See Charlie Run cm-7 Page 14

  ‘Thank you,’ said the Director, again.

  ‘It means that Charlie Muffin has embezzled on his expenses account,’ said Harkness, as if he feared the Director misunderstood.

  ‘Not until it’s proven,’ said Wilson. ‘I think we should give the man an opportunity to explain himself, don’t you?’

  ‘I wouldn’t suggest anything else,’ said the deputy. ‘That would be most unfair.’

  ‘Quite,’ said the Director. He offered the audit back, unopened. ‘Why not keep this somewhere safe, until this other business is settled. We’ll look at it then.’

  Chapter Eleven

  By the time he reached the darkened American embassy, Charlie had fully prepared his approach to the CIA Resident. There were none of the delays of the earlier visit: the marine guard expected him by name and when he reached the vestibule from the main guard post Fredericks was waiting. The man hadn’t shaved, and after a full day and so late into the night his face was black with beard.

  They walked unspeaking through the insecure outer offices into Fredericks’ memorabilia-festooned, electronically protected room, and the moment they entered Charlie went into the performance.

  ‘No tricks,’ he said.

  ‘What?’ frowned Fredericks.

  ‘Tonight we agreed no tricks,’ reminded Charlie. ‘So I’m keeping my side of the bargain. Everything up front, from now on.’

  Fredericks looked uncertainly at him. ‘Like what?’ he said.

  ‘We think we’ve identified someone Kozlov killed; one of your guys,’ said Charlie.

  Fredericks came forward in his chair, all animosity gone. ‘Who!’

  ‘The name was Bill Paul,’ said Charlie. ‘Ran a right-wing magazine in London: CIA financed. My people have confirmed he was deep-cover Agency. He was murdered in London, in January 1980. No one was ever arrested …’

  ‘Son of a bitch …!’ said the American. It was a remark to himself, not to Charlie.

  ‘There was another unexplained death, connected with Paul,’ continued Charlie. ‘A Ukrainian dissident called Valeri Solomatin. He used to write for Paul. Drowned in a supposed fishing accident. Our counter-intelligence didn’t accept it was an accident. Happened about a year after Paul’s death; March ‘81.’

  ‘Kozlov was based in London?’

  Give a little to gain a lot, thought Charlie. He nodded and said: ‘The name was Gordik: he was attached to a trade mission.’

  ‘But we …’ began Fredericks.

  ‘Not on the diplomatic list,’ said Charlie.

  ‘The bastard!’ said Fredericks, another self-addressed remark.

  ‘What will your people do to him, after debriefing?’ asked Charlie.

  ‘Not my decision,’ reminded the American. ‘I’ve just got to make sure he gets there. After that it’s out of my hands.’

  The likelihood of American retribution provided just the sort of pressure to threaten Kozlov and persuade him to dump the CIA to come over to them, realized Charlie; bloody nuisance he hadn’t known the details before his meeting with the Russian. Time enough later. He said: ‘Soon things will be out of both our hands.’

  ‘Fixed the meeting?’

  ‘I said everything up front, remember?’ enticed Charlie.

  Fredericks nodded.

  ‘I meant it,’ said Charlie. ‘It’s tomorrow …’ He paused, and then he said: ‘And I’m going to take her.’

  Fredericks’ astonishment, at the announcement, was obvious. At once he said: ‘But that means …’

  ‘He’s coming to you, at the same time,’ stopped Charlie. ‘Everything can coordinate perfectly. You’re ready, aren’t you?’

  Fredericks hesitated, trying to assemble his thoughts in the proper order. He said: ‘No problem.’

  ‘That’s good,’ said Charlie, a remark for his own benefit.

  ‘You didn’t give me a time?’ prompted the American.

  ‘Noon,’ said Charlie.

  ‘You tell Kozlov it was going to be then?’

  ‘No,’ said Charlie. ‘Best neither of them know, until the actual moment. Less chance of a last-minute change of heart.’

  ‘He seems unsure to you then?’ demanded Fredericks, concerned.

  The very opposite, thought Charlie, remembering the Russian’s demeanour. ‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘But things can change, when it comes to making the commitment.’

  Fredericks paused again, wondering whether to risk the direct question. Taking the chance, he said: ‘Getting her out right away?’

  ‘Safest thing to do,’ said Charlie.

  ‘We’ll do the same,’ said the American, as if he were matching the openness.

  ‘This time tomorrow she will be halfway to England and the safety of a base.’ Surely he couldn’t miss that as a pointer!

  ‘Sorry if I got out of line a few times,’ said Fredericks.

  ‘We both did,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Keyed up, I guess,’ continued the American.

  Soon they’d be dancing cheek to cheek, thought Charlie. He said: ‘Usually happens. No hard feelings about tonight?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘I’d have tried the same thing myself,’ admitted Charlie. He thought once more how well Fredericks lied.

  ‘What did you think of Kozlov?’

  ‘No doubt at all that he’s genuine KGB,’ said Charlie. Continuing the truthfulness, because there was no danger, he added: ‘Still can’t reconcile that lack of nervousness.’

  ‘He’s a killer,’ reminded the American. ‘Trained to control any emotions. It was a point you made.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Anything else we need to talk through?’

  ‘Can’t think of it,’ said Charlie.

  Fredericks rose, extending his hand. ‘Glad everything worked out,’ he said.

  The handshake was crushing, but Charlie didn’t react. He said: ‘It hasn’t, not yet.’

  ‘It’s going to,’ said Fredericks. ‘It’s got the right feel.’

  Charlie wondered what the other man’s attitude would be tomorrow. ‘Let’s hope you’re right,’ he said.

  It was past one o’clock when Charlie got back to the hotel and his body ached with fatigue, one part predictably more than any other. His feet just didn’t ache: they hurt, like buggery. But worth it, he told himself: he was ahead, where he liked being. Secure in his room, he looked again at the photograph of Irena Kozlov, carefully inserting it into the passport slot and sitting back, realizing he didn’t have a name. Inexplicably he thought of Sir Alistair Wilson’s hobby and decided upon Rose. Which left the surname. There was nothing wrong with the one his mother had, when she finally married with him in the congregation. Adams, he completed, staring still at the document. She didn’t look like a Rose; definitely a dog, wearing lipstick.

  ‘Well!’ demanded Fredericks.

  The assembled CIA agents looked between each other and then Levine said: ‘Seems to be a sudden change.’

  ‘We did make a deal,’ reminded Fredericks.

  ‘Did you intend to keep to it?’ asked Levine.

  ‘No,’ admitted the supervisor.

  ‘Which is why I’m surprised he appears to be doing so.’

  ‘You reckon it’s a military plane?’ asked Elliott.

  Fredericks nodded: ‘It’s got to be some sort of aircraft, to get her out anyway. Halfway back to base; that’s what he said. Military planes land at bases.’

  ‘What about us?’ asked Fish.

  ‘A C-130 from the Philippines,’ said Fredericks.

  ‘Where do we snatch the woman? asked Yamada.

  ‘The most important question,’ agreed Fredericks. ‘So OK, let’s go through it and make sure we get it right. There’ll only be one shot and I don’t want to lose it …’

  ‘Guess Kozlov will insist on the usual run around?’ said Levine.

  ‘We’ve certainly got to allow for it,’ agreed the supervisor. ‘It means we’re going to be s
tretched.’ He looked at Dale. ‘You’ll have to cover the hotel, as always …’ To Fish he said: ‘You drive for me …’

  ‘What about me?’ asked Yamada.

  ‘We’ll need liaison, between us with Kozlov and the others with the woman,’ said Fredericks. ‘Once we get them both I want us out of this country so fast there’ll be scorch marks. That’s your job …’ He came to Elliott, remembering the determination to settle with the Englishman and deciding to give the man the opportunity. He said: ‘You and Hank get Charlie Muffin.’

  Elliott smiled at once and said: ‘You better believe it; I’ll get Charlie Muffin.’

  Fredericks felt a flicker of doubt. ‘It must be right, like I said,’ he warned. ‘We’ve no idea what she looks like so we’ve got to wait until the contact is made. His moving with a woman will be our identification, so nothing before then. And still not too soon. I don’t want her having the chance to run. Remember she won’t want to come with us.’

  Elliott raised his hand, a stopping gesture. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘There won’t be any mistakes.’

  ‘There hadn’t better be,’ said Fredericks. ‘Remember, he’s a sneaky son-of-a-bitch.’

  ‘I’m sneakier,’ said Elliott.

  It was very late and this part of the airport was deserted and Jun Hayashi was nervous, pulled deep into the shadows of a cargo shed. He was completely unaware of the Russian’s approach, grunting his surprise when Kozlov appeared abruptly beside him.

  ‘Well?’ demanded Kozlov.

  ‘Americans as well as the British,’ said the Japanese, nodding behind him. The aircraft were too far away in the darkness to locate.

  ‘You’ve done well,’ said Kozlov, handing over the payment. ‘Very well indeed.’

  ‘Damned capitalists!’ said Hayashi.

  Kozlov was glad of the darkness, which hid his amused reaction to the outburst. ‘They’ll be brought down,’ he said.

  Chapter Twelve

  Charlie was up early, with a lot to do before noon. ‘Smooth as silk,’ he told himself, in the bathroom mirror. So why was he still unable to lose the feeling that any minute that steel-shod boot was going to catch him where it hurt the most. Kozlov was unquestionably genuine: no doubt about that, like he’d told Fredericks. Reason for the split defection made sense, too, because defectors were despised and frequently dumped, when their usefulness was exhausted. All the negotiations had been convoluted, but that made professional sense, also, because at any minute Kozlov could have pulled back. OK, so he hadn’t withdrawn when Fredericks maintained his warned-against surveillance, but that wasn’t an important inconsistency. Neither was the fact that Irene had been kept out of it; professionalism again, because it minimized the danger. Nothing wrong then. So maybe it was a hundred and one per cent genuine; maybe he was a suspicious old sod with thinning hair and painful feet and bloodshot eyes, who’d spent so much time making two plus two equal five that he couldn’t properly add up anything any more. And yet he could still feel that incoming boot.

  Mind held by his self-description, Charlie leaned forward in the mirror. Eyes weren’t bloodshot — well, not much anyway — and the hair wasn’t thinning; just looked that way because he’d slept awkwardly. Not in bad shape at all, really, providing he remembered to breathe in all the time and walk with his chin up, to lessen the jowl droop. He managed to shave without cutting himself and chose the freshly pressed suit and the tie that no longer showed the pie stain, smiling at his unusual reflection in the larger mirror. Posh enough for a wedding, he decided. The reflection ran on, soberingly; people dressed up for funerals, as well.

  He picked up the passport, checking his entries of the previous night, pausing at the photograph of Irena Kozlov. Certainly no rose, he thought again. He searched for the descriptive word and came up with formidable. Irena Kozlov certainly looked a formidable woman. He guessed it would take a long time fully to debrief her, everything having to be done at her speed and pace. Charlie hoped he didn’t get lumbered with the task; he disliked being boxed up for weeks in guarded country houses, painstakingly stripping the facts from the invariable self-important fiction with which defectors always attempted to make themselves appear better catches than they were. Bad as damage assessments, when one of their own people went walkabout. The thought led naturally to Herbert Bell; better as a conduit, the Director had said. Charlie wondered what disinformation they were feeding the Russians through the Foreign Office traitor. Sir Alistair Wilson was a cunning old bugger: whatever it was, Charlie knew it would be confusingly good.

  Charlie did not hurry through the long walkway to the main foyer and stood back for a couple at the taxi rank, wanting at this stage to make it as easy as possible. He didn’t check until the vehicle was down the ramp and into the immediately clogged streets, looking idly through the rear window. Difficult in conditions like this, with so many cars, but he put?5 on the black Nissan with the central roof aerial: two men, neither Japanese. There’d be plenty of opportunity to make sure; Haneda was a bloody long way from the city. Of which he had not seen enough, Charlie decided. When Irena was safely away he’d definitely do the rounds in Niban-cho: he liked the look-at-me neon with bars the size of cupboards and bills the size of wardrobes, especially when it was Harkness’s money. Invite Cartright, maybe; give him indigestion, if he were Harkness’s man.

  Charlie guessed correctly about the Nissan. Levine, who was driving, said: ‘I guess the airport.’

  ‘Where the hell is the pick-up?’ said Elliott.

  ‘Could be a dozen places.’ His partner’s constant anger worried Levine.

  ‘Noon, he told Fredericks,’ reminded Elliott. ‘He’s given himself a lot of time.’

  ‘Suppose it would make sense to meet her at the airport?’ said Levine.

  ‘Not good for a snatch,’ said Elliott. ‘Too open.’

  ‘I wouldn’t like it either,’ agreed the other American. ‘Damn all we can do about it.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we close up a little?’

  ‘Don’t want to spook him,’ said the more controlled Levine. ‘It’s got to be the surprise of his life.’

  ‘What there is left of it,’ said Elliott.

  ‘The woman first,’ cautioned Levine. He wished Fredericks had linked him with someone else.

  They joined the airport highway and Charlie made another check and decided he was right about the Nissan. He wondered what Washington’s plans were, to get Kozlov out. It had to be an aircraft of some sort: and military, too. With their bases on Guam and in the Philippines, the Americans were better placed than London had been. Alas, thought Charlie, for the passing of the British Empire, gunships and natives everywhere who knew the words to ‘Rule Britannia’.

  The routing signs began to indicate the airport and Levine said, ‘No doubt about it.’

  ‘Going to be a bastard if the meeting is there,’ said Elliott, echoing the earlier concern.

  ‘The woman first, then him,’ insisted Levine. ‘Let’s not fuck up by getting the priorities wrong.’

  ‘Hate to miss the opportunity, after what he did,’ said Elliott.

  ‘His losing her will be enough,’ said Levine.

  ‘No it won’t,’ said Elliott. ‘Not half enough.’

  In the car in front Charlie leaned forward, indicating to the driver he wanted the military transportation area in the cargo section and not any of the main civilian passenger terminals.

  Levine saw the car’s change of direction and said: ‘Shit! We’ll be obvious, if we stay this near!’

  Elliott tensed against the windscreen and Levine saw him reach down to unclip the restraining strap on the ankle holster. Levine eased the car back, edging himself behind the hopeful concealment of a food delivery lorry. As he did so he saw the camouflaged markings on some of the parked aircraft they were approaching and said: ‘It checks out, with what he told Fredericks: a military plane.’

  ‘Where’s the goddamned woman!’ demanded the other American.

 
Levine saw the taxi stop against the military terminal building and managed to get his car into a filter road and behind a cluster of single-storey sheds.

  ‘What now!’ said Elliott.

  ‘We watch and we wait,’ said Levine.

  Charlie Muffin entered the control area for transitting foreign military personnel, gazing through a window on to the apron, trying to identify the British aircraft. He saw an Air Force rondel about five aircraft away from the main building.

  Sampson responded within minutes to the Tannoy paging, a stiffly upright, closely barbered, open-faced man, obviously military despite the civilian clothing.

  ‘I was expecting to come to see you, sir,’ said Sampson. There was an eagerness to please about the man.

  Charlie tried to remember the last time even a restaurant waiter had called him sir. He said: ‘There was a particular reason.’

  ‘A lot was explained to me in London,’ said Sampson. ‘When’s it to be?’

  ‘Today,’ said Charlie. ‘But not from here.’

  ‘I thought …’

  ‘Too many interested observers,’ said Charlie. ‘I’m running hare to the hounds.’ It took him fifteen minutes to explain how Irena Kozlov was going to leave Japan, and when he finished Sampson said: ‘Providing she can go through with it, everything sounds remarkably simple. Very little for me to do, in fact.’

  ‘The best ways are always the simple ones,’ said Charlie. ‘And there’ll be enough to do, from Hong Kong.’

  ‘How will I recognize her?’

  Charlie produced the passport and the photograph from his travel bag and said: ‘Rose Adams.’

  Sampson studied the picture, without comment, and then said: ‘She will expect me to be waiting?’

  ‘At the arrival barrier,’ said Charlie. ‘She’ll have your name.’ Just pick her up, transfer immediately to your own aircraft and head for London. No stop-over. Just go.’

  ‘What time does her plane get in?’

  ‘Nine tonight,’ said Charlie. ‘Six o’clock departure from Osaka.’