over. He was as aware as the President how successful the administration had been and was already receiving approaches from businesses wanting the respect and prestige of his name on their boards. There was also the television approach and that appealed to him. Nothing tacky, of course. The sort of advisory capacity, commenting upon momentous world events, that Kissinger had. And there was the book, of course. And the lecture circuit, like Kissinger again. Bell was calculating $2 million at least, when it all came together. It meant they could go on living in Georgetown and he knew Martha would like that. She enjoyed Washington: the impression of being at the centre of things. He’d already decided to take her to Geneva.

  ‘I mean this to work, Jim.’

  ‘So do I, Mr President.’

  ‘So what’s our security cover?’

  ‘I’ve given the CIA Director a personal briefing. Every station in every involved country is on maximum alert, for anything that might sound a bell,’ reported the Secretary of State.

  ‘And Geneva itself?’

  ‘Quite separate from the normal Secret Service cover the CIA are sending a team of ten,’ said Bell. ‘The supervisor is a man named Giles, Roger Giles. He’s their Middle East expert; served as station chief in Amman and Cairo. Brought back to Langley two years ago to head the desk there. First-class guy.’

  It was unfortunate the country didn’t any longer erect monuments to their presidents like that obelisk out there beyond the White House lawn, thought Anderson, swivelling back into the room. He said: ‘You know what’s a pity?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That after all the work I’ve put into this — a whole goddamned year of background pressure and give-and-take diplomacy — that the public signings and agreements are going to be between the Arabs and Israel and the Palestinians,’ complained the President. ‘I should have been there, to be seen as the architect.’

  ‘You’ll be acknowledged as such,’ assured the Secretary of State.

  Would it be possible for him to be nominated for the Nobel Peace prize? wondered Anderson. Kissinger had shared it, at the end of the Vietnam war. But with Le Duc Tho, not Nixon. He’d have to have the archives check the protocol for him: a scroll like that would look damned good as the centrepiece in Austin. Anderson said: ‘This is the milestone one, Jim. This is the big one we’re all going to be remembered by.’

  ‘That’s how I see it, too, Mr President,’ said the other man. Both of us remembered, he thought.

  David Levy left the Foreign Minister’s office inconspicuously through the side door, merging easily into the throng of people in the outside corridors of the Knesset, letting their flow carry him past the Chagall murals towards the exit.

  In the forecourt outside, protected against terrorist outrage by the decorative metal fence, he hesitated in the pale sunlight, gazing out over the Jerusalem hills and the valley from which the cross of Christ was supposed to have been cut. How much blood had been shed over this land in the two thousand years since then, he thought. It seemed difficult to imagine that it would ever stop. Or that Geneva could be the way.

  Levy was a sabra, a Jew born in Israel without any real way of knowing what the Holocaust had truly been like, but his father had experienced it and told him how it was to exist in the Warsaw sewers, to be hunted like the rats they’d replaced, denied any proper home, any proper life. The old man had come to Palestine a fervent Zionist, one of Begin’s first lieutenants in the Irgun Zvai Lume service that fought against the British in 1947 and from which the Israeli external intelligence service, the Mossad, eventually grew. It had seemed natural that Levy should follow his father: frequently he wished the old man had lived to see how high he had risen in the organization. Levy knew his father would have been very proud. And particularly today, although Levy supposed security would have precluded his telling the old man. Levy had already been notified, of course, that he would be heading the Mossad contingent to the Geneva conference. But he had not expected the Foreign Minister’s appointment that put him in additional command of the group from Shin Bet, Israel’s counter-intelligence organization.

  But then, he reflected further, there had been a lot about Mordechai Cohen’s briefing that he had not expected.

  ‘It’s an intolerable demand!’ protested Harkness. ‘The Foreign Office will be furious.’

  ‘They are,’ confirmed Wilson, mildly. The Director was conscious of his deputy’s antipathy towards Charlie Muffin and hoped it would not cloud Harkness’s judgement about the man’s professional abilities. Someone had to clear blocked drains and Charlie was good at it.

  ‘What explanation can we give for demanding, through the Foreign Ministries of seven countries, that the crew of eighteen of their national aircraft are located wherever they are in the world and made specifically available, as soon as possible?’

  ‘Drugs,’ said Wilson. ‘It was Charlie’s idea. Brilliant, isn’t it? We’re supposedly on the trail of a major international drugs syndicate. Hundreds of millions; all that stuff. Seem to hear about nothing else these days: makes it perfectly acceptable.’

  ‘And what if it all ends in nothing, after causing so much trouble!’ complained the deputy.

  ‘Why don’t you try to come up with an idea?’ suggested Wilson, briefly letting his irritation show.

  Harkness blinked but said nothing.

  Chapter Twelve

  Vasili Zenin enjoyed the return drive to Geneva. He left Bern with sufficient time to reach Lausanne by lunchtime, choosing the Voile d’Or for its magnificent view of the lake and ate trout which the menu claimed to have been caught in it. He followed the north shore of the Leman and got to Geneva by early afternoon. Although it meant a long walk, Zenin left the car in the park at the Cornavin railway station and walked to the Place des Nations: it was unlikely the vehicle would have been distinguished from any of the hundreds of others but he did not intend taking the risk and anyway he wanted to time out on foot the escape routes that had been devised at Kuchino. He paced the most direct suggestion the first time, along the Rue des Montbrilliant and then the more circuitous roads, the Rue de Vermont and after that the Avenue Guiseppe Motta. The schedul
e provided by the Bern embassy was wrong in every case: the estimate for the Rue de Vermont, before it connected with the Vidollet, was at variance by at least fifteen minutes and on the Guiseppe Motta, until it reached the Rue de Servette, was out by twenty.

  Zenin allowed the anger this time, letting it burn through him, determined there would be punishment when he returned to Moscow. Of course the embassy rezidentura had not been given any reason for providing the information and obviously the stupid bastards had not taken it seriously, dismissing it as some sort of nonsense request from Dzerzhinsky Square. And failed in one of the most vital segments of the operation because if this section was mistimed by as much as a minute — a few seconds even — he would be trapped within the cordon the Swiss would throw around the area. Bastards, he thought, stupid, idiotic bastards!

  Zenin repeated all three routes twice more, to provide an average, and when he got back to the railway station on the last occasion stood for several moments looking speculatively at the baroque complex. The Kuchino planning had been for him to get away from Geneva by car but from the reconnaissance of the immediate area he had already recognized how easy it was for the roads to become accidentally blocked, beyond the danger of official barriers. Which was further advice the embassy had failed to provide. And which was something against which he could take no precautions. So what about a train? The woman would have a detailed timetable of the conference: that was a prime, although not the main, reason for her involvement. So he would be able to estimate a convenient train, even buy a ticket in advance so there would be no delay. A much better proposal, the Russian thought, warming to the idea: roads were easily closed but the trains would not be stopped. And he could even insure against being detained in the unlikely event of that happening. There was no necessity, after all, for him to catch an international express beyond the Swiss border. All he needed was one of the local services to get him out of the immediate area. Carouge, perhaps. Or Annemasse. Certainly no further than Thonon.

  Zenin went into the echoing concourse and found the information section, patiently joining the queue, and when he reached the clerk obtained timetables for local, internal express and international services, as always providing himself with as wide a choice as possible.

  Outside again Zenin followed the Guiseppe Motta route, because it brought him more immediately close to the building from which he was going to have to shoot.

  It was a necessarily high building, in a street just off the Colombettes road, an apparent combination of office suites and apartments. Zenin knew the rooms that had been rented for the past two months were on the top floor of the north-east corner, providing a supposedly uninterrupted view from two separate windows of the grassed area where the commemorative photographs of the delegates were customarily taken. Having found fault with so much else in the local information Zenin accepted he would have to verify that but decided against doing it today. His connection with the apartment had to be restricted to the absolute minimum, so that particular but essential confirmation would have to wait until he installed the weapon. It would be necessary, also, properly to assess how long it would take him to get out of the flat, descend twenty storeys and regain the street. The embassy gave an estimate of seven minutes but Zenin was contemptuous now of all their timings.

  He went back on to the Colombettes road and walked up to the multi-lane Ferney highway, nodding appreciatively at the noise, recognizing at once and with professional awareness that the traffic roar would mask completely the muted sound of the shots and certainly make any directional fix practically impossible. Just as quickly Zenin saw an additional advantage. Vehicles flooded by in an unbroken stream: it was virtually inevitable that any security sweep, no matter how well rehearsed and co-ordinated, would become snarled up in it.

  Zenin went in the direction of the Place des Nations, turning frequently to focus upon the building he would be using, easily able to isolate the corner windows through which he would be firing. He stood sideways, moving his head from the high apartment to the international area and then back up again, trying with trained marksman’s expertise to visualize the trajectory. It was very difficult, as low as he was, but it appeared to be unimpeded although there were some avenues of decorative trees about which he was unsure. They would have to remain another uncertainty that could only be resolved when he actually got into the apartment.

  Zenin returned finally to the Cornavin station, more than satisfied with the visit. The next time would be to meet the girl, he reflected, as he took the Peugeot out on to the Bern road. He had the photographs, of course, because identification was essential but he wondered again what she would be like, beyond their sterility. The pictures showed her to be very attractive: it might be an interesting diversion for their encounter to be anything but sterile.

  Three of the aircraft had been short-haul airbuses, with a smaller cabin crew, so Charlie’s estimate of a hundred and eighty was reduced but not by much.

  He managed to interview nine the following day, four from the Alitalia plane and five from the Austrian airline flight to Vienna. There was not even a hesitant recognition from any of them.

  That night, at the hotel, Charlie sat with his diminishing whisky bottle beside him, hunched with all the information he possessed spread out on reminder sheets around his stockinged feet, the blurred print forming the centrepiece. Directly alongside was the list of European political events, the first only nine days away.

  Charlie looked back to the picture and said: ‘Where the fuck are you, whoever you are!’

  Chapter Thirteen

  By the end of the third day Charlie Muffin had unsuccessfully interviewed thirty-two members of the cabin staff of six different airlines, was well into the second bottle of room-service whisky, had discovered the Mercedes scratched in the hotel car park and was under increasing pressure from Sir Alistair Wilson to accept more people to conduct the hopeful photo-identification sessions, which was unnecessary because the delay in locating and bringing to England the stewards and stewardesses who had left London during those vital three hours meant there were long periods each day when there was no one even for Charlie to interrogate. And he thought the food at the airport was absolutely bloody awful: by the second day he’d had diarrhoea. That night, not bothering with dinner because of the stomach upset, which he was treating with the remains of the second bottle, Charlie accepted he’d soon have to submit to the Director’s insistence, pointless though it might be. He’d been in similar, cul-de-sac situations a dozen times before and the headquarters reaction was always the same, a determination to create movement in the belief that the direction would automatically be forward. He guessed it made them feel better. He wished he did.

  The demands to the European embassies had fortunately not produced any further political events, which would have meant widening the search and made it more difficult than it already was and so far the Watchers had not come up with anything new. Charlie almost wished they would. He had been truthful putting this possibility no higher than fifty per cent during the meeting with the Director but was by now more conscious than he had been at the beginning of the upheaval his interview demands were causing. There would be no necessity for an explanation or apology to any of the airlines if the whole thing ended as unproductively as it had so far proved to be but Charlie knew that behind the undesignated doors of Whitehall and within the department his balls would be used for squash practice and not just for the game, either. Once — just once — it would have been nice to stand under a shower without knowing it was someone pulling the flush over his head.

  And then the following morning the first person he interviewed was a senior Swissair stewardess named Eva Becker who studied the Primrose Hill photograph with Teutonic intentness, looked up at him serious faced and said: ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes what?’ asked Charlie, cautiously.

  ‘I think I have seen this man.’

  ‘On the thirteenth?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the stewardess
. ‘It was flight 837.’

  He knew all the answers already but it was important that everything came from her, without any prompting or assumption from him. He said: ‘What time?’

  ‘Twenty hundred.’

  One hour after the immigration episode: the timing could not be more precisely right. Charlie said: ‘Where does that flight go?’

  ‘Geneva,’ she said.

  ‘And then?’

  ‘No where,’ she said. ‘It terminates there.’

  ‘Why do you think it was him?’

  ‘I thought he was rude,’ said the woman.

  ‘Rude?’

  ‘He refused any drinks. Or the food snack,’ she said. ‘When I offered again — it’s customary to do so — he said he’d already told me he didn’t want anything and hadn’t I heard him. It was very impolite. Wilfred thought so too.’

  ‘Wilfred?’

  The woman nodded behind her and through the glass of the fishbowl office Charlie saw a man in a Swissair uniform, waiting to follow her. She said: ‘We were flying together that evening. Like we are today.’