‘And I saw him fire. The gun, a Russian Makarov, was aimed at Charlie. From the recoil movement of Briddle’s hand I believe he fired twice. Charlie jerked, obviously hit, and twisted to his left and fell. My orders—Charlie’s specific orders to me—were not to intervene but to get Natalia and the child safely away. Which I did.’
‘How far away were you from the shooting?’ questioned Smith.
‘Approximately fifty metres.’
‘Was the terminal building crowded, putting people between you and the other three, Charlie, Briddle, and Halliday?’
‘It was busy, but not crowded. At no time was my view seriously impaired by people.’
‘Was Stephan Briddle shooting at Charlie Muffin?’
‘Yes.’
‘You have no doubt about that?’
‘No doubt whatsoever.’
‘With intent to kill?’
‘There is absolutely no doubt in my mind that it was Briddle’s intention to kill Charlie.’
* * *
‘Fifty metres is a substantial distance,’ declared Gerald Monsford. He appeared quite confident, picking up the questioning at once at Aubrey Smith’s invitation. The scribbled notepad was in front of him but he didn’t consult it as he began.
‘I do not regard it as substantial,’ refused Flood. The wariness was obvious.
‘You were able quite easily to see Briddle, Halliday, and Muffin over such a distance without your view being obscured by the crowds milling about the departure terminal?’
‘My view was never obscured.’
‘What colour was Charlie’s suit?’
‘Grey,’ replied Flood, at once. ‘Over it he wore a beige raincoat: it was very crumpled. And what appeared to be very old suede shoes.’
Monsford hesitated, off-balanced by the detail of Flood’s reply. ‘Describe the view you had, from where you were standing.’
‘The entry into the terminal was to my left. The various check-in desks were directly in front of me. The way into the passport checks and the embarkation lounge was to my right.’
‘Where was the MEA desk for the Cyprus flight positioned in the bank of check-in desks directly in front of you?’
‘To my right.’
‘Explain the episode from your viewpoint in Vnukovo Airport.’
Now it was Flood who briefly hesitated. ‘Charlie was in the check-in. The two who came in with Briddle were to my left, about thirty metres from me, against the wall. Briddle first walked and then ran directly in front of my line of vision, with Halliday running behind, both towards Charlie.’
‘A tableau, directly in front of you?’ pressed Monsford.
‘It happened directly in front of me, my being separated by a distance of about fifty metres,’ replied Flood, pedantically.
‘Which didn’t give you the perspective from which to judge, did it?’ pounced Monsford.
Flood remained silent for several moments, staring across the intervening table. Eventually he said, ‘Perspective? To judge what? I don’t follow the question.’
‘It’s all happening in front of you, from left to right: literally a stage setting,’ established Monsford. ‘But from where you were you can’t tell this enquiry with any accuracy that Charlie Muffin was Briddle’s target, can you?’
‘Briddle fired at least twice at Charlie Muffin,’ insisted Flood.
‘According to the airport CCTV, which the Russians have shown—the camera in an entirely different position from your view—a militia officer fell before Charlie?’
‘Yes, I saw a militia officer go down.’
‘How far was the officer from Charlie?’
‘Close. About two metres, between two check-in lines.’
‘Who shot him?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know! It was all happening before your very eyes: eyes that were in no way obscured by other passengers, allowing you a perfect view of everything.’
‘My concentration was upon Briddle, Halliday, and Charlie.’
‘You’ve just told us you saw the officer fall.’
‘Of course I saw the officer fall: his was the direction in which I was looking, although not specifically at him.’
‘What about Halliday? Did he have a gun?’
‘I did not see him carrying a weapon, nor did I see him with one on the CCTV the Russians made available.’
‘I’m not asking you what was on the CCTV. I’m asking you what you saw David Halliday carrying.’
‘I did not see Halliday with a gun.’
‘You did not see David Halliday carrying a gun. But you can’t be sure that he didn’t have one.’
Flood hesitated. ‘No, I can’t be sure.’
‘How many people did you see with guns, in addition to Briddle?’
‘I believe the militia officer who fell had his pistol in his hand. And I saw another militia officer behind Charlie take his weapon out when the shooting began.’
‘Just two men! You are surely aware of the number of people seriously injured by gunshots, in addition to those who actually died!’
‘I have already given evidence that I followed my orders when the shooting started and left the outer terminal area to ensure the extraction of the woman and child.’
‘What do you say to my suggestion that Stephan Briddle was not shooting at Charlie Muffin with intent to kill but at others who were closing in to arrest him after his identification on CCTV?’
‘That just isn’t the way it happened?’
‘But you don’t know and therefore can’t tell us how it happened, can you, Mr Flood? By the time it all happened you’d already left the main concourse to get on the plane to Helsinki, hadn’t you? Your account, like that of Mr. Wilkinson before you, does nothing to help this enquiry.’
From the opposite side of the table Jane Ambersom tried to gauge a reaction from Rebecca, but the woman turned away, refusing to answer the look.
* * *
‘Thanks for delaying the meeting: for telling me there was to be a televised statement,’ said Irena Novikov, determined to control the exchange as she believed she’d conducted their previous session.
‘I guessed you’d want to watch it,’ said Edwin Birkitt, who hoped Irena would regard his alerting her to Moscow’s release of the English tourists as an indication of their growing and improving relationship.
If only you knew how vital my seeing it really is! thought Irena, further tightening any outward satisfaction. ‘It’ll increase the public pressure on the British, won’t it?’
‘It’s not a mess I’d like to be part of,’ said Birkitt.
‘You heard how badly hurt Charlie Muffin was?’
‘We don’t believe it was serious.’
‘He was very good,’ reflected Irena. ‘He’ll be a loss to the British.’ It was important that they believed everything she’d told Charlie in Moscow.
‘What do you imagine will happen to him?’ pressed Birkitt, anxious to bring the interrogation on track.
Irena made a doleful expression. ‘Guessing he’s having a bad time won’t get you anywhere close to what it’ll be like. He’s the guy that ruined twenty years of espionage planning, remember?’
‘Which you were telling me about last time,’ encouraged Birkitt, seizing the opportunity.
Irena smiled across at the man, inwardly amused at the eagerness. ‘I was right, wasn’t I? You found what I told you you’d find in CIA and State Department files, about the first Gulf War? Why the U.S. backed off?’
‘Yes,’ allowed Birkitt. It was his interrogation technique always to flatter the subject whenever possible.
‘That established us, those of us formulating the Lvov penetration,’ embarked Irena, everything prepared. ‘And we needed it. Don’t forget what was happening in 1991, Gorbachev surrendering it all and talking shit like perestroika and glasnost. We were frightened that our particular operation was going to be tossed away before it properly began and that Gorbachev might actually tak
e the KGB apart, which was one of his earliest promises coming into power. But with just that one success, which was a hell of a success, actually first stopping America in its tracks and then letting you sink into what later became a quagmire, changed a lot of the thinking about what to do about the KGB.’
‘What did—?’ broke in Birkitt, at once halted by an over-eager coughing fit. ‘What were the changes to the KGB?’ he managed to finish.
Irena sniggered a laugh. ‘Precious little, compared to what some of the early suggestions were. There was the change of name but that was cosmetic, as it’s always been when it’s politically suited. The clearing out of dead wood, which needed clearing out anyway. Amalgamation of Records and Archives. And then we had another success.’
‘What was that?’ Birkitt frowned, struggling to keep up.
‘Showing us how completely, because of the Gulf success, your people trusted Lvov,’ said Irena, close to patronizing. ‘Through Lvov we drip-fed all sorts of changes and watched them being fed to the media: picked a lot up intercepting your station-to-station chatter, too. We couldn’t believe how easily it was all turning out.’
‘I’d like to make a comparison test,’ said Birkitt. ‘Could you make a list?’
‘I’ll try to remember as much as I can.’
‘That would be great,’ encouraged Birkitt, pushing a yellow legal pad across the table towards her.
Irena carefully began her list, frequently pausing for apparent recollection. During one hesitation, she said, ‘I don’t suppose Charlie knows his unhappy band of tricked travellers have been freed.’
‘I don’t know,’ admitted Birkitt.
Charlie did.
* * *
‘A prime example of Russian compassion,’ declared Mikhail Guzov, turning off the portable DVD player with which he’d arrived at the dacha an hour earlier.
‘And a far more important example of a very effective use of propaganda,’ conceded Charlie. ‘What about my consular access?’
‘I’ve already told you about that but it was you who made that propaganda possible; we should really make some gesture to thank you, shouldn’t we?’ goaded Guzov. ‘I’m having the London press conference recorded for you to watch later. From what I heard in the car on my way here, you really aren’t their favourite person.’
‘I’m rarely anyone’s favourite person.’
‘Make yourself mine,’ urged Guzov. ‘Tell me from the very beginning everything that passed between you and Irena Yakulova, right from the moment of her anonymous telephone call to the contact number you set up at the embassy after the murder.’
Was that a guess? wondered Charlie. Or a test? The truth as much as possible, the intentional disinformation in the finest threads, Charlie reminded himself. ‘She staged it brilliantly,’ he began, settling in the rough wood chair.
13
Was this her chance? wondered Rebecca Street, as she approached the Hertfordshire house: maybe, even, her last chance? Or was she misjudging this as she’d probably misjudged other ways out, too frightened of the absolute commitment. Maxim Mikhailovich Radtsic’s refusal to deal with anyone but her sealed in stone the now-unconcealed enmity of Gerald Monsford. And she’d virtually disclosed to Jane Ambersom the existence of James Straughan’s precious record. But none of the inferred promises of protection from Jane overcame the insurmountable fact that she identifiably featured on that snugly nestling chip that would destroy her as effectively as it destroyed Monsford if it became public. As well as further destroying the reputation of James Straughan, whose incontrovertible link to a known active FSB agent had strengthened Monsford’s claim of MI6 penetration. And which she could not dismiss even though she found it difficult to conceive the man was a traitor. The overwhelming—practically automatic—likelihood was that Monsford had connived that incriminating contact, as he was conniving everything else. But…? But what? Was she showing acceptable, reasonable professional caution? Or was she using Rome as an excuse to do nothing, say nothing, as she suspected Jane Ambersom believed? Twenty percent acceptable, reasonable caution against an eighty-percent excuse for remaining silent, Rebecca calculated.
The protracted, alerting security precautions at the Hertfordshire safe house gave ample time for Harry Jacobson to be waiting in his supervisor’s office by the time Rebecca reached the protection compound. He remained behind his desk, not bothering to rise at her entry, the greeting restricted to a curt nod.
‘London said you’re moving in?’ opened Jacobson.
‘For a couple of days, seeing how things go,’ generalized Rebecca. She noticed Jacobson’s lip-concealing moustache needed trimming, like the rest of his normally more tightly clipped hair. All the wall-mounted CCTV was functioning but Rebecca couldn’t see Radtsic or Elena on any of the monitors.
‘I thought we were anticipating his debriefing in terms of years?’
‘We are, if he tells us all we want to hear. I’m here to decide how genuine this promised co-operation is going to be.’ This conversation was being televised, too, Rebecca realized, consciously stopping herself looking around for the operating camera.
‘Best of luck. You’re going to need all—and more—that you can get.’
Was it being recorded? Rebecca abruptly wondered, caught by Jacobson’s attitude. She understood the takeover animosity but didn’t imagine that later analysts would. Gesturing to the wall displays, Rebecca said, ‘I can’t see Radtsic or Elena?’
‘It’s scarcely surprising. They’re walking in the grounds.’
Irritation swept through Rebecca at the man’s studied disrespect. ‘Being filmed, of course?’
‘It’s standard regulations.’
‘Do they often walk in the grounds?’
‘Proper exercise is also a standard regulation.’
Rebecca only just held back from the anger-flared pomposity of insubordination. Instead she said, ‘Has every exercise walk been filmed, according to standard regulations, for lip-read translation and interpretation?’
Jacobson stirred at the demand, straightening slightly from how he was slumped behind the desk. ‘A complete, comprehensible translation has not been possible.’
‘Not from any of them?’
‘Not according to the lip-reading specialists here.’
Rebecca let the silence build. ‘Where are the films?’
Jacobson vaguely gestured to a bank of filing cabinets to his left. ‘Here.’
A decisive opportunity, remembered Rebecca. ‘Is the Director aware of their existence and their retention here?’
‘Exercise periods are always logged in daily reports,’ recited Jacobson, anxiously. ‘It’s—’
‘Standard regulations,’ cut off Rebecca, impatiently. ‘I want every film you’ve retained here, together with their attempted deciphering, no matter how incomprehensible or incomplete, packed up today and couriered, again today, to London for forensic audio enhancement and segmented analysis by additional Russian-language lip-readers. I also want a personal memorandum, from you, with a copy to the Director, explaining why this hasn’t automatically been done, according to standard regulations, since Radtsic and his wife have been here.’
‘They’ve refused co-operation until now,’ defended Jacobson, awkward in his belated concern.
‘All the more reason for us to know whatever might have passed between them when they believed themselves beyond our internal cameras, which I know from watching that internally recorded footage they are very much aware of,’ crushed Rebecca.
‘They haven’t committed a crime: you’re treating them like suspects.’
‘I’m treating them as they properly should be treated, people who still need to prove themselves.’
‘Are you replacing me as head of this protection operation?’ Jacobson’s challenge was spoiled by the falter in his voice.
‘Of course I’m not!’ irritably rejected Rebecca, at once. ‘I’m here specifically—and only—to begin the debriefing of Maxim Radtsic: again,
hopefully, to elicit something from which we can judge the man. The day-to-day supervision and security remains your responsibility or that of anyone chosen to replace you.…’ There was scarcely a pause as the disquieting possibility occurred. ‘You must be looking forward to the change, although you weren’t in Moscow that long, were you?’ she tried again.
‘Long enough. The Bolshoi was Moscow’s only saving grace and I had to enjoy that in its temporary premises because of all the delays rebuilding their proper theatre.’
‘At least you’ll be spared that now.’
‘Even the best of what’s available in Paris won’t match the Bolshoi, even in temporary accommodation.’
The poor fool actually imagined he could trust Monsford, Rebecca recognized. ‘I suppose there isn’t any reason for your hanging around here. Why don’t you raise your reassignment with the Director?’
‘I will,’ said Jacobson, positively.
‘After you’ve done what I’ve asked about the exercise films,’ Rebecca qualified, heavily.
‘I can do both before the day’s out,’ insisted the man.
‘Best of luck: you’ll need it,’ said Rebecca, throwing the man’s earlier arrogance back at him.
Red Star Falling: A Thriller (Charlie Muffin Thrillers) Page 17