The Run Around cm-8 Read online

  ‘Number four was his first involvement,’ remembered Wilson.

  ‘I think I know what happened to the previous three,’ announced Charlie.

  ‘What?’ asked the Director.

  ‘Novikov agreed with me that he worked for the Directorate’s Third Department, which we know from previous defectors covers England. The logical conclusion is that the previous messages, perhaps identifying the target, went through other departments,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Which means the killing could be anywhere in the world!’ exclaimed Wilson.

  Charlie shook his head, in another refusal. He said: ‘I think we can narrow it down.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Although separate in department control, England is considered part of Europe,’ said Charlie. ‘My guess is that England is the staging post for a killing that is to be carried out somewhere in Europe.’

  ‘A guess,’ pounced Harkness.

  ‘Which might have been easier to confirm if surveillance had been imposed earlier,’ came back Charlie.

  ‘Why England at all, if the assassination isn’t to be here?’ asked Wilson.

  Charlie shrugged, unable positively to answer. ‘It’s trade-craft always to conceal the point of entry,’ he suggested.

  ‘Everything is still too vague,’ said Harkness.

  ‘No,’ disputed Charlie again. ‘The debriefing told us how to look. And where.’

  ‘What!’ shouted Wilson.

  ‘The dates,’ said Charlie. ‘I’m sure it’s in the dates.’

  ‘Tell me how?’ insisted the Director.

  ‘The pattern fits,’ argued Charlie. ‘Novikov was cut off on 19 August?’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed the Director. He was leaning intently across the desk.

  ‘The last message he encoded was 12 August?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Before that, 5 August?’

  ‘And you anticipated the first, 29 July,’ remembered Harkness.

  ‘All Fridays,’ said Charlie.

  There was another brief silence, then Harkness said: ‘So?’

  ‘The Politburo of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics always convenes on a Thursday,’ said Charlie. ‘Novikov’s first message, to the Politburo, was an acknowledgement of an instruction for a public and political assassination. The other two were outwardly transmitted messages, establishing London as a link in that planning.’

  Harkness shook his head in rejection. ‘I don’t agree that assumption,’ he said. ‘Or still understand the guide it gives us, even if I could accept it.’

  ‘Allow me the assumption,’ urged Charlie. ‘We’ve got three unknown messages, before Novikov was given his, numbered four in the sequence. So let’s work backwards, from those dates. If I am right, then the assassination was discussed at three previous Politburo sessions, 22 July, 15 July and 8 July, with 8 July being the date of the initial concept.’

  ‘I am finding this as difficult to follow as Harkness,’ protested the Director. ‘But if I do allow you the assumption, I still don’t see what we have got.’

  ‘“The need is understood that a political, public example has to be set, for the maximum impact,”’ quoted Charlie.

  ‘I don’t need reminding of the first cable,’ said Wilson.

  ‘How about the last?’ asked Charlie. ‘“You will wrap the November catalogue.”’

  ‘What’s the connection?’

  ‘What political, public event, where something of maximum impact could possibly be achieved, was announced just prior to but certainly not after 8 July?’ suggested Charlie. ‘A political, public event scheduled to take place in November?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ accepted the Director, finally. ‘Oh yes, I could go for that.’

  ‘It’s a theory,’ allowed Harkness, grudgingly.

  ‘The best we’ve got, after the mistakes so far,’ said Charlie.

  ‘I think so, too,’ agreed the Director, at once.

  ‘I’m glad,’ said Charlie. ‘I was late for this morning’s meeting because I’ve ordered from every British embassy in every European capital a complete list and breakdown of major political happenings in their countries throughout December as well as November just to be sure. I designated it maximum priority, with a copy in each case to the ambassador.’

  ‘In whose name?’ asked Wilson, expectantly.

  ‘Yours,’ said Charlie.

  Harry Johnson was pissed off, right up to the back teeth: five weeks to go before retirement, the lump sum he’d decided to take from his pension already deposited on the holiday bungalow in Broadstairs, the extra plot negotiated to his allotment and this had to happen, a hands-over-your-bum, watch-everything-that-moves red alert. It wasn’t fair: certainly the assignment wasn’t fair because the buggers had manoeuvred it so he got the worst surveillance of the lot, the one most likely to go wrong. And the last thing he could afford was anything going wrong: until the gold watch that had already been selected and the insincere speeches and the booze-up in the Brace of Pheasants. All he’d wanted — could surely have expected! — was a quiet, easy life, so that he could quit the service with a reasonably good record. Not this, something that was so obviously important and even more obviously dangerous.

  Johnson, a plump man who wore braces as well as a belt and who puffed a lot when he breathed, because of a tendency to bronchitis, saw the departure of Yuri Koretsky first, because Johnson was one of the most senior Watchers on the squad and only ever needed the sight of a quarry once. And Koretsky, who was the KGB rezident in London, had to be one of the most marked quarries of the whole stupid alert: Johnson was disappointed that the younger two, Burn, who was the driver, and Kemp, who was the back-up, hadn’t been quicker. According to regulations, as the senior man he should have reported them but he knew he wouldn’t. What was the point of being shitty, with only five weeks to go before retirement?

  ‘There’s our man,’ he said, alerting them for the first time.

  Koretsky was in a car with a driver, which Johnson recognized at once to be significant. He said, in a further warning: ‘This could be it.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Kemp.

  ‘Watch and learn,’ said Johnson. He wondered what ‘it’ was? Throughout the majority of his MI5 career as a professional surveillance merchant he had followed and bugged and burgled and pried, rarely knowing the complete reason of any assignment, like he didn’t know the full purpose of this one. He frequently wondered whether any of it mattered.

  The Soviet car went up the Bayswater Road — ironically within a mile of the hotel Vasili Zenin was preparing to leave within the hour, to make the collection — and went to the right at Marble Arch, clogging at once in the Park Lane traffic. Their vehicle was two cars behind and Johnson said: ‘Don’t lose him! Close up.’

  The Soviet vehicle turned into Upper Brook Street to go past the American embassy but stayed to the left of Grosvenor Square, going in front of the Dorchester and then crossing Bond Street to the next square. There the car went immediately left, to cross Oxford Street and Johnson said: ‘Wrong! It would have been quicker to have gone north up the Edgware Road.’

  ‘Maybe the driver made a mistake,’ said Burn, who frequently did.

  ‘Maybe Santa Claus drives a Snowmobile,’ said Johnson. He had the seniority and certainly enough reasons to depute the younger man but instead he said to Kemp: ‘If he jumps, I’ll follow.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ asked the younger man.

  ‘Stay with the car,’ ordered Johnson. ‘And don’t, for Christ’s sake, lose it!’

  ‘What do we look for!’ asked Burn.

  ‘Everything there is to see.’

  Koretsky made his move actually in Oxford Street and Johnson was only yards behind him. The Russian went directly into the underground system, using the ticket queue to check for pursuit. Johnson got his ticket from the dispensing machine, paying the maximum fare, and was only five people behind the Russian on the downward escalator. Koretsky went to the east bound p
latform and Johnson let more people come between them, to provide the buffer. He tensed at the Oxford Circus station, because of its link with the Bakerloo Line, but the Russian remained just inside the door, standing as Johnson was standing, ready for an instant departure. Koretsky darted off at the Tottenham Court Road junction, timing it practically at the moment of the doors closing, so that Johnson was only just able to get out to continue the pursuit. Koretsky pretended to check the indicator map in order to make another surveillance check, so Johnson had to go by and fumble for change for a guitar-playing busker. Koretsky overtook him and he picked up the Russian’s trail on to the northbound Northern Line. Johnson managed the adjoining carriage again, discarding his topcoat and turning it so that the colouring was hidden, the only change possible in his appearance. Johnson was ready at Euston, because of the interconnecting lines, but Koretsky didn’t move, seemingly relaxed now in a seat alongside the door. Too complacent, boyo, thought the Watcher. He actually moved ahead of Koretsky at Camden Town, alighting first and ascending to street level ahead of the man although keeping him constantly in view behind, in case he doubled back. He didn’t. Johnson got to the exit hoping that Burns had kept close to the Soviet car if this were a pick-up, feeling the jump of alarm when he failed at once to recognize their car and then relief when he couldn’t see the Russian vehicle either.

  Johnson let people intrude between them as much as he felt it safe to do so as they walked down Camden High Street but was almost caught out at the bus stop at which Koretsky stopped without warning. Fortunately the 74 bus was actually approaching, so there was no time for the Russian to make a proper search behind. Once again, with no idea how far they were going, Johnson took the maximum fare, more tense now than at any time because of their closeness. He was on the rear bench and Koretsky sat on the first cross seat next to it, close enough for Johnson to have reached out and touched him.

  Alert as he was, Johnson saw the Russian begin to move as they approached Primrose Hill, so he was able to get up and away from the bus before Koretsky actually disembarked. The Russian immediately crossed the road into Albert Terrace, striding on the side where the railings edged the grassed park. Johnson followed as far back as possible and on the opposite side of the road, where the houses were. In the last house before the terrace connected with Regent’s Park Road Johnson dropped his topcoat behind a low garden wall, once more trying to alter his appearance as much as possible. As he did so, he saw Koretsky enter the park through the corner gate.

  It had been a mistake not to bring Kemp with him, to alternate the tail to reduce being detected by the Russian: it would be just the way his luck was going for Koretsky to pick him up and abort, making the whole business a complete waste of time. The Russian’s entry into the park provided at least some minimal cover: it meant Johnson could walk parallel up Regent’s Park Road, keeping him in sight but not directly behind. Had he been, Johnson realized he would have been spotted, because twice Koretsky turned, making an obvious check. But even this was a mixed advantage, because the road began to bend away from the park, actually now putting too much distance between them, so that when it happened Johnson almost missed it. Had he not been as experienced as he was, he would have done.

  The dead-letter drop was almost at the end of the avenue along which Koretsky was walking, by a refuse bin against the sixth lamp-post from the commencement of the path. At the moment of approach, Koretsky flicked something to his left, not into the bin but alongside it. Then the Russian paused, as if troubled with the lace of his shoe and Johnson saw the man mark the post with a smear of yellow chalk which would have looked like some failed graffiti to anyone but himself.

  Johnson had already decided to abandon Koretsky, even before the Soviet car swept down Primrose Hill Road for the pick-up, because Koretsky was simply part of a chain and the necessity now was to discover the next link. Then Johnson saw the car in which he had earlier travelled, grimacing as he did. The stupid bastards were far too close. If he tried to stop it, to get back-up from Kemp, Johnson knew he’d be identified by association.

  ‘Stupid sods!’ he said, bitterly and aloud.

  As the cars convoyed back down Regent’s Park Road, Johnson entered the enclosure. There were thickly leafed trees all along the pathway along which Koretsky had walked, with occasional benches. He chose the one furthest away from the drop, eyes focused on what Koretsky had delivered. It was impossible to be sure from this distance but it appeared to be a manila envelope but bigger than that for a normal letter, maybe five inches across and 8 inches deep: he wished he were able to judge its thickness but that was impossible.

  Johnson shivered, wanting the discarded topcoat but unable to risk going back even the short distance to get it. Expert that he was, Johnson knew he was observing what is called in the trade an open letterbox, a deposit arrangement from which the recipient was expected to collect very quickly what had been left, to prevent its accidental discovery by some casual stranger. So close to a rubbish bin, Johnson decided that the larger-than-normal envelope was very vulnerable, from a foraging tramp or a conscientious rubbish collector.

  He focused the camera on to the bin, guaranteeing the range, and then settled back to wait. How long, he wondered.

  The specific request from Alexei Berenkov in Moscow, demanding immediate warning of increased surveillance, was waiting for Koretsky when he got back to Kensington Palace Gardens. He quickly encoded a reply, assuring Berenkov that he had remained clean that day and that the Watchers had gone on a wild goose chase behind the car, which had been the intention.

  Chapter Six

  Vasili Zenin realized there was a risk in leaving the bicycle he had rented from the Camden hirers without enclosing the wheels in the anti-thief chain they had demonstrated but decided it was necessary because he couldn’t waste time later unlocking it. He hoped it was the biggest risk he was going to have to take that day.

  He parked it at the junction of Elsworthy Road with Primrose Hill Road, preparing himself carefully. He positioned the earphones of the Walkman precisely in place, switching on the Tchaikovsky tape, and then fixed the sweatband with even more precision, wishing he had a mirror to ensure both were as he wanted. He had been very particular over the fit of the running shoes, pleased at how comfortable they felt as he started jogging towards the park, breathing easily, arms pumping steadily as he moved: personal fitness is naturally a priority for Balashikha graduates and Zenin had always enjoyed running. It was the exercise sessions there and the lectured awareness of the popularity of jogging in the West that had given him the idea in the first place.

  Zenin paced into the park near the top of the hill from which it gets its name, picking up the perimeter path furthest away from where the drop should have been made, wanting before he ventured anywhere near the marked place to make a far more thorough reconnaissance than he had on the previous occasion. There were actually three other joggers plodding around the lanes like he was, in shorts and singlet, and one was even wearing a Walkman. Zenin smiled, humming in time to the concerto, concentrating beyond them. It was emptier than he had expected from his earlier visit: a few people exercising their dogs, one or two sitting on benches and a couple lying prostrate upon the grass practically having sexual intercourse. Maybe, he thought, it heightened the pleasure to fuck in public. He turned left where the path veered to go parallel with Albert Terrace and past the sign from which he had learned bicycling was forbidden, finally with a frontal view, although slightly to his left, of the post and the bin. There was a man sitting on a bench about twenty feet away from the drop and a woman with a labrador actually at the spot: as he looked the animal cocked its leg against the lamp and Zenin’s face twisted in disgust at the thought that it might be fouling what he had to collect.

  Johnson’s concentration was entirely upon the dead-letter box and it was Zenin’s snatching down immediately after the dog had urinated there — an unthinkable action because the man would have seen the animal do it — that ale
rted the Watcher. He hadn’t thought the pick-up would be made by a jogger and had let Zenin merge into the background of his consciousness as the Russian went by. Johnson grabbed the camera from its concealment beneath his jacket and managed three panicked exposures and then a more sharply focused shot of Zenin spurting away before getting up himself, stumbling in pursuit. Zenin left the park through the same exit Koretsky had used, running hard now up Primrose Hill Road.

  Johnson hurried as fast as he considered he was safely able, slowing twice at Zenin’s obvious backward checks, gasping because of his weak chest by the time he got to the top of the hill. He did so just in time to see Zenin mount the bicycle in Elsworthy Road, jerking the camera up for one last attempt.

  ‘Fuck it!’ said Johnson. He’d known it was going to go badly like this: just known it! ‘Oh fuck it!’ he said again.

  Elsworthy Road is a twisting, winding thoroughfare, so by the time Johnson reached it his quarry was completely out of sight. Expert that he was, the Watcher walked its entire length, wet with the perspiration of effort and annoyance by the time he reached the junction with Avenue Road. He saw the traffic jam backed up for several hundred yards and shook his head, in bitter awareness: the fact that he had been out-professionalized by a professional did bugger all to help.

  A combination of normal bureaucratic delay and top level irritation — and therefore face-satisfying obstructiveness — at what MI5 considered arrogant and high-handed surveillance demands meant it was the following day before Charlie Muffin received Johnson’s report and the developed photographs. It took him only an hour to arrange the meeting with the about-to-retire Watcher.

  ‘I made a balls of it, Charlie. You don’t know how sorry I am,’ said Johnson, after they’d talked through in every way possible what had happened. They’d worked together before, always well. Knowing it was Charlie’s operation — which he had not until now — worsened Johnson’s remorse.

  ‘These things happen, mate,’ said Charlie, sympathetically.