The Run Around cm-8

by Brian Freemantle

  Which was why the smallest of oversights had to be guarded against. And which was why, after that late evening arrival in Geneva, he had disobeyed the final Moscow briefing instructions and not hired a car to go at once to Bern. Instead he had taken the anonymous airport bus into the city terminal and ignored taxi drivers and their possibly long memories to walk through the avenues and streets until he’d found the small auberge in the side road off the Boulevard de la Tour, safely away from either of the areas of the city in which he was later to operate. He booked in as Klaus Schmidt.

  It was a breakfast-only auberge and he took the meal, although he did not want to, because not to have done so might have attracted attention. It was the type of place in which everyone was existing on the sort of budget where every meal counted. Travelling on an English passport meant he chose the Times and the Independent to hide behind, enjoying the coffee but crumbling the croissant instead of eating it, anxious to get away.

  Zenin disdained any transport, public or otherwise. He got at once on to the Boulevard des Tranchees and stayed on the main and busy highways as he strode towards the lake. He crossed the Rhone feeding from it over the Mont Blanc bridge, making for the area where he was to meet Sulafeh Nabulsi. And almost at once isolated the first mistake. Kuchino had shown the Quai du Mont-Blanc to be a continuous thoroughfare, without the obligatory turn into the Rue des Alpes, and there had been no indication that the Rue Phillippe Plantamour was a oneway system. It was — horrifyingly — the lack of attention to detail which could have got him trapped and caught, if he had chosen to use any sort of vehicle when he made his eventual meeting with the woman and she had been under suspicion. In a rough square that took him as high as the Notre Dame church, to the Voltaire museum and then back in the direction of the lake again, Zenin encountered two more obstructive road systems. He was too highly trained actually to become emotionally angry, but as he had earlier in London he resolved to complain about the information that had been relayed from the Bern embassy and upon which the Kuchino model would have been based.

  There was a pavement cafe on the corner of the Adhemar-Fabri from which he could gaze across the water, regretting that so late in the year the Jet d’Eau had been turned off. Which had been another mistake, although not a dangerous one: the Kuchino model had shown the decorative water plume in operation. Zenin twisted in his seat, looking towards the unseen area of the Botanical Gardens. Moscow had given him estimates of walking times from various approaches but Zenin resolved to check them all himself, later: there had been too many discrepancies so far in the information provided by the embassy, so everything had to be confirmed and reconfirmed. He hoped the rented room would have the overview that had been demanded for him to get an unobstructed shot.

  Zenin was allowed to make his own choice of meeting places with the girl and chose three possibilities for the initial encounter, the first the cafe at which he was already sitting, because it was on a corner with three possible escape routes. Smiling at the irony, he decided upon the other two by utilizing the oversight of the Bern embassy, choosing one restaurant on the Rue des Alpes and another on the Rue des Terreaux du Temple: the entrapping imprisonment of a one-way system could as easily be reversed into an escape route and both were restricted highways. He hoped no frantic escape would be necessary because if it were it would mean that the woman was blown and with it the operation. And failed operations — even if they were no fault whatsoever of the operative — always looked bad on the record.

  Precautions, of course, had to be taken. And precautions unknown to anyone but himself because Zenin only really trusted himself.

  Because it was so conveniently near, actually on the quai where he was sitting, Zenin ate in the luxury of le Chat Bottee restaurant of the Beau-Rivage, seeking out a lakeside table to have the best outlook while he ate, enjoying the opportunity to relax. Briefly, fantasizing almost, he tried to imagine an escape route across the lake after the assassination, shaking his head at the idiocy of the idea: it would be easier to get trapped on the lake than in any of the one-way streets the stupid bastards at the embassy had failed to designate. The way to escape was far easier and far less dramatic than that film he’d seen the first night in London but the name of which he could no longer remember.

  At the Hertz office on the Rue de Bern he hired for three weeks a medium-sized Peugeot on the English driving licence issued in the name of Henry Smale, paying the deposit in sterling. With time to spare he drove around the immediate border towns, uncertain whether eventually to abandon it for later discovery in Switzerland or France. Perly, in the south, was a possibility. Or Meryin, further north.

  He got back into the city by early evening and reconnoitred by road this time the area he had that morning explored on foot, at once conscious of the road-blocked restrictions, even though the heaviest traffic of the day was over. The car could certainly be parked nearby but the first and subsequent meeting places needed to be somewhere where he had easier freedom of movement to dodge. It was a pity the jogging and bicycle routine could not be repeated: it had worked very well in London, despite being so unnecessary.

  Zenin finished the initial reconnaissance earlier than he’d anticipated, realizing it would be possible for him to drive to Bern to establish himself as he should have done the previous day. And at once abandoned the idea. It would mean checking out unexpectedly from the auberge where he had reserved for two nights and any unexpected and identifying action had to be avoided.

  Instead, because it was a cuisine with which he was not familiar, he ate Chinese at the Auberge des Trois Bonheurs, after which he attempted a walk along the shore of the lake but found it too cold, so he went back to the auberge. The clerk who had registered him was on duty again and Zenin reminded the man that he was booking out the following morning.

  ‘A short stay, Herr Schmidt?’ said the man.

  ‘Off to New York in the morning,’ said Zenin, completing the carefully prepared false trail.

  The relationship between the KGB chief Kalenin and Alexei Berenkov went beyond that of Dzerzhinsky Square to that of long friendship. It had become their custom to alternate dinner invitations and that night it had been Kalenin’s turn, at his bachelor Kutuzovsky apartment. He’d served roasted venison with red cabbage and Georgian wine. He knew nothing about wine and had taken Berenkov’s advice that it was good: during his London posting the man had become the connoisseur his cover required. Afterwards they had French brandy with coffee and then Valentina, Berenkov’s wife, cleared the table and busied herself tidying and washing up in the kitchen, because that was customary too. The men always talked and having been married to Berenkov for twenty years Valentina knew precisely when to absent herself.

  ‘There is definitely increased surveillance in London?’ asked Kalenin.

  ‘No doubt about it.’

  ‘London was identifiable in the communications Novikov handled,’ said Kalenin. ‘It was to be expected.’

  ‘Not of this intensity,’ insisted Berenkov.

  ‘But the embassy in Bern are adamant there is no increase there,’ reminded Kalenin. ‘There surely would have been if Novikov knew more than we believe and had been able to identify Switzerland. And if the drop had been picked up.’

  ‘I don’t want to take anything for granted.’

  ‘At the moment it is insufficient to consider cancellation.’

  ‘Are you using it for some other purposes I don’t know about?’ challenged Berenkov, openly.

  ‘If I’m protected then so are you,’ replied Kalenin, obtusely.

  Berenkov allowed the pause, hoping the other man would continue but he did not. Berenkov said: ‘Is that your promise?’

  ‘What else would it be?’ demanded Kalenin.

  ‘Let’s build up at the Bern embassy!’ urged Berenkov. ‘Blanket the place with additional people of our own, so that we’ll detect the moment anything changes there.’

  ‘That would probably be wise,’ agreed Kalenin. ‘What a
bout the British communication codes to their embassy here?’

  ‘We can decipher all of them.’

  ‘Let’s order a concentration on that: build up the intercepts as well.’

  ‘Have there been any further protests from Lvov?’ asked Berenkov.

  ‘Not to me,’ said Kalenin.

  ‘What about elsewhere?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘He could be a dangerous man,’ said Berenkov.

  ‘So could I,’ said Kalenin.

  Chapter Nine

  Charlie Muffin was irritated, for more than one reason. The most obvious cause was the forthcoming encounter with Harkness but the greater feeling came from the frustration of not being able to do anything but sit and wait and rely on others. Charlie didn’t like sitting and waiting: most definitely not on an operation like this, one with a time limit. And he never liked relying on others because it was far too easy to slip on their dropped banana skins. Which was perhaps an unfair reflection on this particular job. He’d had re-run the one half-face picture of Primrose Hill through all the physiognomy checks possible, trying for comparisons with all known Eastern bloc agents going back for three years, using the computer system as well as human analysis. And come up with a blank, like the first time. So objectively it was unlikely that any immigration officer or Special Branch man, despite their training, was going to do any better. It was a bastard, a right bastard. Maybe, ultimately, they would have to pick up Harkness’s suggestion and sound a general alarm, impractical though it had seemed during the meeting with the Director. Which was further cause for irritation. Charlie didn’t like being unable to come up with a better idea than that prick of a deputy.

  Sighing, he left his cubby-hole office in good time for the appointment, reluctant to provide the man with more grounds for complaint than he already had. Charlie was ten minutes early and was told by the stiffly coiffeured secretary that he had to wait. He did so patiently, refusing to be riled any more than he already was, knowing damned well there was no reason for Harkness to delay the interview and that the man was playing his usual silly buggers. Charlie bet that Harkness had been one of those snotty little kids who take their bats home if they weren’t allowed to have first crack at the ball.

  Harkness’s office was lower than the Director’s and further to one side, so the vibration from the underground trains hummed up from the foundations. The man was waiting neatly behind his desk: the suit today was blue-striped, the colour-coded accessories pastel-blue. The office was antiseptically clean, as it always was.

  ‘Anything come in since yesterday?’ said Harkness.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Charlie. The man knew damned well that if there had been anything he would have been informed.

  ‘You drew a Mercedes from the pool,’ announced Harkness.

  ‘What?’ said Charlie. If Harkness could play silly buggers, then so could he. In fact Charlie reckoned he was better at it than the other man.

  ‘For the Novikov debriefing you drew a Mercedes from the pool,’ repeated Harkness, pedantically.

  The deputy’s pink cheeks were pinker than usual and Charlie hoped it was anger. He said: ‘That was the debriefing you didn’t think was any good.’

  ‘It was returned damaged,’ said Harkness.

  ‘Was it?’ said Charlie, in blank-faced innocence.

  ‘The motif was torn away.’

  ‘Wonder how that happened,’ said Charlie.

  ‘You didn’t notice it?’

  ‘No.’ He wondered if the man ever farted: probably not.

  ‘It’s directly in front of you, when you drive, man!’

  Temper, temper, thought Charlie. He said, ‘Never noticed it. Honest.’

  ‘There were smaller, less expensive vehicles you could have chosen.’

  ‘Probably,’ agreed Charlie.

  ‘So why didn’t you?’

  ‘I got the impression from the Director’s briefing that there was some urgency,’ said Charlie. Get out of that, he thought.

  Harkness couldn’t. Definitely red-faced now he said: ‘You drew the car on the ninth?’

  ‘That sounds right,’ said Charlie, intentionally vague to irk a man to whom precise detail was everything.

  ‘It was not returned to the pool until the tenth.’ persisted Harkness.

  ‘I’m sure the pool records are accurate.’

  ‘So why did you keep it overnight?’ demanded Harkness. ‘You know that contravenes regulations.’

  ‘I wasn’t sure whether I would need it to return to Sussex the following day, to expand on anything Novikov might have told me,’ lured Charlie.

  Harkness stepped into the very middle of the trap. ‘You’d been summoned for a meeting with the Director!’ pounced the deputy. ‘So you couldn’t have returned to Sussex the following day?’

  ‘But the summons was through …’ Charlie hesitated, appearing to seek a polite route ‘… through some misunderstanding about the worth of the debriefing, like I mentioned earlier,’ he said. ‘I thought it was a good interview: and it did turn out to be, didn’t it? If I’d had any afterthoughts I’d hoped the Director would have delayed our meeting. As it was, I didn’t have any afterthoughts so it wasn’t necessary. Bit of luck that, wasn’t it?’

  Harkness’s mouth was in a tight line. He said: ‘There is a form to be filled in, for damaged vehicles.’

  ‘I’m sure there is,’ said Charlie. The prat had probably created it.

  ‘You’ll need to complete it.’

  ‘You want me to explain the misunderstanding about the debriefing?’ asked Charlie, the innocence as perfectly pitched as before.

  Harkness’s face was blazing now. ‘Just the circumstances of the damage,’ he said, brittle-voiced.

  ‘Don’t know the circumstances of the damage,’ reminded Charlie. ‘Never realized it had happened.’

  ‘Complete the confounded form!’

  Charlie bet for once the man regretted the determination against swearing: ‘fucking form’ would have relieved the pressure much better. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said, obediently.

  Harkness recognized the insolence at once: ‘sir’ was a word he knew did not exist in Charlie’s vocabulary, apart from occasionally when addressing the Director. He failed completely to comprehend Wilson’s admiration for the grubby little oik. Harkness said: ‘A letter has been channelled to me. From your bank.’

  Here we go, thought Charlie: everyone on the roller-coaster and no one knowing where the ride would end. Cautiously he said: ‘Yes?’

  ‘Are you in financial difficulties?’

  ‘Isn’t everyone?’ smiled Charlie, hopefully. Harkness doing the unexpected would be the biggest joke of all time.

  ‘Do you realize this could put you in a review situation?’

  ‘Review situation?’

  ‘The Permanent Security Review Committee consider financial irregularity very important.’

  ‘What financial irregularity!’

  ‘You’ve sought an arrangement for?10,000?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Meaning you can’t live within your means?’

  Charlie had expected his past record — a record Harkness could never forget or overlook — to result in suspicion like this. But the headmaster-to-difficult-pupil number was still a pain in the arse. He said: ‘It is an application to an English bank, not an offer to go over to the Russians.’

  ‘Like you once did!’

  Charlie bet he could move his lips in anticipation of the other man’s thoughts. He said: ‘I did not go across to the Russians: I taught a lesson to those who tried to make me sacrifice of the month.’

  ‘The directors of American and British intelligence!’

  ‘They were prepared for me to be seized: killed maybe. All I did was make them look stupid. Which wasn’t very difficult,’ said Charlie. ‘They were only in Soviet custody for twenty-four hours, anyway.’ Should have been longer, he thought. Arseholes, all of them.

  ‘Now you need money?�
�

  ‘And that makes me a security risk?’ said Charlie, answering question by question.

  ‘There’s precedent for it doing so.’

  ‘Not with me,’ insisted Charlie. ‘I could have stayed in Russia last time if I’d wanted to, remember?’ And still been with Natalia, he thought. He wished so much to know what had happened to her; to be sure that she was safe.

  ‘You’re under pressure to repay creditors?’

  ‘No,’ said Charlie. The bookmaker’s demand for?300 hardly ranked with the National Debt, after all.

  ‘So why do you need the money?’

  ‘Few improvements around the flat,’ ad-libbed Charlie, prepared from the encounter with the bank manager. ‘Thought I might get a little car for the week-ends.’

  ‘For which your salary is insufficient?’

  ‘I’ve been passed over by the last two promotional boards,’ reminded Charlie. And he’d bet a pound to a pinch of the smelly brown stuff that Harkness had been in there blocking his upgrading.

  ‘You realize that the security requirements — my having become involved because of this letter — are that I make a thorough investigation into your financial affairs, don’t you?’ said the Deputy Director.

  Charlie wondered which would upset Harkness more, the membership fees to the three after-hours drinking clubs or the subscription to the Fantail Club, where there was a lot of fanny and tail and all of it uncovered for appreciative selection. Straight-faced, he said: ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘Well it does.’

  ‘I don’t suppose I have any say in it, your having become involved?’

  ‘None at all,’ said Harkness. ‘The procedure now is regulated.’

  Like the right sort of bowel movement, thought Charlie: the bastard was enjoying himself. He said: ‘Regulations also say I must have complete access to your report, don’t they?’