Red Star Rising cm-14

by Brian Freemantle

  “Maybe you have,” said Smith, his tone indicating the exchange was coming to an end. “I’ll get back to you if anything comes up from this end that would take us forward in a more positive way.”

  “I’d like something positive to move things forward.” It had been a mistake to offer an amorphous idea without anything to substantiate it, Charlie acknowledged.

  The embassy was still only waking up when Charlie ascended to its more regular working area, skeleton night staff handing over to the day workers and diplomats, although neither Paula-Jane nor Halliday were in their offices. That day’s unread newspapers-including those brought in on the early-morning flight from London-were still in their undisturbed stack in Halliday’s outer, unrestricted access room, the English ones uppermost. Only the Times and the Telegraph maintained their Moscow coverage and both their single-column stories were on the inside foreign pages, but datelined from Washington, pointing up the unusual diplomatic response from the State Department to Stepan Lvov’s demand.

  Charlie hadn’t expected to find Robertson waiting there when he got to the compound apartment.

  “We’re well met,” announced Robertson. “I was looking for you; the hotel said you’d left at dawn.”

  “Not quite dawn,” said Charlie. “Early, though. You’re looking for me?”

  “I’ve slotted you in for this morning.”

  “What?”

  “To come before the inquiry panel. We’re getting toward the end: you’re among the last.”

  “After the previous charade? Don’t be ridiculous!”

  “You can’t refuse,” insisted the man.

  “I can and I do,” said Charlie. “And don’t fuck about like you did last time, threatening arrest and my being taken back to London under escort.”

  “I will and I can,” Robertson mocked back.

  “Go outside for a moment, will you?” Charlie said to the four awkwardly, foot-shuffling telephone monitors witnessing the confrontation.

  “You don’t have the authority to get them to do that,” said Robertson.

  “Their security classification isn’t high enough for what I am going to tell you.”

  “Don’t be. .” started Robertson but the bravado faltered. To the other four men he said, “Give us a moment, will you?”

  “Something has started that’s far more important than my fulfilling some piss-willie regulation that can’t apply to me because as you already know I don’t come into your time frame. I’m not trying to undermine your authority or what you’re trying to achieve here. If you’re determined to persist with this nonsense I want the personal order from the Director-General-and I mean Aubrey Smith himself, no one else-to appear again before your panel.”

  “I insist upon knowing what it is you’re involved in.”

  “You know I am not going to tell you.”

  “Are you sure you’ve got the backing in London to behave like this?”

  “No, I’m not at all sure,” admitted Charlie, honestly. “But it’s the stand I’m going to maintain until, again, I’m personally authorized by Smith to tell you any more.”

  30

  It had been a ridiculous dispute, achieving nothing except his being backed by the Director-General, but Charlie didn’t believe Paul Robertson would have invited the humiliation of being overruled for a second time. Robertson hadn’t made any secret of his resentment at his ridicule of the first examination, or of his uncovering Harry Fish’s duplicity. Could it be as simple as the man trying to even a score? Robertson and Fish were, after all, part of the same internal counterintelligence division. Of which, taking the possibility further, Robertson was the director and by association shared some of Fish’s caught-out opprobrium. Possible but still infantile, which Charlie found difficult to imagine Robertson would risk appearing.

  Unless, of course, the man had been forced into the confrontation. If Harry Fish had been part of the Jeffrey Smale faction in London, it wasn’t a leap to think that Robertson was a fellow traveler and part of the same headquarters conspiracy. If Robertson were, he could have been obeying the instructions of the protection-promising deputy director in staging today’s debacle. But to gain what? Although he’d guaranteed by his sole your Eyes Only designation that the Director-General would be the only recipient of Irena Novikov’s story, the fact that there had been an exchange between them extending over almost three hours would have been visibly evident upon the London transmission log. There was every understandable reason for Smith’s enemies to want to discover as quickly as possible as much as they could about such a long conversation. But could Robertson or anyone else have conceivably imagined they’d learn anything from yes or no polygraph answers no matter how cleverly they’d phrased and posed their questions? Perhaps not under the polygraph routine. But they might have believed they’d learn something in a more open, free-ranging session, just as strongly as Charlie believed he would have instantly recognized what they were trying to achieve and amused himself by misleading them. Whatever, Charlie positively decided he wouldn’t allow it to grow into another distraction.

  Charlie’s determination to avoid attracting attention to the contents of the briefcase overwhelmed his preference for comfort and directly after hearing Aubrey Smith’s decision-a telephone message from Robertson’s inquiry clerk, not personally from the man himself-Charlie quit the compound apartment and its too attentive telephone supervisors, and descended to his original rabbit hutch, employing the door wedges to ensure there was no unexpected intrusion. There was less room here than he’d had the previous night in his hotel suite and it was particularly difficult setting out the stolen KGB material, forcing him to spill over onto the floor.

  During his first rereading, Charlie factored in every addition he’d learned that morning from London, more fully realizing the importance the Russians were attaching to the hunt for their traitor by its stalled progress being personally controlled by the chairman, first of the KGB and now the FSB, an echelon he’d never before encountered, not even in anecdotal reference in training or instructional lectures. An asset remaining undetected for so long-even one put into inactive hibernation-was unquestionably of major importance but Charlie found it difficult to accept that the chairman himself would participate. His own Director-General was participating in this operation, Charlie reminded himself. But Aubrey Smith had a personal survival interest as well as the initial circumstances of Ivan Oskin’s murder having potential political ramifications, heightened by the bugging of the embassy, and maintained by the huge international media spotlight. Having a CIA informant within the Russian intelligence apparatus, although serious, was far more straightforward and capable, Charlie would have thought, of being handled at a lower operational level. The most obvious and logical conclusion had to be that there were additional reasons-further electronic interceptions not being included in the material he had topping the list-to add to all the other competing unknowns.

  Charlie read and reread for another two hours without adding anything more to his list of unanswerable questions and had just, fortunately, packed the envelopes away in his briefcase when there was a knock as well as an unsuccessful attempt to open his blocked door. He pocketed the wedges before he noisily unlocked it for Paula-Jane Venables.

  “You make a hermit look like a party animal!” she said, smirking, with her usual coquettishness. Today’s designer creation was beige, the top button of the cream shirt beneath the pipe-edged jacket predictably unfastened.

  “Needed a quiet time and place to think,” dismissed Charlie.

  “I tried the compound apartment first.”

  “I checked your office earlier, too.”

  “I know. You’re on my CCTV. That’s why I came looking for you, to see what you wanted.”

  Charlie hadn’t known there was an internal television security system: it certainly wasn’t openly visible. “I was just passing.”

  “Why don’t you buy me lunch? Or I’ll buy you lunch. We could even arm wr
estle for the bill.”

  He had more than enough time before speaking again to London and possibly Irena if Smith offered anything further to justify talking to the Russian woman. What about endangering her by association? Wasn’t it the association with him that had crippled Jack Hopkins? “I don’t want to appear ungallant-and I will stand treat-but why should I pay?”

  “Because I’ve got something to tell you that I think you should know. And maybe you’ll have something to tell me.”

  “Your choice of restaurant, as long as it’s not the American Cafe,” said Charlie, his curiosity piqued.

  “The Pekin, off the ring road: it’s a favorite of yours, isn’t it?”

  The embankment episode still in mind, Charlie insisted they travel separately, checking his own journey for pursuit-which he didn’t detect-and glad that if there were a reason to talk to Irena about anything from London, he could do it by telephone and not dance around the Moscow Metro system. Charlie intentionally arrived first at the Chinese restaurant and limited himself to one vodka-clear, not home-brewed yellow-from the aperitif carafe, intrigued by the woman’s surprising approach but determinedly refusing any preconceptions. She arrived earlier than they’d arranged, too, at once locating their table and as she crossed toward it, aware of the sexual fantasy of at least five separate male diners, Charlie thought again how similar he found her to Svetlana Modin. Who, he supposed, would expect contact sometime that day.

  Paula-Jane accepted vodka, touched glasses, and said, “I’ll let you order for me.”

  Charlie did, and chose Georgian white instead of its heavier red or rice wine. “What makes you think this is one of my favorite Moscow restaurants?”

  “You introduced Bill Bundy to it, didn’t you?”

  Charlie’s recollection was that it had been the American’s choice. “I don’t think he liked it very much.”

  “He’s an all-American steak-and-salad guy, light on the mayo, and I’ll open my own mineral water, thank you,” she mocked. “He does remind me of you in some ways, though.”

  “Which ways?”

  “Certainly not the mineral water! But you’re both always looking to see who’s behind you.”

  “Perhaps I’ve got more reason for caution than he has.”

  “You changed your mind about it being a coincidence?”

  “Not really.”

  “I’d still like to think it was.”

  “You seem to know Bundy quite well?” probed Charlie, wanting to move her on.

  “Shouldn’t a girl know her own godfather well?”

  “Bill Bundy’s your godfather?” exclaimed Charlie, in genuine surprise.

  “He and my dad went way back, as far as Vietnam: before he met my mother even. We’ve only really got together here. I couldn’t believe it when I heard he was getting a tour here that overlapped with me.”

  Charlie found it difficult, too, remembering what David Halliday had briefly told him about Paula-Jane’s father and wondering why the MI6 man hadn’t mentioned the godfather connection. “Is this what you wanted to tell me?”

  Paula-Jane laughed. “Heavens, no! I thought everyone knew about Bill and me. I’d even told London, fortunately, before Paul-Asshole-Robertson.”

  “Why fortunately?”

  “Robertson described it as a conflict of interest, which is bullshit: we’re both too professional to let work overlap. I think Robertson was made to look stupid by London already knowing about it. He’s been made to look even more stupid after his run-ins with you, hasn’t he?”

  Their food arrived. Charlie shook his head against tasting the wine before they’d finished the vodka. “How’d you know about that?”

  “He might be their division director but the guys monitoring your telephones think Robertson’s an asshole, too.”

  If they’d gossiped about that they would have gossiped about the incoming calls, too. And that would have included Irena’s. “An informant is hardly necessary in that damned embassy is he: the place is like a twenty-four-hour public address system.”

  Paula-Jane stopped with a gingered prawn between her chopsticks. “This is terrific! I’m glad I left the ordering to you.” She became serious. “And our embassy leak is what I want to talk to you about.”

  “Talk then,” encouraged Charlie.

  “I don’t believe Robertson is any closer to finding who it is now than he was on the day he first arrived here. I think he’s casting around for a way out and you could be it.”

  “You want to spell that out a little more clearly?”

  “He had me in front of his panel yesterday, for the second time since he got sent back. The questioning was concentrated on what I knew of you and Svetlana Modin and disinformation.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “There was nothing I could tell them, was there?” demanded Paula-Jane, rhetorically. “I didn’t know-not until then at least-anything about you and Svetlana and disinformation. Which is what I told them and why Robertson pulled what he thought to be the ace from up his sleeve but which proved instead to be up his ass, about Bundy being my godfather.”

  “You didn’t know until then, which was yesterday?” questioned Charlie, determined against any missed nuance.

  “Yesterday was the first time it was put to me and I didn’t understand what I was being questioned about,” elaborated the woman. “I do today, completely, from all the other pissed-off people under Robertson’s control. And I wasn’t the only one called in, incidentally. They recalled Dave Halliday and put him through the same hoop about you and Svetlana.”

  “I got you called back the first time and as far as I can remember you called me a bastard for doing so,” recalled Charlie. “Why are you warning me like this?”

  Paula-Jane smiled, extending her wineglass to be filled. “I still think you’re a bastard and I wouldn’t trust you if the Pope gave you a personal reference. But you were being professional, putting me back in front of Robertson’s people. I accept that now although I didn’t at the time. What I don’t accept is a colleague, even a bastard of a colleague, being set up as Robertson is trying to set you up to cover the fact he can’t do the job he’s been sent here to do.”

  “That’s very altruistic.”

  “I’d like to think it’s me being professional.”

  “Can’t Robertson do his job?”

  “He hasn’t caught our spy, has he?”

  “I don’t know. Hasn’t he?”

  She frowned, pained. “We’d know, believe me!”

  “Thank you, for the warning.”

  “You are a bastard, aren’t you? I’m not trying to make you into a friend, just to get a free lunch,” said the woman, retreating into her more usual shell.

  “I didn’t mean to sound as I just did.”

  “Don’t you think you’re treading a fine line, doing whatever it is you are with Svetlana Modin?” she demanded.

  “Every end justifies its means.”

  “If that end’s successful,” she qualified. “You think it is being successful?”

  “I’m still not yet sure what the end is going to be.”

  She came forward across the table, her glass cupped between both hands. “Don’t you believe your dead man was a gangster, as the Russians are saying he was?”

  “I’m still trying to work through their evidence.”

  “But you’re not going back to London yet?”

  “I haven’t been recalled yet.”

  “You think you are a decoy-me, too, I guess-for a covert operation between the Americas and people we don’t know about?”

  “What’s your godfather say about that?”

  “I told you, we don’t talk shop.”

  “You want me to believe you haven’t asked him?”

  “I mean he reminded me we don’t talk shop when I did ask him. He’s as ornery a bastard as you are.”

  “I’ve been used as a decoy before,” accepted Charlie. “I didn’t know it then, any more than I kn
ow if it’s happening now.”

  “Maybe I should be thanking you after all, for keeping me at arm’s length.”

  “I thought you already have,” said Charlie.

  “So now I’m thanking you again.”

  “Which makes us equally grateful, one to the other.”

  “What are you going to do about Robertson?”

  “Watch my back, which as you know I always do,” shrugged Charlie, gesturing for the bill.

  Paula-Jane grimaced rather than smiled. “I can’t tell you how much you remind me of Bill! And lunch was exceptional.”

  “I thought so, too,” said Charlie, wondering if Paula-Jane meant it for the same reasons as he did.

  The fuller smile came when Charlie picked up the briefcase as he straightened from the table. “Now that’s one way you didn’t remind me of Bill, until now. I never had you pegged as a briefcase man.”

  “It’s the militia material I told you I was working through. I need to keep it secure and I don’t have a proper office or an available safe.”

  “We’ve got an office safe that’s as secure as Fort Knox, for Christ’s sake!”

  “Maybe I could use it when I’ve finished what I have to do,” said Charlie.

  “It’s not looking hopeful,” announced Aubrey Smith. “The Americans seem to be using at least three different ciphers, with no obvious linking connection even when they switch between them. Some code-breakers even likened it to ENIGMA, unbreakable without the key.”

  “I’d hoped we’d moved forward a long way since the Second World War!” criticized Charlie, disappointed.

  “It was the best example they could think of to illustrate their difficulty without possessing the key,” dismissed the Director-General. “The one advance is that we think AJAX is the CIA director.”

  “Which would explain the involvement of the KGB chairman,” suggested Charlie, thinking back to his earlier uncertainty. “Like for like.”

  “Exactly, if we’re right,” agreed Smith. “Anything more from your end?”