The steward’s full name was Wilfred Stemi. Charlie was careful to ensure there was no conversation whatsoever between them when they exchanged places, from which she might have alerted the man and Stemi identified the photograph as positively as she had done and for the same reasons. And with an acceptably minimal degree of difference from that assembled by the professional analysts he provided a satisfactory physical description of the man, just as she had done.
It had been a packed flight, without one vacant seat, and when Charlie retrieved the manifest from the Swissair passenger computer he counted sixty English-type names likely to be travelling on British passports. There were three Smiths.
Charlie decided it was a waste of time to drive all the way back into London for a secure conversation with the Director, only to have to drive back out again, so he used the open line once more, admiring the quickness with which Wilson acknowledged the guarded conversation. Charlie said he needed to go to Geneva at once and asked for a replacement to carry out the job interviews, determined the photograph should go on being checked by the other aircrews from the other airlines in case this sighting was a mistake, like that in Primrose Hill could still be a mistake. He would, he said, be leaving behind a list of people whose references he wanted officially checked and Wilson said he wasn’t quite sure what that meant and Charlie said he would be when he saw the list.
‘You want the Swiss firm advised of your arrival?’ asked the Director.
‘Definitely,’ said Charlie, at once. This wasn’t a one-man operation, although that was normally the way he liked to work. If Geneva were the right location it meant he had more time because neither the arms limitation session nor the Middle East conference was until the end of November but he still needed all the help he could get from as many branches of Swiss intelligence that there were: the haystack was still about as big as Mont Blanc.
‘Looking forward to a productive trip?’
‘Still not considering anything more than a fifty per cent return,’ warned Charlie, guardedly.
‘Anything else we can do from this end?’
‘There’s the hotel bill to settle.’
‘I’ll see it’s done.’
‘And a Mercedes to collect from the car park there.’
‘I’ll tell the Pool.’
Charlie wondered about mentioning the scratch and then decided it could be Harkness’s ulcer irritant for that day.
He reached Geneva’s Cointrin airport by mid-afternoon and made himself immediately known to the security colonel there. The man checked, as Charlie suggested, with the central intelligence unit in Bern, who confirmed his arrival had already been signalled from London and together they questioned the four immigration officers who had been on duty on the night of the 13th. One man said he thought the face in the photograph looked familiar but admitted when pressed that he could not swear to it. Charlie hopefully toured all the car rental desks at the airport but there was no recognition from any of them.
The colonel suggested the Beau-Rivage because it was the best hotel and Charlie, who hadn’t been to Geneva before, accepted the choice. The man insisted upon driving him into the city. As they drew up outside the hotel on the Quai de Mont Blanc the colonel, who had not been given a reason for the order to assist Charlie in everything, said: ‘This man likely to cause us a lot of trouble?’
‘If he’s who I think he is, more trouble than you’d believe,’ said Charlie.
Thirty minutes later Charlie stood at the window of his lake-fronting room, never to know that four days earlier Vasili Nikolaevich Zenin had enjoyed the same view from the hotel’s restaurant and later strolled into the town along the quai that Charlie could see below.
Charlie turned back into the room, gazing down at the picture which was becoming bent and cracked with use. ‘Got something else on you,’ he said. ‘You’re a rude bugger. Silly mistake to have made, sunshine, silly mistake to have made. But thank Christ you did.’
And then he remembered his own mistake and thought, Shit! He’d forgotten to ask those restaurants that knew him to agree those phoney receipts were theirs when Harkness’s men came around, as Charlie knew they would.
Roger Giles was grateful the marriage appeared to be ending amicably because he’d never been able to understand how people who had once loved could end up hating. And he and Barbara had loved each other once: gone as far as to talk about how sad it was that other people got divorced, never imagining it could happen to them. He still found it difficult to realize that it was happening. Or why.
It had been Barbara’s suggestion they stop sleeping together, although sex had not been the problem between them. Barbara stood in the doorway of his single bedroom at the Alexandria house, watching him pack.
‘Any idea when you’ll be back?’ Like the wives of all intelligence operatives, she never talked in specifics, like she never referred openly to his being a member of the CIA or blamed the Agency for what had collapsed between them, although she considered his commitment to the Agency the reason.
‘November 30,’ he said. ‘Definitely no later than 1 December.’
‘Unusual to be so definite.’
‘Positive dates this time.’
‘I can go ahead with lawyers’ appointments then?’
Giles hesitated and then said: ‘Sure.’
‘If I need to arrange anything on your behalf, can I do that too?’
‘Certainly,’ said Giles, quicker this time. ‘I’ve settled all the bills and there’s almost a thousand dollars in the checking account. Draw whatever you want.’
‘Thanks,’ said Barbara. They were each going to miss each other an awful lot, she knew. Somehow it all seemed so unnecessary, like the nonsense over the bedrooms. She could not think now why she had insisted upon it.
Chapter Fourteen
Charlie met the head of Swiss counter-intelligence in a tall-windowed, polish-smelling office on the corner of Spitalgasse, in the cuckoo-clock part of Bern. It was a ‘safe’ house, away from the headquarters of the service and Charlie admired the caution. But then, he thought, caution was a Swiss characteristic. The man’s name was Rene Blom and although he apparently had the rank of brigadier he wore civilian clothes, a grey suit with a waistcoat that appeared tight, like a corset. Blom was a stiff, reserved man, with an unusual and almost unsettling appearance. His hair and eyebrows were completely white but naturally, not through age: Charlie guessed the man to be no more than forty years old. A pink face contributed to the impression of albino but his eyes, behind square-lensed, rimless glasses, were sharply blue.
‘London marked the advisory cable highest priority,’ said Blom. And should have sent a senior official, he thought, offended.
‘I think it is,’ said Charlie. He recounted the story chronologically, from the moment of Novikov’s defection, going into detail about the debriefing and his assumptions from it and offering the photograph to Blom when he reached the part about the drop in Primrose Hill. Blom glanced at it, very briefly. When Charlie got to the Swissair identification at London airport Blom asked for the names of the airline staff, noting them on a pad in front of him. There was already a notation and Charlie wondered if it were the name of the immigration official who’d made the uncertain recognition at the airport the previous night. It would be basic trade-craft for the security chief to make what independent checks of his own were possible.
After Charlie finished Blom sat without any response for several moments, tapping his teeth with the thin silver pencil with which he had taken his brief notes. At last he said: ‘Which do you think, the Middle East conference or the disarmament talks?’
‘I don’t have a clue,’ said Charlie.
Blom picked on the word. ‘Clues seem to be in short supply,’ he said. The other man’s appearance, as well as inferior rank, was also offensive.
‘We’ve got more now than we had a few days ago,’ said Charlie, defensively. What the fuck else did the awkward sod expect, with what he’d had to wo
rk from? Miracles cost extra.
‘The Middle East conference starts first,’ reminded Blom.
‘So we’ve got just over two weeks,’ said Charlie.
‘For what?’
Charlie frowned, surprised by the question. ‘To stop it happening, of course.’
Blom nodded, reflectively. He said: ‘Switzerland enjoys its reputation of neutrality.’
And that of being the world’s moneybox, thought Charlie; Harkness would be at home here. Unsure of the direction of the conversation, Charlie said: ‘I would imagine it does.’
‘So nothing can be allowed to endanger that neutrality.’
‘No,’ said Charlie, still cautious.
‘The sort of episode you’re suggesting could do just that.’
Snow-head appeared very fond of stating the obvious, thought Charlie. He said: ‘Which is why my service gave you the warning they did, within an hour of the identification. And why I am here.’
He would not be lectured at by this peculiar man, thought Blom. He said: ‘We have already expressed our gratitude.’
Charlie did not get the impression he was making much headway. He said: ‘There’s a simple way of avoiding the problem arising.’
‘How?’
Charlie gestured towards the photograph. ‘Publish it,’ he suggested. ‘Issue prints to all the newspapers, with a story saying he’s a terrorist you’re hunting. Once the Soviets know we’re on to them they’ll scrap the whole thing. They won’t have any alternative.’
For several moments Blom stared across the desk at him wide-eyed. Then he said, obviously incredulous: ‘Are you serious!’
‘Quite serious,’ said Charlie.
‘Announce to the world that there’s a terrorist somewhere loose in Switzerland!’
‘There is, isn’t there? It’s as good a word as any to describe him.’
‘But is there?’ came back the brigadier. ‘You’ve got the word of a defector, OK. But what proof, positive, unquestionable proof, have you got that this is a photograph of the man?’
‘What if I’m wrong!’ said Charlie. ‘It still doesn’t matter. We photographed him making a pick-up from a Soviet drop, so he’s got dirty hands. Let’s use him: publish his picture whether it’s the right man or not. The purpose, surely, is to stop a killing taking place on Swiss soil!’
‘But what if you are wrong! That the killing isn’t going to be in Switzerland at all!’ argued Blom. ‘You’ve admitted yourself there are other possible international gatherings in six European cities. Publishing the photograph here would not cause the Russians to cancel, if it were in one of those other countries.’
This man wasn’t an intelligence expert, thought Charlie, dismayed. Brigadier Rene Blom was a politician in make-believe land. Forcing his patience, Charlie said: ‘I accept that you don’t want unnecessarily to focus this sort of spotlight on Switzerland. But what sort of spotlight will be focused if there is an assassination here — an assassination we haven’t been able to stop?’
Blom shifted, uncomfortably. ‘Do you imagine I haven’t been considering that from the beginning of this conversation?’
‘I don’t think you are considering it enough,’ said Charlie. Damn the impertinence: something had to get Blom’s hands from between his knees, before he pissed all over them in nervousness.
‘I think you should remember your position!’ said Blom.
‘I’m trying to avoid someone getting killed!’ fought back Charlie. What the hell was wrong with the man!
‘I concede there are grounds for some investigation,’ said the security chief.
A breakthrough! thought Charlie. As politely as possible he said: ‘So what do you propose, sir?’
‘I regard this as so important that I need to discuss it with others,’ announced Blom.
Buck-passer, thought Charlie, disgusted. The prat was at about the level to give out parking tickets and impose penalties for not having a dog licence but when it came to an initiative on something important it had to be dumped on to some higher authority so the shit wouldn’t be on his shoes if anything went wrong. Resigned, Charlie said: ‘I think it would be a mistake to allow any delay.’
‘So do I,’ agreed Blom.
Determined to remain part of it, Charlie exaggerated and said: ‘There will doubtless be more from Novikov.’
‘I would expect you to be involved throughout,’ accepted the counter-intelligence chief.
Blom was the sort of man who would cheat on that undertaking if it suited him, recognized Charlie. But then so was he. Charlie said: ‘I am staying at the Beau-Rivage, in Geneva.’
‘That is a very good hotel.’
Soon the man would be recommending the best half-day tours and whether or not to take a packed lunch, thought Charlie, exasperated. He said: ‘When do you imagine we will be able to talk again?’
‘How about tomorrow? Say ten?’
At least Blom was concerned enough to demand immediate access to whomever he was going to shift the responsibility, Charlie decided. He said: ‘I’ll be ready, at ten.’ And hope to Christ you will be, too, he thought.
Charlie wanted physically to shed his irritation at Blom’s attitude so he set out to walk to Thunstrasse, accepting the mistake by the time he crossed the Kirchenfeld bridge and his feet started demanding to know what the hell was going on. He found a bench, just beyond, and sat down to apologize, loosening his laces for a moment. Charlie Muffin was a man of hunches, of feelings in his water, and his instincts told him that as circumstantial as the facts so far were, the unknown jogger with the body of Mr Atlas was definitely the man he was seeking. It felt right: the way things felt, like hunches, was something else which influenced Charlie. So how was he going to follow his hunches and his feelings? By doing nothing until ten o’clock tomorrow morning, he accepted, frustrating though it might be to sit around with his finger up his bum. It would be wrong — and worse, possibly counter-productive — to start working independently and risk antagonizing the Swiss service before he’d allowed Blom the opportunity to show whether or not the co-operation would be as the man promised. And what was he going to do if the promised co-operation was not forthcoming? At the moment Charlie didn’t have an answer but he was sure he would have if Blom started to jerk him around.
Charlie re-tied the Hush Puppies but looser than before but was still walking with difficulty by the time he reached the British embassy, where his acceptance and accreditation were already waiting, authorized by a Director’s cable from London. Charlie was immediately given access to a secure telephone in the ambassador’s cipher room and connected without any delay to Wilson in London: the scrambler at both ends gave a vaguely disconcerting electronic echo, like shouting into an empty tin can.
‘How’s it look?’ demanded Wilson, at once.
‘Reluctant,’ said Charlie.
‘Explain that.’
Charlie did and the Director said: ‘I don’t think you could have expected anything different. Some of us have to live with political overlords, you know.’
‘Blom’s nervous.’
‘So would I be, if I were him,’ said Wilson. ‘Remember we’re there by invitation, Charlie. No one-man vigilante stuff.’
‘The possibility is that it’s a British passport, remember?’
‘I don’t need reminding of the embarrassment potential,’ insisted the Director. ‘I’m actually trying to minimize it, by warning you.’
Had anyone else said it he would have been offended, Charlie realized. He said: ‘Anything further from the aircrews?’
‘Witherspoon is handling it,’ disclosed the Director. ‘He hasn’t come up with a thing.’
If Witherspoon were involved there wouldn’t be a lot of point in asking in future, thought Charlie. He wondered who had taken over the debriefing of Novikov and whether he could play chess. Charlie said: ‘What about the passenger manifest?’
‘Too vague,’ said the Director. ‘We’ve been able to trace those who booked
through companies or paid by credit card or cheque. Comes to forty-three of the likely English-sounding people and every one of them can be verified. The other seventeen are just names on a piece of paper. You don’t need addresses or even a true identity buying an aircraft ticket, you know.’
‘I know,’ said Charlie. ‘Makes it easy, doesn’t it? What about picking up Koretsky? Make out that we know more about Primrose Hill than we do and sweat the bastard?’
‘I suggested it to the Joint Intelligence Committee,’ admitted Wilson. ‘The word came back that it was politically unacceptable.’
‘I’ve always thought killing someone was pretty unacceptable,’ said Charlie.
‘That doesn’t look like being on our patch any more, does it, Charlie? Out of sight, out of mind.’
‘What about the passport?’
‘Deniable, if it ever comes out. It’s obviously a forgery or feloniously obtained, isn’t it?’
‘Has there been a change of heart over this?’
‘Let’s call it rationalization.’
‘Blom has promised to include me,’ reminded Charlie. ‘What’s my response if he doesn’t?’
‘Come home,’ ordered Wilson.
‘Come home!’ Ask a silly question, get a silly answer, Charlie thought: he wasn’t going to leave things in limbo, like this.
‘Like I said, it’s not our patch any more.’
‘I don’t like leaving things half done.’
‘It’s not a question of what you like or don’t like,’ said the Director. ‘It’s a question of following orders.’
‘Sure,’ said Charlie.
‘I mean it,’ insisted Wilson. ‘Positively no one-man vigilante stuff. And that’s an order.’
Charlie realized he was getting boxed in, with insufficient room to plead misunderstanding. He said: ‘I recognize my position here. I won’t upset anyone.’
‘I’m determined that you won’t,’ said the Director.
‘If you want me I’m staying at the Beau-Rivage,’ said Charlie.
There was a pause on the other end of the line. ‘The most expensive hotel in Geneva,’ acknowledged the Director.
The Run Around cm-8 Page 11