The Run Around cm-8

by Brian Freemantle

  Like Zenin, he had been given the time limit of an hour for some contact to be made, although he had been told his failure would result in his return to his life sentence in Potma. Almost half an hour elapsed before uncertainty began to twitch through him and after forty minutes he decided he had to move. There were tables and chairs in the room in which he crouched. Barabanov chose one of the heavier chairs, easily splitting off a moulded rear leg, hefting it in his hand, leaving a cross-rail in place because it gave him added grip.

  He took one final, hopeful look through the window out into the deserted and fake street and then carefully opened the door, not the rear one through which he had entered but one at the front, which was his first mistake.

  Zenin saw him instantly he emerged. There was no fear at the man’s overpowering size nor at knowing, from his awareness of Barabanov’s criminal record for murder, how the man could use such obvious strength. Zenin had been graded to senior instructor level in two different styles of martial art but decided it would still be a mistake to confront the man openly, because it was essential that he survived without any obvious mark or injury. Zenin checked the time, seeing that he had twelve minutes in which to kill the man if he were not to have any points deducted, which he was determined against. As he turned back into the cafe Zenin shook his head in disgust at Barabanov’s clumsy amateurism.

  In the kitchen the oil was bubbling, near to boiling after so long over the burners, and the sound was louder now, which was important. Zenin checked, briefly, to ensure it could be heard in the customer area, and then went directly to the stove, gauging the distance between the door and the stove, guessing that he would only have seconds but confident that was all he would need.

  Just seven minutes left, he saw.

  Back at the window, Zenin watched for Barabanov’s exit from an apartment house opposite, purposely opening and quickly closing, so that it slammed, the door leading out. He was still able to look through the window and see the man’s awareness, which was the intention. As Barabanov started across the street, Zenin hurried into the kitchen, leaving the door ajar for the gas and oil bubbling sounds to be more obvious.

  He was standing by the stove, waiting expectantly, when Barabanov pushed open the door, at first cautiously but at the last moment violently, hoping to instill the fear to which he was accustomed. For a moment the two men stared at each other. And then, with the snarl of the animal he was, Barabanov hurled himself across the room, flailing with the chair leg club.

  Barabanov was just feet away when Zenin hurled the boiling oil directly into his face. The snarl became a scream of blinded agony. Barabanov was carried on by the force of his own impetus, so that he collided with the stove, but Zenin had moved by then: the Ukrainian slammed his hand down in another unseen cauldron of scalding oil, actually upending it off the gas ring right down the front of himself. Barabanov screamed out in fresh agony, swiping wildly with the club he still carried. Zenin carefully judged his moment, ducking beneath one swipe and bringing the heel of his hand sharply up against the point of Barabanov’s chin before he could make another, hearing the distinct crack as the man’s neck broke, ducking away so that he would not be hit by the man’s fall.

  Zenin checked his watch, smiling in satisfaction. There were still four minutes before the expiry of the time limit so his record was unblemished. Barabanov was very heavy and Zenin grunted with the effort of hauling him back into the outer room: the man’s head lolled, disconnected, and his face had begun to swell into one huge blister. Zenin positioned the convict at the bottom of the stairs with his body actually coming down it, as it would have done if he had stumbled and fallen from the top, and then pressed Barabanov’s hand around the handle of the first oil pan, the one he’d actually thrown at the man. He stepped over the body and climbed to the bathroom, covering his hand with a towel before scattering the contents of a medicine chest into the sink and on the floor, as if some frantic search for some soothing or protective cream had been made and then carried the towel downstairs again, wedging it into Barabanov’s other hand.

  The assessors had been unanimous in marking Zenin’s performance as excellent, the highest award possible. It was the standard he intended to maintain on this, his first job.

  He immediately locked the door of the Bayswater hotel, checking through every item in the suitcase that had been provided for him by KGB agents at the London embassy which he was forbidden to approach direct, knowing any incriminating mistake in the clothing was unlikely but determined against even the slightest risk. London public transport maps were included and using them he travelled to Soho by underground, locating without difficulty the newsagent’s shop that unknowingly was going to indicate his undetected arrival and alert the London rezidentura to initiate the next stage of the Operation. He paid four pounds to have the For Sale card advertising a six-foot dinghy displayed in a glass case crammed with other cards, telling the assistant he would call in daily for replies. From Soho he travelled by bus to the zoo in Regent’s Park, from which he walked to Primrose Hill, at once pleased that he had taken the reconnaissance precaution because there was a sign that bicycling in the park was illegal, about which he should have been warned. He made a mental note to complain about the London rezidentura when he got back to Moscow: it was the sort of oversight which could have ruined everything. He lunched in a surprisingly good bistro and afterwards walked to Camden Town where he caught an underground train back into central London. In a Trafalgar Square cinema he saw a film about a supposed secret agent named James Bond, which he found professionally absurd, before returning to Soho to ensure that the contact message was displayed as it should have been. It was. He was not really hungry but he ate anyway, to occupy time, but it was still early when he returned to the hotel. There were four other guests in the television lounge but Zenin did not join them, because it was necessary to avoid any casual contact. In his room he went directly to bed and fell at once into a dreamless sleep.

  The following day he returned to Soho, enquiring about replies to his advertisement. The girl said one man had enquired if the boat were white, which was the arranged acknowledgement that an agent from the embassy had seen his signal. Zenin said it was green but that he wanted to withdraw the card anyway, because he’d managed to dispose of the boat elsewhere. She reminded him that the previous day she’d made it clear the four pounds was not refundable and Zenin assured her he was not seeking one. She said they’d always be willing to put a display card in their case if he had anything else to sell and Zenin said he would remember.

  Zenin walked unhurriedly back through Soho, isolating four whores already plying for lunchtime trade. Would there be any sexual involvement with Sulafeh Nabulsi, he wondered. It was the briefest of thoughts, because he had many other things to arrange. There was the sports gear and the cassette playing equipment to buy. And the bicycle hire to be arranged. But most important, the preparation for the false trail, in Switzerland. From a call-box he telephoned Swissair advanced reservations, explaining he wanted to accompany a friend flying from Geneva to New York on the 16th but wasn’t sure of the flight. When the clerk asked for the name he said Schmidt, but indistinctly, in case he was out of luck. He wasn’t. The girl said there was already a Klaus Schmidt reserved in the computer for their midday flight that day and did Zenin want to confirm his seat. The Russian said he would have to call back and hung up. How useful was the universal name of Smith, he thought.

  The highest secrecy accorded the assassination mission meant that all communication was absolutely restricted, with each recipient having personally to sign a receipt and any such communication having to emanate from Berenkov, whose signature accompanied and authorized every despatch.

  The notification from England of Zenin’s undetected arrival in London arrived two days after Zenin’s disembarkation from the trawler in Ullapool — the word ‘catalogue’ again being used to describe the Russian — and after alerting the KGB chairman and the ambitious Mikhail Lvov, Be
renkov sat gazing down at the incoming message, still unconvinced it was the right decision to proceed with the operation, irrespective of any political importance attached to it or the amount of time and effort already expended in its planning. Berenkov was curious that Kalenin, of whose caution he was very aware, had not taken the prudent course and abandoned the operation. Could there be a reason he didn’t know? The KGB chairman was a devious man who in the past had allowed apparently straightforward missions to be run on several levels. If there were a secret reason, it would be for Kalenin’s protection. What about his own?

  Berenkov accepted there was at this stage very little he could attempt. But it was essential he evolve something and in time, if necessary, to turn Zenin back when the assassin approached the embassy in Bern, which was the only point of necessary contact with a Soviet installation that was being allowed the man.

  Berenkov took a long time preparing the instruction, wanting the checks to be made properly but without panic. The first transmission was to Switzerland and second to England. Copies were naturally sent to both Mikhail Lvov and Valery Kalenin.

  The call came from the KGB chairman the following day. ‘Lvov is complaining that you are unreasonably interfering,’ disclosed Kalenin.

  ‘Just to you?’

  ‘I suspect he’s going higher but unofficially. He believes he has important friends,’ said Kalenin.

  ‘What should I do?’ said Berenkov, deferring to the other man’s expertise in headquarters survival.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Kalenin at once. ‘Not yet.’

  Chapter Five

  It had been late when he got back from Sussex the previous night, practically pub closing time, and so Charlie kept the car instead of returning it to the pool, which regulations required. In the morning he found the Mercedes insignia had been ripped off the bonnet.

  ‘Shit,’ he said. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea after all to buy a car of his own. He wondered if the bank manager’s letter had arrived yet.

  The summons was for ten o’clock and Charlie intended getting to the department an hour earlier, with a lot to do beforehand, but the traffic was worse than he had expected and so he was delayed. He still hadn’t finished all the Foreign Office requests by the time he should have left for the confrontation with the Director. He worked on. At fifteen minutes past Alison Bing came on from Wilson’s direct line and said: ‘It’s no good hiding: we know you’re there.’

  ‘Ten more minutes,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Now!’ she said.

  It only took Charlie five minutes to complete the last message, to Moscow, and he left in what was for him a run which with his feet he never normally attempted. As he went by the window he saw that the upside-down training shoes weren’t in the courtyard rubbish any more.

  Sir Alistair Wilson was sitting formally behind his desk, which he rarely did and there was none of the personal affability of which Charlie was usually conscious. Harkness was in his customary chair, prim hands on prim knees, making no attempt to hide the expression of satisfaction: Charlie thought he looked like a spectator at a Roman arena waiting for the thumbs down. Attacking at once, the deputy said: ‘You were specifically told ten o’clock.’

  ‘One or two things came up,’ said Charlie. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Just what the hell do you think you’re doing!’ erupted Wilson. The complete whiteness of his hair was heightened by his red-faced anger.

  ‘About what, precisely?’ Charlie hadn’t intended the question to sound insolent but it did and he was aware of Harkness’s sharp intake of breath.

  ‘You have caused absolute bloody chaos,’ accused the Director, hands clasped for control in front of him on the desk. ‘In my name — but without any reference or authority from me — you’ve demanded — not politely asked but demanded — MI5 mount a massive surveillance operation on every Soviet installation in London.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Charlie. ‘I have.’

  ‘Have you any idea of the manpower involved?’ said Wilson.

  ‘Or the overtime payments?’ came in Harkness, predictably.

  ‘Quite a lot,’ said Charlie, answering both questions.

  ‘MI5 is not our service,’ lectured Wilson. ‘When we want co-operation we ask, politely. We don’t insist. And we don’t make requests which will tie up every Watcher they’ve got and require extra men being seconded. Do you know what their Director said, when he complained! That Britain’s entire counter-intelligence service was at the moment working for us.’

  ‘I hope they are,’ said Charlie.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ said Harkness.

  Instead of answering the man Charlie said to the Director: ‘But are they doing it?’

  Wilson frowned, momentarily not replying. Then he said: ‘Yes. I wasn’t going to cancel without knowing what was happening, but by God you’d better have a good explanation — a bloody good explanation.’

  Charlie sighed, relieved. ‘I’m glad,’ he said.

  ‘And not just an explanation for that,’ said Harkness. ‘We’ve studied the full transcript of your interview with Novikov.’

  ‘And?’ lured Charlie. Come on, you penny-pinching arsehole, he thought.

  ‘Appalling,’ judged Harkness. ‘Unnecessarily antagonistic, putting at risk any relationship that might have been built up between the man and other debriefers. And absolutely unproductive.’

  ‘Absolutely unproductive?’ coaxed Charlie. He didn’t just want Harkness to dig a hole for himself; he wanted a damned great pit, preferably with sharpened spikes at the bottom.

  ‘Not one worthwhile thing emerged from the entire meeting,’ insisted Harkness. Confident enough to try sarcasm, he said: ‘And for whose benefit was the whisky episode!’

  ‘Mine,’ said Charlie at once. ‘I wanted to break his concentration. It was going so well that I didn’t want to lose anything: it can sometimes happen if a defector becomes too tense.’ He smiled and said: ‘Islay malt is a favourite of mine. His, too, it seems.’

  There were several moments of complete silence in the room. Charlie waited, comfortably relaxed. The roses today were predominantly yellow and heavily scented: Charlie wondered if the block of buildings beyond were Waterloo Station or the County Hall, uncertain whether it were either.

  ‘Going so well?’ It was Harkness who spoke, his voice edged with uncertainty.

  ‘And about time,’ said Charlie. ‘I think too many mistakes have already been made. I hope we’re not too late …’ He smiled again, directly at Wilson this time. ‘That’s why I’m glad the Soviet surveillance is being maintained: it is something that should have been in place weeks ago. The biggest mistake of all, in fact.’

  ‘I said I wanted an explanation,’ complained Wilson. ‘I’m not getting it in a way I can understand.’

  Charlie recognized there was no longer any anger in the man’s voice. He said: ‘There were a number of reasons for my being what you regarded as antagonistic. It is always necessary, in the first place, to regard any defector as a hostile plant-’

  ‘You’d already been told that in the opinion of other debriefers Novikov was genuine,’ broke in Harkness.

  ‘I’m not interested in the opinion of other debriefers,’ said Charlie. ‘Only my own. And having read the transcripts of their sessions and seen the oversights and the errors I didn’t think their opinions were worth a damn anyway.’

  ‘So what is your opinion?’ said Wilson.

  ‘I’ve asked this morning for some corroboration, from Moscow,’ said Charlie. ‘But provisionally I think he’s OK.’

  ‘What other reasons were there for your approach?’ demanded Harkness, fully aware of the unspoken criticism of Witherspoon, who was his protege.

  ‘Novikov is arrogant,’ said Charlie. ‘Isn’t that obvious from the transcript?’

  ‘Yes,’ conceded Harkness reluctantly.

  ‘He’s been handled wrongly, from the start,’ said Charlie. ‘Allowed to dominate the sessions, instead of bein
g dominated himself. I wanted him to know I didn’t trust him: that he had to prove himself. Which he did.’

  ‘You said mistakes had been made,’ queried Wilson.

  ‘A lot,’ said Charlie. ‘One of the most serious is the lack of response to the word “catalogue”. It’s not in any of the debriefing guide books, but it is most frequently used by the KGB to cover an agent from their assassination department. Who will be sent in specially. That’s why I mounted the surveillance: I want a comparison between their known operatives and someone we don’t know. If it’s not too late, that is.’

  Wilson nodded and said: ‘If you’re right, I agree. But why couldn’t catalogue refer to the victim?’

  Charlie shook his head against the qualification. ‘Novikov had encountered the description before,’ he reminded. ‘Both times in connection with an assassination. He refused to be absolutely positive, but his belief was that it’s the code for the operative. And I think the debriefing proved that the operation does not just involve England.’

  ‘Prove?’ demanded Harkness.

  ‘Novikov agreed that the cipher division of the KGB is not a general department, that it’s compartmented like everything else,’ said Charlie.

  Harkness nodded, in recollection.

  ‘The assumption by all the previous debriefers had been that Novikov was part of some centralized system,’ insisted Charlie.

  ‘Yes,’ said Wilson, looking directly at Harkness. ‘And it was a mistake.’

  ‘I wanted particularly to establish the limitations of what Novikov handled, despite the Politburo clearance,’ disclosed Charlie. ‘The numbering told me.’