‘It’s a perfect operation: with that little tidying there’ll hardly be any scarring,’ promised the surgeon.
‘Was it really worth the effort?’ asked Charlie. They’d expect the beginning of depression at his growing realization of helplessness.
The ever-ready smile clicked on. ‘I take professional pride in everything I do. Whatever the circumstances.’
A smaller entourage took Charlie back to his room, only his ward guards and the two male nurses who’d manhandled him onto the examination table. They took another, seemingly longer route, although again through deserted, semi-lit corridors past silent, padded doors.
Mikhail Alexandrovich Guzov was already there.
* * *
‘The doctor tells me you’re making a remarkable recovery: that we can start today,’ greeted the immaculate Russian, dismissing the room guards with a jerk of his head. The trouser of Guzov’s crossed leg was arranged for the razor-sharp crease to run unbroken from knee to burnished boot.
The extended return had enabled a discussion with the surgeon, Charlie guessed, as his medical escorts helped him, more gently now, from the wheelchair to the bed, in which, in his absence, a back support had been fitted to put him into a virtually upright sitting position. Testing his assumption, Charlie said, ‘I’ve just undergone surgery.’
‘Surgical vanity,’ said the FSB general, confirming Charlie’s guess. ‘There’s no reason for further delay.’
‘What’s there to talk about?’
Guzov smiled, broadly. ‘I’m not in any hurry, Charlie. I want what’s going to happen between you and me to last as long as possible. My only impatience is for it to start.’
‘You told me,’ sighed Charlie, dismissively. His shoulder began to ache as the anaesthetic wore off.
‘There’s been the usual diplomatic request for consular access,’ declared Guzov.
Don’t hint eagerness, Charlie warned himself. ‘It’s nice to know somebody cares.’
‘I don’t imagine it’s philanthropic concern, after all the problems you’ve caused.’
‘I don’t understand that.’ When would the access be, for his chance to discover what had happened to Natalia and Sasha? Charlie agonized. Guzov would enjoy—would exacerbate—the torment if he knew its significance. Or did he know? Was this it, the beginning of the threatened torture? Stop! Charlie told himself, angrily: Guzov would be winning if he inculcated eroding uncertainty.
‘They’re not going to make any real effort to help you,’ goaded Guzov. ‘Not you or Denning or Beckindale. You know Denning and Beckindale, don’t you, Charlie?’
He was achieving nothing from perpetual denial, Charlie recognized again. He had to convince Guzov and through him as many others as possible that they were achieving control and then mislead and misdirect them for as long as he could. The FSB would know from their embassy surveillance the precise arrival of all three MI6 men, just as they knew, from the same observation, that he hadn’t been anywhere near the embassy during that period. So there was no provable link between him and the two back-up MI6 survivors. ‘The names don’t mean anything to me. Do they know me?’
‘They’ve told us all there is to tell.’
A fatuous boast, discarded Charlie. ‘That should minimize the time we need to be together, until I’m repatriated.’
‘You imagine we’re going to accept that you’re not guilty of serious offences under Russian law?’
Charlie didn’t imagine it for a moment but snatched at the indication of London’s diplomatic response to his seizure. What else was there to deduce? All the identification was of MI6 personnel. Had Ian Flood—as well as his original MI5 support—escaped? If they had, it logically followed that Natalia and Sasha had escaped as well. Too big an assumption but Charlie was encouraged. He thought … The interrupting awareness came in a rush, expanding into a physical stomach lurch at the realization of how close he’d come to missing the Russian’s weakness. ‘Finding an offence to justify all the nonsense is going to be a problem.’
Guzov failed to stop the briefest facial twitch. ‘How long are you going to persist in this stupid insistence of innocence?’
‘Until you accept it to be the truth and put me into the care of the British embassy,’ recited Charlie.
‘We have statements from Denning and Beckindale in which both identify you as a senior MI5 field operative.’
Charlie at once saw the route—a positive shortcut, in fact—to follow, although there was the one specific discovery he didn’t want to make at its end. ‘What else have these two total strangers claimed to know about me?’
On this occasion the anger was visible on Guzov’s mood-mirroring face. ‘We have all we need. As well as sufficient, court-supporting evidence for a charge of active involvement in acts of espionage against the Russian Federation.’
The Russian was bluffing, Charlie decided, surprised at the clumsiness: bluffing very badly and, even worse, inexpertly. That would have been the moment to hit him with Natalia and Sasha: to gloat that they had also been seized and watch, hopefully, for him to crumble. It was conceivable, even, that the Russians didn’t have Denning or Beckindale, either. Their association with the dead Briddle could easily have been established through their arrival documentation, providing Guzov the names with which to attempt the deception. And even if the two were detained, there was nothing in Guzov’s bluster to indicate confessional statements. Feeling a sudden sweep of tiredness, unsurprising after the minor surgery and the concentration necessary for this encounter, Charlie settled himself more comfortably against his bed support and said, ‘It all sounds fascinating.’
‘You’re playing it as I’d hoped you would, Charlie. Imagining you’re better than me: that you can beat me.’
‘Something else I don’t understand,’ dismissed Charlie.
‘How about something you will understand?’ said the Russian, the smile broadening. ‘We know about the woman.’
* * *
They convened at Thames House as they had the preceding day and again Aubrey Smith gave the opening to his deputy. Overnight, Jane Ambersom had organized a transcript of her conversation with Natalia, prefacing the verbatim account with what she considered the salient factors.
‘Charlie knew about Radtsic’s defection—and of Elena and Andrei’s seizure in France—before Natalia told him?’ queried the Director-General, coming up from the papers.
‘I think there should be a qualification here,’ warned Jane. ‘In the full transcript she’s adamant it was Maxim Radtsic whom Charlie knew about. I’m inclined to think he knew there was something else going on, but not that it was Radtsic’s extraction as such.’
‘You mean she’s intentionally misleading us?’ challenged Passmore, at once.
‘Absolutely not,’ denied Jane. ‘I believe she fully understands she’s got to do everything she can to help Charlie. I also believe she sincerely believes Charlie mentioned Radtsic by name, because of her own surprising involvement. There’s also a lot of guilt. Knowing, too late, that she was cleared of suspicion—that her marriage to Charlie hadn’t been discovered—she feels she trapped him into going back to get her and their daughter out.’
‘She didn’t talk about the Radtsic investigation?’ asked Passmore.
‘Before we started talking I specifically excluded anything other than what might help Charlie,’ responded the woman. ‘It was she who mentioned Radtsic but only to make her point of Charlie knowing or having discovered something during the lost week. And let’s not overlook what else she said: that MI6 could have been the only source for Charlie’s information, whether it was Radtsic by name or just a mysterious “something,” which is my interpretation.’
‘An MI6 source doesn’t fit with what we know,’ protested Smith, turning to the other man. ‘I need our three back. What’s happening to them?’
‘Neil Preston’s booked on this morning’s direct Sheremetyevo flight to Heathrow. Peter Warren’s at the airport, to see i
f he makes it. In last night’s diplomatic bag to Moscow I sent a new passport, with all the necessary documentation for Wilkinson. It’s in the name of Paul Mason. If Preston gets out, we could put Wilkinson on the lunchtime flight: we’ve already made a reservation. If Preston’s intercepted, Wilkinson’s on the eleven A.M. express to Poland. The flight from there will get him into London at 2300 tonight.’
‘I wanted him here today,’ reminded Smith, in his customarily flat voice.
‘Safely here tonight,’ qualified Passmore, heavily. ‘This route is the quickest and gives us that safety.’
‘Does it ensure it?’ questioned the Director-General.
‘No,’ conceded the operations director. ‘I judged it our best chance.’
‘What about Warren, either way?’ asked Jane.
‘I’m keeping him there, whatever happens,’ said Passmore. ‘I’m briefing our man for Charlie’s access delegation later today: the entire group is being assembled in readiness from here. The Foreign Office want as little connection as possible with the compromised Moscow embassy to avoid the Russians pulling another trick to exacerbate our embarrassment. Moscow’s finally agreed to a delegation meeting with the Manchester tourists, too: they’ll all go from here, distanced from the embassy for the same reason. I’ve got one of ours in that group. Warren will be the dedicated conduit for both our officers.’
‘And despite all the distancing efforts, every single move of both delegations will get maximum media exposure to be relayed around the world to stoke the pressure upon us,’ anticipated Smith, objectively.
‘Has Moscow actually agreed to diplomatic access to Charlie, after delaying over the Manchester group for so long?’ asked Jane.
‘No,’ admitted Passmore. ‘It’ll obviously depend upon how much humiliation they’re determined to achieve. I’m guessing we’ll get to Charlie more quickly to provide footage of a sorry trail of British diplomats getting on and off aircraft.’
‘Are we thinking clearly enough?’ asked Smith, rhetorically. ‘We suspected Monsford was planning something but didn’t know what it was; told Wilkinson to warn Charlie. But before Wilkinson opened his mouth, Charlie told him he wasn’t working with his assigned MI6 group. Which makes Natalia’s suggestion that MI6 was Charlie’s source absurd: downright impossible.… Or does it?’
The others remained silent, waiting.
‘Go back through Charlie’s file,’ Smith picked up. ‘Jacobson and Halliday made up the MI6 rezidentura in Moscow. Did either of them overlap Charlie’s Lvov assignment there?’
‘The Lvov assignment that Gerald Monsford went practically insane trying to take over,’ reminded Jane. ‘Maybe it really is that, a genuinely insane preoccupation.’
‘Jacobson brought Radtsic out,’ said Passmore, in further recollection. ‘Presumably he’s still babysitting the man in a safe house somewhere.’
‘We’d never get near him in an MI6 house, any more than we’d let them get within a million miles of Natalia,’ said Jane.
‘We’d be close enough if Jacobson were called as a witness before the committee,’ said Aubrey Smith.
‘There’d need to be a reason for calling him,’ said Passmore. ‘You think the arrest of Denning and Beckindale provides it?’
‘We’re certainly going to try,’ decided the Director-General.
* * *
It was more than likely Monsford had been told independently, Rebecca accepted, but if he hadn’t, the asshole had only himself to blame, refusing her calls and messages and leaving the curt instruction on her answering machine to make her own way to that morning’s session. She’d more than covered her ass—which she’d determined to continue covering in every other way from now on—by spreading her alert not just to his voice mail at Cheyne Walk and at his headquarters office but to the operations room as well. She’d called minutes before leaving Vauxhall Cross and been told there’d been no contact from the Director.
Rebecca was intentionally early, conscious of the immediate attention from the secretariat supporting Sir Archibald Bland and Geoffrey Palmer, neither of whom had yet arrived. She was conscious, too, that yesterday’s place setting for James Straughan had been removed. Surreptitiously, confident that she was unobserved, Rebecca eased her repositioned seat away from Monsford’s. The general influx came about thirty minutes before the scheduled opening. Monsford came in just before MI5. Monsford wasn’t openly smiling but appeared relaxed, surveying those already gathered around the table, which he joined differently from the preceding day, passing in front of the secretariat, at which he briefly paused before continuing on to his designated seat, nodding in satisfaction as he reached it at the absence of Straughan’s place setting. He neither smiled nor greeted Rebecca.
‘I’ve been calling you: leaving messages.’
‘Something’s come up. I’ve been busy.’ He didn’t look at her as he spoke.
Shit, she thought, disappointed. ‘You’ve heard about Radtsic then?’
Monsford covered the lurch of surprise by noisily repositioning his chair, closing the gap Rebecca had created. ‘I spoke to Jacobson half an hour ago. He didn’t say anything!’
‘The significance didn’t register with our CCTV monitors in Hertfordshire: Christ knows why not!’ criticized the woman. ‘Radtsic made Elena watch yesterday’s BBC coverage of the shooting, which included the Russian airport film. Radtsic talks about a diversion being discussed in the initial days of his extraction planning. The remark was isolated overnight by a committee monitor. I got the call at seven this morning, after they couldn’t reach you. As I couldn’t, until now.’
‘Have you seen the clip!’ demanded Monsford.
‘The whole sequence,’ confirmed Rebecca. She was curious at his comparatively calm reaction. But he’d never been the quickest off the mental starting block.
‘Tell me: every word he said.’
Rebecca hesitated, conscious that everyone was gathered around the table. ‘They’re both bewildered by the film: can’t understand it. Radtsic suggests it’s mafia, a turf war shoot-out, which Elena ridicules. They’re listening to the original Russian soundtrack, under the English voice-over. Which Elena reminds Radtsic specifically identifies MI6. That’s when Radtsic talks of a diversion.…’
‘Exactly!’ insisted Monsford. ‘Tell me Radtsic’s exact words!’
The panic was settling, Rebecca thought, satisfied. ‘“A diversion was talked about, at the very beginning,”’ she quoted, having anticipated the man’s demand. ‘“It was before things changed and you went to Paris to bring Andrei out with you. It was only mentioned once, as far as I recall. Nothing was ever said again, after that one time.”’
The room quieted at the entry of Bland and Palmer, which Monsford ignored. ‘No actual mention of killing! Just a diversion? That’s all he called it, a diversion?’
‘Diversion was the word,’ confirmed Rebecca. ‘He never referred to assassination, although assassination was the context in which he said it.’
‘Let’s begin, shall we?’ suggested Bland, from farther along the table.
* * *
The Cabinet Secretary’s preamble was much briefer than the preceding day’s, adding to the continuing official record with the Russian arrest of Robert Denning and Jeremy Beckindale and Moscow’s agreement to a diplomatic visit to the Manchester tourists. Glancing briefly at a slip of paper passed up from the secretariat, Bland concluded, ‘And there is a request from MI6 Director Gerald Monsford immediately to address this committee.’
So close had Monsford put himself to her with his earlier chair shifting that Rebecca was aware of his left leg sometimes touching hers. There was none of the nervous twitching of the day before. The man’s briefcase remained unopened on the opposite side of his chair and there were no prompt notes in front of him.
‘I have a number of matters that I believe takes forward the concerns I expressed yesterday at my service’s penetration by foreign intelligence,’ began Monsford, leaning comfort
ably back in his chair. Following yesterday’s session, he continued, he had briefed the head of the security investigation within MI6. ‘Within three hours, forensic technicians discovered illegal apparatus connected to the personal recording equipment in my office. The official installation of my equipment was personally supervised by James Straughan. The concealed illegal apparatus was operated from Straughan’s private office. The only fingerprints upon it were those of James Straughan.…’ Monsford paused, allowing the reaction to move throughout the room. ‘Every conversation I have had over the last two months, either by telephone or with people in my office, has been illegally monitored and presumably passed on to whomever Straughan was working for. I have already ordered that all my audio records be scrutinized to learn the full extent of the potential damage.…’
Of course there would have been equipment! thought Rebecca. How else could Straughan have made the incriminating copies they’d hoped to be their insurance against being caught up in whatever Monsford was planning. Why hadn’t she thought…? Thought what: done what? Rebecca fought against the panic, trying to calm herself. She hadn’t known where or how Straughan had rigged what he’d called his tie line. And even if she had, she wouldn’t have been able to dismantle it. There was no connection to her, she reasoned, snatching for reassurances. So she was still safe. And had to stay that way. She had to hear it all through: do nothing, say nothing, but think harder and better than she’d ever thought before.
Directly across the table, Aubrey Smith had gradually, imperceptibly, reached out to grip Jane Ambersom’s arm, conscious of the furious vibration coursing through the woman, tightening a warning against another outburst.
Red Star Falling: A Thriller (Charlie Muffin Thrillers) Page 6