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  The Director moved with stiff-legged awkwardness to the desk. Rose growing was the man’s hobby and at one corner was a vase of Pascali. He looked briefly down at some papers laid out in readiness and then smiled up at Charlie. ‘It’s good, Charlie; could be one of the best. But it won’t be easy.’

  That was the trouble, thought Charlie: they never were. He said: ‘Another defector damage assessment?’

  Wilson smiled, discerning the reason for the question. ‘It’s a defection,’ he said. ‘But definitely not another office job. Asia.’

  The last vestiges of Charlie’s headache lifted. Back on the streets: his proper place. Gutters too, if necessary. Whatever, as long as it was operational. He said: ‘Where?’

  ‘Japan,’ said the Director.

  ‘Worked Tokyo twice,’ said Charlie. ‘Went well both times.’

  ‘Let’s hope it does this time,’ said Harkness. ‘It could be spectacular.’

  Wilson went back to his papers and said, with dictated formality: ‘Yuri Kozlov is an operative of Department 8 of Directorate S of the KGB’s First Chief Directorate, currently attached to the Soviet embassy in Tokyo. For the past six months he has been negotiating with the Americans, to come over. They want us to share.’

  ‘Balls!’ said Charlie, at once.

  Both men looked up at him, surprised.

  ‘Like you said,’ continued Charlie, ‘it could be spectacular. If Kozlov is genuine Department 8 then he’s a killer, a trained assassin. He could give details of assassinations that have been carried out and not been detected as such; maybe some indication of future targets. He could detail the training and be used for incredible propaganda, publicly disclosing that the Soviets actually train and despatch people to kill. To get something like that the CIA would think it was Christmas, every day. They wouldn’t let us or any other service within a million miles. And certainly not offer him, openly. It’s wrong.’

  Wilson smiled again, at Charlie’s objections. ‘I agree with you, absolutely: on the face of it utter balls.’

  ‘Then I don’t understand,’ said Charlie.

  ‘The CIA don’t want to share. I bet they’re as mad as hell at the idea,’ continued Wilson. ‘But they haven’t got any choice. From the caution he’s showing, I think Kozlov is genuine. He’s got a wife, Irena. Also KGB. And also stationed in Tokyo. The deal – Kozlov’s deal – is that he’ll go over to the Americans and the wife comes over to us.’

  ‘Why?’ demanded Charlie, even more confused.

  ‘He’s openly told the Americans he doesn’t expect them to keep the promises they’re making, in their eagerness to get them over,’ took up Harkness. ‘The Americans have treated defectors badly in the past: milked them dry and then dumped them. And he knows it. Kozlov is taking out insurance, to see he gets everything. There’s to be no complete re-union until they’ve got all they’re asking for. Which would seem to be quite a lot …’ The neat man coughed, finishing his tea and placing it on the edge of the Director’s desk. ‘If they both went across to the Americans,’ resumed Harkness, ‘they’d only be guaranteed one income. Kozlov is demanding separate payments and pension arrangements, his from the Americans, his wife’s from us …’

  ‘Which we’ll pay, of course: the lot,’ said the Director.

  ‘They could be apart for years!’ said Charlie.

  ‘A further part of the deal,’ expanded the Director. ‘Conjugal visits, every month, on neutral territory, under our joint protection.’

  ‘I don’t like it,’ said Charlie. ‘It doesn’t feel right.’

  ‘Kozlov claims to have worked in England,’ announced Wilson.

  ‘Any trace?’ demanded Charlie. Whatever the uncertainties, it was obviously something they had to go for: go all the way.

  ‘Not under that name,’ said Wilson. ‘Doesn’t mean it isn’t true.’

  ‘We’re going to share everything with the Americans: they tell us what Kozlov says and we tell them what Irena says?’ asked Charlie.

  ‘That’s what the Americans are promising,’ said Harkness.

  ‘They won’t,’ insisted Charlie, at once. ‘They’re getting the better part of the deal, with Kozlov himself. They’ll just want us to get the woman out. From Kozlov we’ll only get the scraps.’

  Wilson smiled, wolfishly. ‘Unless he tells us himself.’

  Charlie answered the smile. ‘We snatch him, once they’re both across?’

  ‘It depends,’ said Wilson. ‘I’d prefer to convince him it would be better for them both to come to us in the first place.’

  ‘The CIA will try to do the same,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Of course they will,’ agreed Wilson. ‘I never thought it was going to be easy. That’s why it’s got to be you, Charlie. I want someone who can think dirtier. And quicker.’

  ‘Thanks for the character reference!’ said Charlie.

  ‘It’s the game, Charlie,’ reminded Wilson. ‘And there’s to be limited contact with the British embassy …’

  ‘To reduce any embarrassment if anything goes wrong?’ anticipated Charlie. How many times had he heard that?

  ‘It’s the same game,’ said Wilson. ‘Embassy for communication, nothing else.’ He slid a photograph of a young-looking man towards Charlie. ‘Richard Cartright. Young fellow, third posting. We’ll advise your arrival …’

  ‘I’ll need some assistance,’ insisted Charlie.

  ‘There’ll be everything you want, once you’ve decided it’s absolutely genuine,’ said Wilson. ‘Until then, you’re on your own.’

  Charlie worked to rules – his rules, not anything written in triplicate in manuals marked Eyes Only – and an absolutely essential rule was to have someone to hold the shielding umbrella if the shit hit the fan. Which in his experience it nearly always did and this time looked inevitable. He said: ‘I quite understand about embassy embarrassment but I know someone in Asia on contract …’

  ‘Not Harry Lu,’ refused Harkness, at once. ‘He’s on the suspect list.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Auditors found he was charging for informants in the communist Chinese office in Hong Kong who didn’t exist,’ said Harkness.

  Bloody accountant, Charlie thought again. He said: ‘Everyone does that.’

  Harkness winced at the admission. The deputy director said: ‘It makes him someone who has the potential for being bought. This operation has got to remain absolutely secure.’

  What about his security? wondered Charlie. He’d have to make his own arrangements. He said: ‘We’ve got the positive guarantee of cooperation from the Americans?’

  Wilson looked briefly down at the papers in front of him. ‘The promise came from the CIA headquarters at Langley; the Director himself. Your liaison at the US embassy in Tokyo is Art Fredericks.’

  Not a name Charlie knew. But then it had been a long time. He said: ‘Do they know it’s going to be me?’

  ‘I cabled them last night,’ said Wilson.

  So all the enquiries about the progress of the Jeremy Knott defection were so much bullshit: nothing changed. Ever. He said: ‘No reaction?’

  ‘Getting the Kozlovs out, where they’re ours, is the only consideration,’ said the Director. ‘What happened a long time ago is just that – history.’

  If Wilson believed that then he believed in Father Christmas, the Tooth Fairy and that the cheque was always in the post, decided Charlie. He said: ‘You’ll want me to go right away?’

  ‘There’s a direct flight tomorrow night. That gives you a day to hand over the other thing,’ said Harkness.

  Remembering, Charlie said: ‘Jeremy Knott was at Cambridge: read history at King’s. Another undergraduate was Herbert Bell, who’s now an Under Secretary here at the Foreign Office. They were both friends, at Cambridge; members of the debating society. I found a photograph of them, together. Bell was in Brussels, at the same time as Knott. And there was a six-months overlap in Rome.’

  ‘So?’ asked Wilson.

  ‘I
n the assessment survey afterwards I found a statement from Bell that Jeremy Knott was only a casual acquaintance: that they had not met or had contact after Cambridge,’ said Charlie. ‘Foreign Office background reports record them occupying the same house at Cambridge and Bell’s father actually provided Knott with a character reference, for his Foreign Office entry.’

  ‘I can understand a permanent government official wanting to avoid the public embarrassment of known association with a traitor,’ said Harkness, reasonably.

  ‘Bell had access to most of the NATO stuff that Knott was convicted of passing over,’ said Charlie. ‘I checked. It smells wrong.’

  ‘You mean that Knott was just the conduit, who happened to get caught?’ demanded Wilson. ‘And then kept quiet, to allow Bell to stay in place?’

  Maybe the man didn’t believe in Father Christmas and the Tooth Fairy, after all. Charlie said: ‘I mean I think it would be a good idea to put some surveillance on Bell; maybe channel something through him and keep a watch to see if it surfaces somewhere.’

  Wilson nodded the instruction to his deputy and said to Charlie: ‘Pass the files over to Witherspoon, to continue the assessment …’ He hesitated, briefly. ‘But don’t tell him about the Knott and Bell connection. Let’s see if he comes up with it.’

  The sort of thing he’d that morning suspected Witherspoon was doing to him, recalled Charlie. The snotty little prick deserved it. He said: ‘I’ll do that …’ Charlie allowed just the right degree of pause and then went on: ‘I’m afraid there might be a problem making tomorrow night’s plane.’

  ‘Why?’ frowned Wilson.

  ‘Seems accounts want my expenses brought up to date and won’t advance me any more money until they are,’ said Charlie, intentionally avoiding Harkness’s look. ‘And I’m going to need quite an advance, going to Japan. Expensive place.’

  The Director made an impatient gesture and said to Harkness: ‘For God’s sake get it fixed, on my authority. Bloody men with adding machines!’

  ‘It’s regulations,’ tried Harkness.

  ‘Bugger regulations!’ said Wilson. ‘We haven’t got time to waste, not now.’

  Charlie looked expressionlessly at the deputy director, registering the man’s flush of anger. He’d known that Harkness had initiated the expenses purge. That would teach the prissy fart: and there was still that nitpicking security difficulty. Charlie said: ‘There could be another delay: there’s some sort of security enquiry. I retained the files last night, so I could be sure of the connection between Knott and Bell. I know it was wrong but I was only out for about thirty minutes, for a late supper.’

  ‘Nonsense to expect you to return them, while you were still working on them,’ judged Wilson, impatiently. To Harkness he said again: ‘Sort that out as well, will you?’

  The colour of Harkness’s face deepened to match the desktop roses and Charlie decided that it was game, set and match.

  ‘Be careful in Japan, Charlie,’ warned Wilson. ‘I want the Kozlovs but I don’t want it blowing up in my face.’

  I’m more interested in my face than in yours, thought Charlie. And nothing is going to blow up into it if I can help it. He said: ‘I have authority to abort?’

  ‘Not without consultation,’ qualified Wilson. ‘And well done about the Knott defection.’

  Which, compared to what he was now having to do, suddenly seemed an attractive assignment. Charlie said: ‘I’ll need to be completely satisfied. I still don’t like the feel of it.’

  ‘That’s what I want you to be,’ insisted Wilson. ‘Completely satisfied.’

  The transfer order had come down from upstairs by the time Charlie collected all the Knott files and carried them from one cell to the other, to pass the assessment over to Hubert Witherspoon. Pedantically Charlie had Witherspoon sign a receipt and Witherspoon said smugly: ‘On suspension?’

  ‘Nope,’ said Charlie. ‘Reassigned.’

  The regulations-department, not personal-by which Witherspoon also ran his life – prevented the man making any sort of enquiry, and for once Charlie was grateful for them, aware of Witherspoon’s impotent irritation. Trying to increase it, Charlie added: ‘Feeling was that you could sort out the last bits and pieces of this: I’ve already submitted a provisional report.’

  ‘What am I expected to do?’ asked Witherspoon, concerned.

  ‘Find out what I missed,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Anything I should particularly watch out for?’ pressed the man.

  Charlie hesitated and then said: ‘Yes. Be careful of the meat pies.’

  ‘The confounded man is intentionally insubordinate,’ protested Harkness. ‘You didn’t believe that rubbish about slipping out for a late supper, did you?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said the Director, who was standing against the radiator again. Through the window he saw the Ministry of Works gardeners were working in St James’s Park rosebeds and made a mental note to stop on his way home to see what they were planting.

  ‘And the accounts will be in a hopeless mess, by the time he gets back from the Far East,’ persisted Harkness.

  ‘If he gets back from the Far East,’ qualified Wilson, turning back into the room.

  ‘I’m not discounting the difficulties,’ said Harkness, detecting the criticism.

  ‘I’m prepared to tolerate the insubordination and the expenses fiddling and even some minimal security lapses,’ said Wilson. ‘This is Charlie’s sort of job.’

  ‘Do you think he’s actually done it?’ demanded Harkness, obtusely.

  ‘Done what?’ said the Director.

  ‘Invented informants, to pad his expenses?’

  ‘Not for a moment,’ said Wilson. Harkness was an excellent deputy but there were irritations.

  ‘They’re a type, you know, he and that man Lu,’ said Harkness. He’d initiate an audit on Charlie Muffin, just in case.

  ‘Harry Lu’s a good freelance: deniable, too, if something goes wrong,’ said Wilson. ‘I don’t really want to lose him, over a few pounds.’

  ‘It’s more than a few pounds,’ argued Harkness, stiffly.

  ‘Let’s not do anything final, until after this is over,’ ordered Wilson. He felt out, enjoying the touch of the flowers.

  ‘It’s not just Charlie Muffin’s insubordination that is intentional,’ said Harkness, ‘Everything about the man … the way he dresses … all that, is calculated to irritate, for no other reason than for his own amusement.’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s the only reason,’ said Wilson.

  ‘The Americans won’t like it being him,’ insisted the deputy. ‘They won’t have forgotten he brought their Director down as well as ours in that ridiculous retribution business.’

  ‘They’ll accept him, to get Kozlov,’ said Wilson. He paused, then said: ‘Don’t forget our predecessors planned to dump Charlie Muffin.’

  ‘I don’t agree with the method but sometimes I think they had a point of view,’ said Harkness. The secretary was waiting, when the deputy got back to his own office.

  ‘Accounts want to speak to you,’ she said. ‘Charlie Muffin is indenting for £1000.’

  ‘Confounded man!’ said Harkness, whose limit of outrage was restricted because he never swore, considering obscenity a careless use of words and he was a man careless about nothing.

  ‘I thought he is on the stop list,’ said the woman.

  ‘Was,’ corrected the deputy, miserably. He’d definitely initiate an audit. And take another precaution. It was right the embassy should be distanced but Charlie Muffin was unpredictable. It was necessary to warn Richard Cartright and have him monitor what the dreadful man did.

  Jun Hayashi did not consider he had betrayed the failed revolution of the Japanese Red Army; rather they had betrayed themselves, allowing the authorities to defeat them. Hayashi had not been defeated. Now it was a private revolution. He parked the Toyota coupé the Russian money had already provided and went – early as always – into Haneda Control Tower, the y
oungest supervisor there.

  Chapter Two

  Art Fredericks disembarked from the train on to the miniscule platform, momentarily drawing back from the crush of people filing obediently in the direction of the first of the shrines at Kamakura, admiring Kozlov’s choice and recognizing, reluctantly, that the Russian was a clever bastard. And recognizing, pleased, that he’d been cleverer.

  Kozlov had chosen the location, which he had always done since establishing contact, and Kamakura was perfect. Wherever the Russian was – and Fredericks knew he would be watching from somewhere – the tiny station and the single exit from it allowed the man complete surveillance, to determine if Fredericks were alone or accompanied by minders: or worse, snatch squads. Fredericks joined the crush, thinking as he had a dozen times since coming to Japan that everything would have been a goddamned sight easier if he weren’t a round-eye, so easily distinguishable from all the other tourists. By the same token, he accepted realistically, it should make Kozlov easier to identify. Fredericks didn’t bother to search, knowing by now of Kozlov’s expertise and that to try to locate him, wherever he was, would be pointless: another of Kozlov’s insistences was that as well as selecting the meeting places he should always initiate the contact, never giving any indication where or how it might be. Clever bastard, thought Fredericks again, conscious of attention from the Japanese immediately around him. Fredericks was a tall, heavy man, fighting a losing battle to prevent the muscle of his college heavyweight boxing days turning to fat, but he knew, unoffended, that it was not his size which intrigued them. It was the hair. Not only was it tightly curled and thick on his head but thatched on his chest and obvious today because he wore an open sports shirt, and matted, too, down from his arms, to cover the backs of his hands. His Japanese wasn’t good enough to overhear if they were calling him monkey: he knew it was a frequently used word. One day, he thought, he would have to ask somebody why the Japanese never had any body hair.

  The American went, according to the Russian’s instructions, towards the Meigetsu-In temple. An expert himself, the CIA agent carried a camera and went into his tourist cover, stopping several times to photograph the foam of hydrangeas through which he had to climb to reach the building. He lingered at the main building and then stopped to photograph the smouldering fire upon which the students burned their wood-inscribed prayers for examination success, all the time alert for the approach. Which never came. Ten minutes had been the time limit.