Red Star Burning cm-15

by Brian Freemantle

  Straughan had warned his mother’s caregiver he’d be late getting back to Berkhamsted, determined to guarantee the recording quality of his encounter with Rebecca Street, as well as theirs with the Director. He had broken every rule and regulation, in addition to the law itself, Straughan recognized. And was terrified. He wished there was someone in whom he could confide: someone like Jane Ambersom, who had always been so kind and understanding.

  As they had been the previous night, Miller and Abrahams were waiting ahead of the Russians, this time in the bar of the George V. There were three additional MI6 officers, again under the supervision of Paul Painter, spread protectively in the expansive adjoining lobby. Painter was directly in their line of sight to give the earliest warning of unexpected, suspect arrivals.

  Elana entered again precisely on time, as chic as before in a camel-hair topcoat over a heavy roll-neck white sweater. She was alone. There were no warning signals from the foyer.

  “Don’t be alarmed,” said Elana, as she sat.

  “We are,” declared Miller, flatly. “Andrei can’t behave like this.”

  “He’ll be with me,” promised Elana. “He resents what’s happened … it’s going to make the situation with his father very difficult … but he’s accepted there’s no alternative.”

  “Are you quite sure he’s coming?” demanded Abrahams, ordering the woman’s wine.

  “He’s given me his word,” said Elana.

  “Is that enough?” pressed Abrahams.

  Elana’s head came up sharply but the rebuke was halted by the returning waiter. After he’d left she said: “It’s more than enough.”

  “London’s worried Andrei might do something unpredictable.”

  “He won’t,” insisted the woman. “What are our arrangements?”

  Miller hesitated, uncertainly. “It’s tomorrow. I can’t give you a positive time. Everything has to be coordinated with Maxim Mikhailovlich’s departure. I’ll call the apartment to give you the pickup time. Both of us will take you.”

  “Where?”

  Abrahams gestured in the direction of the Seine. “The bateau mouche ferry terminal at the far end of Avenue V. We can join the perephique from there. Don’t bring any baggage. Just yourselves.”

  “I understand.”

  “Elana, I must ask you an important question,” said Miller. “What will you do if Andrei backs off at the last minute?”

  “I have told you he won’t back off. The question doesn’t apply.”

  “Treat it as a hypothetical question.”

  “No.”

  Charlie stalled at the very moment of commitment, confronted by the choice he’d never imagined having to make. He hadn’t substantially lied to Halliday, prising from the man what little he had during their first contact that day, nor during the second when he’d learned nothing additional. Like an inferior player he’d just rearranged the pieces on a chessboard without achieving checkmate. He had always ignored the compartmenting edict to guarantee personal survival and when he’d discovered that survival threatened, he’d without hesitation committed every illegality short of intentional murder to stay alive. But in the process he’d never, ever, sabotaged a British assignment. Which was what he was contemplating now, the enclosed telephone just yards away in the corner of the bar. He had every justification. He didn’t have the slightest doubt that the Janus-faced combination of MI5 and MI6 intended Natalia and Sasha to be included in his destruction. Why, then, was he holding back? Charlie didn’t know, not fully. On that taunting corner phone he’d fifteen minutes earlier told Natalia- abruptly, Charlie’s mind blocked and just as suddenly he believed he did know the reason for his reluctance, and it worried him because he couldn’t remember the last occasion he’d been halted by self-doubt. Not about himself, he qualified. As always, about Natalia and Sasha and whether what he intended could rebound into another mistake, to go with all the others. Not just self-doubt, self-pity, Charlie recognized. Something that, encouragingly, had been markedly absent from Natalia during that earlier telephone conversation in which she’d unquestioningly told him what he wanted.

  This wasn’t going to be a mistake: worsen his chances of getting them to safety. This was going to be the retribution he’d always intended. Charlie rose for the second time from the bar and dialed the number Natalia had provided for the FSB-retained, communist-era neighbor-informing-upon-neighbor facility. There was an immediate automatic answer.

  Through a mouthpiece muffled by his handkerchief Charlie said, first in Russian and then, hopefully, in American-accented English: “Malcolm Stoat is leaving through Sheremetyevo Airport in the next twelve hours.”

  22

  None slept well. All were up before their respective dawns, allowing for the time difference between Moscow and Paris and the disparity between Moscow and London. Harry Jacobson, in the last of a series of hired Toyotas used throughout in place of the identifying diplomatic registration of his embassy Ford, was outside the north Moscow apartment thirty minutes before Maxim Mikhailovich Radtsic’s departure. Jacobson did not try to locate the separate, independent escorts in other vehicles parked hood to trunk in the square or its offshoot streets. David Halliday responded at once to Jacobson’s cell-phone-check call to the British embassy on Smolenskaya Naberezhnaya. Not trusting the reliability of the skeletal early-morning train services, James Straughan had himself collected by an MI6 car from his Berkhamsted home, in which his mother’s caregiver slept overnight. Rebecca Street stayed at Cheyne Walk to make the short journey from Monsford’s apartment to Vauxhall Cross with the MI6 Director. Jonathan Miller and Albert Abrahams met for coffee and croissants at an all-night-workers’ cafe close to the British embassy on rue d’Anjou before crossing to their rezidentura. Elana Radtsic was already in the kitchen, brewing black tea, when Andrei walked in. Answering her question, Andrei said he’d told Yvette he was skipping class that day to show his mother some Paris sights before her return to Moscow. There, seemingly immune now to the bed-bug attacks, Charlie Muffin lay awake but unmoving, frustrated at his isolation from a situation he knew to be happening, although without the slightest knowledge of whose extraction he hoped to have sabotaged: hoping even more that its wrecking would reverberate throughout the highest echelons of British intelligence for the utmost humiliation and career disaster for those who’d tried to destroy him, Natalia, and Sasha.

  In Moscow it was raining heavily. London and Paris were overcast, with rain forecast later in the day.

  Maxim Radtsic emerged precisely on time. He wore a gray trench coat, its collar turned up to a wide-brimmed, dark gray fedora he’d not worn before to meet Jacobson. The Russian carried a strap-secured briefcase in one hand and a small, weekend bag in the other. He looked neither left nor right getting into a small, unmarked Mercedes parked directly outside his apartment. Although there was no moving traffic in the street or those surrounding it, Radtsic put on his turn signal before pulling away. Jacobson allowed a gap of almost thirty meters before following. As he did so, Jacobson saw in his rearview mirror a Renault emerge from a line of parked vehicles behind but on the other side of the street. Both rigidly conformed to the speed limit.

  Straughan had commandeered the mezzanine-level overview eerie normally occupied by the communications supervisor, who was that day relegated to the far side of the room and a secondary desk to which all satellite television, telephone, e-mail, and telex traffic had been transferred, with the exception of the dedicated, permanently open lines to the Moscow and Paris rezidenturas. Also from the overview room there was direct, two-way audio relay to the Director’s suite for simultaneous exchange between Straughan and Monsford. The separately installed CCTV did not have a conference connection, preventing Straughan seeing into Monsford’s office. Rebecca Street confirmed her presence there, inquiring about technical difficulties. Straughan assured her there were none: there were duplicated, already opened lines for such eventualities. He told Monsford he’d spoken to David Halliday in Moscow and
that Millar and Abrahams were already at their rezidentura: it was still too early for their intended backup to be mobilized under Paul Painter’s supervision.

  “London, as ever, driving from the backseat,” remarked Miller, putting his phone down.

  “Without a map or sat-nav to tell them in which direction they’re going,” agreed Abrahams. “We’ll be superfluous to requirements once we land at Northolt. I’ve got a girlfriend in London who’s got a similarly uninhibited and free-spirited friend.”

  “Why not give her a call, fix it up, before everything kicks off?” suggested Miller. “We’re not likely to get into London proper until early evening.”

  “Good idea,” accepted Abrahams.

  Maxim Radtsic still led when they joined the multi-lane inner beltway from the Olimpijskaka ploscad link, the cars passing with an irony no one was ever to learn within a crow’s-flight mile from where the resentful Charlie Muffin still lay at the Mira hotel. By now the rain had eased and the rush-hour traffic built up, which slowed them while at the same time providing protectively intervening vehicles between Radtsic and his MI6 escorts. Jacobson’s ever-hovering fear of entrapment diminished in parallel with the rain, although he refused to let his confidence stretch to a triumphant liftoff from Sheremetyevo and positive, irreversible success. What little he did allow evaporated at their approach to the CCTV-festooned Lubyanka headquarters of the Russian intelligence apparatus, the detection risk here potentially greater than at the airport. Forewarned by Radtsic of constantly patrolling plainclothes guards and perpetually staffed live television sweeps of the entire surrounding area-warnings passed on through Straughan to the separate car-the closeness of the escort was abandoned before they reached the square. Jacobson parked on a side street with a view of the side exit through which Radtsic intended to leave, on foot, abandoning the Mercedes in its reserved bay as further indication of his remaining somewhere in the building. The Renault found a space in another side road. David Halliday responded on the first ring to Jacobson’s call: he’d already spoken to Straughan to establish the voice relays were operating perfectly.

  At London’s Vauxhall Cross, Straughan closed off his permanent Moscow link and into his connection to the Director’s suite said: “Radtsic’s arrived at the Lubyanka, two minutes ahead of schedule: everything’s going to plan.”

  “How do you know that!” demanded Monsford, at once.

  Straughan didn’t care if his frowned grimace was obvious on the penthouse TV. “Halliday just reported in from the embassy: Jacobson made contact from outside: he’s waiting for Radtsic to come out for the airport.”

  “I told you Halliday was only to be used between the airport and you.”

  “And after I personally gave you the general outline of the extraction I left on your desk, the minute-by-minute, stage-by-stage route. Which clearly lists Lubyanka as the first to be reported to me: no geographical identification, stage one. And that’s all Halliday passed on: ‘Stage one completed, two minutes ahead of schedule.’ It’s essential I tell Paris now, to keep them in the loop. The Paris collection is also set out in your detailed dossier.”

  “So the Northolt departure stays on time?” queried Jonathan Miller, listening to what Straughan told him.

  “That’s the update I’m going to give them as soon as I’ve finished talking to you.”

  “Our backup will be in place on Avenue George V and the embankment in fifteen minutes. I’ve already spoken to Paul Painter. He’ll give the alert if any problems arise when we’re under way. We’ll contact Elana and Andrei once you tell me Radtsic’s airborne.”

  “Painter knows what to do if you get into difficulty?” queried Straughan.

  “Just the sort of question I needed after I’d finally convinced myself nothing can go wrong!” complained Miller, in mock rebuke.

  “So what’s the answer?” persisted Straughan, humorlessly.

  “If there’s a problem it won’t be compounded by their intervention,” assured the station chief, putting his telephone down in unison with Abrahams at his opposite desk.

  Abrahams said: “The girls want to meet in the Claridge’s bar.”

  “You pay the best, you get the best,” remarked Miller.

  “I hope you’re right.” Abrahams smiled back.

  Charlie Muffin’s cut-off disgruntlement finally drove him out of bed and worsened when the hiccupping shower shuddered to a stop while he was still covered in soap lather. It refused to start again despite his angrily jerking at the controls. It took him ten minutes fully to splash off the soap from the sink tap, the deluge seeping wetly out into the bedroom. He should, Charlie criticized, have moved on from the Mira to a hotel with television or radio in his room, although there were no breaking-news stations matching those of London. It would be psychologically wrong to call Halliday this early, betraying an uncertainty he didn’t want the man to suspect. Too early as well, and for the same reason, to attempt contact with Natalia: she wouldn’t yet have left the Pecatnikov apartment, which she feared might be bugged. There might, he supposed, be a workers’ cafe showing live television, although he doubted it would be a news program. It was worth the effort, positive physical movement instead of standing around on a damp carpet, neutured into inactivity.

  Radtsic increased his time gain by a further three minutes leaving the Lubyanka headquarters through the arranged side exit. He was on foot and now carried only the weekend bag to qualify as cabin baggage on the aircraft. The collar of his raincoat was still pulled up to the wide-brimmed hat, and Jacobson’s distracting, nerve-twitched imagery was of a badly cast B-movie spy. It was instantly swept away by the awkwardness with which the Russian was making his way from the square, a seemingly uncertain meander instead of following a quick, direct line. That concern was set aside when Jacobson coordinated the man’s odd movements with the CCTV bank and realized Radtsic was avoiding camera observation. Once upon the outside road, Radtsic went in the opposite direction from Red Square, letting two available taxis pass before hailing the third. It took the man directly past the side road in which the escorts were parked. He let Jacobson follow first in line. Moscow’s stop-start rush-hour traffic was heavier than Jacobson had estimated and they’d not only lost their time gain but fallen fifteen minutes behind schedule before reaching the airport highway. Jacobson’s concern jumped again, fixed now upon another highway police shakedown that could wreck the operation. His apprehension started to subside only at the sight of landing and departing aircraft in the far distance and didn’t go completely until he made out the Sheremetyevo buildings, with no obvious road blocks. Success was fingertip close now, he told himself.

  “It’s eight ten!”

  So absolute was James Straughan’s concentration that he was physically startled by Monsford’s voice, irritated that it might have been visible on camera. “Yes?”

  “Your staged progress puts their airport arrival at eight. What’s gone wrong!”

  “Estimated arrival,” heavily qualified Straughan. “That estimate also builds in a fifteen-minute latitude for delay, for…” He stopped as his permanent Moscow link sounded. He listened, said: “Thank you,” and as he replaced the receiver went back to the microphone. “They’ve arrived, with no problems.”

  “Let’s hope it stays that way,” responded Jonathan Miller to the same assurance from Straughan, four minutes later. “I’ve checked the traffic conditions. They’re light, no roadworks or diversions to factor in.”

  “Don’t forget, limited cell-phone chatter on the next call unless they don’t show.”

  “I will have spoken to Elana by then: gotten a steer.”

  “Fingers crossed it’s the right one.”

  “Do something for us, will you? Have a car at Northolt, to get us into London?”

  “Already fixed. Enjoy your one night home.”

  “We plan to.”

  Predictably, the first cafe in which Charlie Muffin found a working television was showing a soccer game on a sports c
hannel, but in the second there was a radio tuned to a Moscow news channel that Charlie judged more likely to broadcast a breaking media event. He drank his way through three cups of close-to-undrinkable coffee and forced himself to eat a second serving of black bread and sour cheese, listening to repeated accounts of government success opposing NATO’s eastern expansion, its negotiating substantial price increases for natural gas exports to the European Union, and vetoing an American-sponsored resolution condemning state atrocities in the Congo.

  Jacobson dumped his rental car for automatic collection, avoiding a parking delay, and entered the departure hall just five minutes after Maxim Radtsic. Jacobson noted his London-destination gate as he hurried across the concourse, already booked in online and with only a carry-on bag, unworried at not relocating the Russian, knowing the other anonymous escorts would have been ready for Radtsic’s arrival. Jacobson saw the hat before the man, glad the raincoat collar was finally down, but still tensed as Radtsic approached the first passport scrutiny. Radtsic turned as he offered the MI6-created documentation. Able to see the man properly in good light, Jacobson acknowledged the practicality of the man’s dress. It didn’t qualify as a disguise but the hat and its sloped brim completely concealed the graying hair and much of Radtsic’s upper face, substantially reducing the Stalin similarity, most important from the wall-mounted CCTV. There appeared no conversation and little comparison between Radtsic and the passport photograph. It was no more stringent at the second, dedicated ticket-and-passport examination. Jacobson went through just as smoothly and they were less than five meters apart going into the duty-free area. Radtsic hesitated at the liquor counter, turning to establish Jacobson’s presence without showing any recognition, then continuing on toward the London-designated gate. Jacobson maneuvered himself to have just one intervening passenger at the final ticket-and-passport confirmation but distanced himself once they went through, again unchallenged, into the final embarkation lobby. He waited for Radtsic to enter the aircraft-connected jetway before dialing the MI6 rezidentura. He told Halliday: “Janus is go,” disconnected without acknowledgment, and hurried after the Russian.