The Run Around cm-8

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘Convinced now that you’ve got a Soviet illegal roaming somewhere in Geneva?’ demanded Charlie.

  ‘It would seem that something illegal is taking place.’

  Didn’t this idiot know that with his head in the sand his arse was exposed? Charlie said: ‘The man at the Bellevue said he was tired, after a long journey. Yet he didn’t ask for anything to eat or drink.’

  ‘I don’t find that significant,’ dismissed Blom.

  ‘That night and the second he went directly to his room and stayed there,’ persisted Charlie.

  ‘There could be a dozen reasons for his doing that,’ argued Giles. He wasn’t as obviously resistant as Blom but he thought it necessary to avoid viewing everything as sinister.

  ‘How about hiding away as much as possible?’

  ‘One of the dozen,’ said the American.

  ‘He made mistakes, trying to appear Swiss-Deutsch,’ said Charlie. ‘The clerk was able from his accent to know immediately that he wasn’t, and also to discern in his German an accent with which he was not familiar. It was the speech of someone perfectly taught, in a classroom. And he didn’t know the coinage. He was very pedantic about counting out the fifteen per cent. Again, someone instructed but not accustomed to living in the West.’

  ‘Circumstantial again,’ said Blom. ‘All of it.’

  Charlie sighed, talking directly to Levy. He said: ‘He carried a small suitcase, that was all. He expected the clerk to carry it to his room for him. And it was very light.’

  The Israeli came slightly forward in his seat, smiling again. ‘Really!’ said Levy. ‘That’s interesting.’

  Charlie looked expectantly at the American. Giles said: ‘Could be a lot of other explanations, apart from the obvious.’

  ‘Perhaps someone would like to explain the significance to me,’ complained the Swiss.

  ‘It means at that time, six days ago, he didn’t have a weapon,’ insisted Charlie. ‘No professional would risk carrying anything on an aircraft, because the electronic security checks are too good. He hadn’t picked it up directly after his arrival, either. The time he got to the hotel fits with the distance from the airport but it doesn’t allow for any detour. But the most positive evidence of all is that he let the clerk carry the case, a case so light that the clerk remembered it. Guns are heavy, noticeably so. No professional would have let the man anywhere near it, if he’d already made a collection.’

  ‘Diplomatic pouch?’ guessed Levy, more in private conversation with Charlie than in general discussion.

  ‘It’s the safest against interception, until the moment of hand over,’ agreed Charlie.

  ‘And then it’s noticeably bulky,’ said Levy.

  To the Swiss counter-intelligence chief Charlie said: ‘You maintain Watchers on the Soviet embassy, of course?’

  For a moment Blom appeared reluctant to concede a piece of routine trade-craft. Then he said: ‘Of course.’

  ‘Did you increase the cover, after the alert?’

  ‘The alert, such as it is, meant that my personnel was stretched,’ complained Blom, imagining criticism.

  I offered manpower help,’ reminded Giles.

  ‘So you didn’t increase!’ demanded Charlie, exasperated.

  ‘The people deputed to cover the embassy are trained, experienced men who knew how to react,’ said Blom, defensively.

  ‘Like the trained, experienced men who hadn’t checked the phoney address as a car salesroom until you told them to!’ accused Charlie.

  ‘Nothing unusual has been reported from the embassy as of midnight last night,’ assured Blom, with pedantic formality.

  ‘That’s precisely what I’m frightened of,’ said Charlie. ‘That it hasn’t been reported.’

  ‘Was any special instruction issued after the alert?’ demanded Giles.

  ‘The men on such specialized duty do not need reminding what that duty is,’ said Blom, still stiff.

  ‘The Watcher in England had been specially warned,’ reminded Charlie, in sad resignation. ‘And he knew he was sitting right on top of a drop. By the time he was aware of what was happening, it was almost all over.’

  ‘Perhaps there should have been additional instruction,’ conceded Blom, finally. Throughout his operational life he had been accustomed to the neutrality of Switzerland rarely being challenged — never having had to confront the sort of terrorism and violence that these men appeared to accept almost as a normal part of their day-to-day operational lives — and he was frightened of the speed with which they thought ahead of him because of that experience and the assumptions they seemed so quickly able to make, and most concerned of all at their attitude towards him, which appeared to be increasingly hostile even from the American, whom he had seen as an ally.

  ‘These reports you talk of?’ questioned Charlie. ‘They’re logs, aren’t they? Recorded entries and departures, against times. With anything unusual isolated?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Blom.

  ‘I’d like to see them,’ said Charlie. ‘I’d like access to every twenty-four hour period, from the thirteenth.’

  Blom opened his mouth to protest, but before he could speak Levy said: ‘I would like to examine them, as well.’ And the American said: ‘Me too.’

  ‘Of course,’ agreed Blom. ‘I hope you’ll find it a vindication of my people.’

  ‘I hope so, too,’ said Giles.

  ‘I think it would also be a good idea if we had a daily meeting,’ said Charlie, innocently. ‘Say here, at three o’clock every afternoon? To exchange information and ideas, stuff like that.’

  Blom looked between Giles and Levy, trying to guess the traitor.

  ‘I think it would be a good idea as well,’ supported Giles. Damn Langley and their living-in-the-past vindictiveness and hands-off edict against the Englishman. The American decided he couldn’t give a damn how or why the scruffy bastard had screwed the Agency. He meant the promises he’d made in the letter to Barbara, but that didn’t mean neglecting his career. And his career was very much tied up at the moment with whether or not Clayton Anderson left in a blaze of international glory; and that was the only sort of blaze with which Giles intended to be connected. Charlie Muffin was calling too many shots ahead of the rest of them to be ignored. The man had to be brought aboard, not cast adrift.

  So the traitor had been Giles, Blom recognized. He would have imagined the Israeli the more likely suspect. He said: ‘If that is the wish of you all.’

  ‘I think it’s got merit,’ said Levy.

  Charlie looked at the Israeli, trying without success to gauge from the expression on the man’s face what he was thinking. Trying to make it easier for the cornered Blom, Charlie said: ‘We’ve not got a lot of time, after all.’

  ‘I don’t need reminding of that,’ said Blom.

  Never one to let an advantage go, even from a cliche, Charlie said: ‘So we can see those logs right away then?’

  There were two Searchers, the senior supervisor a balding, paunchy old-timer named Sam Donnelly, the younger a new entrant still with six months to complete before final graduation. His name was Peter Ball. He was a small, terrier-like man, eager to the point of arrogance, disdainful of advice for the same reason. It was Ball who picked the lock of Charlie’s flat, hot with irritation that the instructing Donnelly was able to isolate the barely visible scratch the wire had made against the Yale edge, halfway down. Ball considered it absurd even to imagine Charlie Muffin would be able to know from it that his apartment had been turned over.

  ‘Jesus!’ exclaimed Ball, who always smelled of strong cologne. ‘This is like one of those medieval places where people lived with their animals!’

  ‘Looks like it could do with a dusting,’ agreed Donnelly, mildly. As the younger man moved forward from the threshold his foot disturbed a letter among the pile that had built up upon the doormat during Charlie’s absence and Donnelly said sharply: ‘Careful, you careless bugger!’

  Ball stopped, just beyond the accu
mulated mail, and said: ‘What the hell’s wrong now!’

  ‘Stay there!’ ordered Donnelly. ‘Don’t move for a minute. Just listen. This place looks a shithole and maybe it is but this is going to be the best exercise you’ve been on, from the moment you started to try to learn your trade. An expert lives here, someone who’s forgotten more than it’ll take you to memorize in twenty years. So don’t come your usual arrogant crap. Watch and listen and learn.’

  Ball stood in front of the other man, face afire, unable to conceive the idea of another six months of the man. ‘So!’ he demanded.

  ‘So you’ve already missed something,’ said Donnelly. ‘Two things, in fact. You’ve failed, even before you’ve started.’

  Ball swallowed, angry now at himself. Unable to think of anything else, he said: ‘What?’

  ‘What have we just come through?’ demanded the older man.

  Ball sighed. ‘The door,’ he said, patiently.

  ‘From the outside?’

  ‘Yes.’ Ball’s tone was curious now.

  ‘What’s unusual about the inside?’

  The younger man looked around for the first time, unable to find the answer. ‘There’s nothing unusual about it,’ he said.

  ‘Look again.’

  ‘I am looking, for Christ’s sake!’

  ‘Not hard enough,’ rebuked Donnelly. ‘Charlie Muffin is a senior officer in British external intelligence, someone who’s worked in security all his life. So where’s his security?’

  ‘No internal locks,’ realized Ball, at last.

  ‘No internal locks,’ accepted Donnelly. From inside his jacket he took out four rubber wedges of the sort they always put beneath the door of a burgled room to prevent their discovery if they feared the occupant might return but which both knew would not be necessary today, because of Charlie being in Switzerland. ‘Somewhere — probably in the kitchen — you’ll find a set of these, with which Charlie locks himself in at night. Because he knows like you and I know that the only way to open a door secured by these is to break it off at its hinges, by which time he would be ready. What else does it tell you?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Ball, more humbled now.

  That he’s not bothered about being burgled because there’s nothing here to take. Or more importantly, for us to find.’

  ‘You mean you aren’t going to bother!’

  ‘Of course I am going to bother,’ said Donnelly. ‘It’s years since I’ve had a challenge like this. I’m just pointing out the signs to you. And you still haven’t got the second one.’

  ‘What?’

  Donnelly gestured downwards, towards the splayed letters. He said: ‘Which one did you kick?’

  ‘I don’t know!’

  ‘You should,’ said the Searcher. ‘Because one — maybe two — of them is a trap and at the moment you’re falling over the edge.’

  ‘What are you talking about now!’

  ‘Tell me the date that Charlie Muffin went to Switzerland … went incidentally without even coming back here?’ insisted Donnelly.

  ‘I don’t know,’ admitted the younger man.

  ‘You should know,’ lectured Donnelly. ‘It was in the report and it was important. It was the sixteenth.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So get down on your hands and knees,’ ordered Donnelly. ‘The letter you disturbed, incidentally, was the envelope coloured red, the free soap powder offer. But don’t touch that yet. Memorize how every letter is displayed on that mat. And then, one by one, lift it. We’re going to read and photograph every piece that’s there and having examined it all we’re going to put it back precisely as it was. You understand that?’

  ‘We were always going to do that,’ said Ball. ‘What’s so important about the sixteenth?’

  ‘The postmark,’ said Donnelly. ‘The first thing you do is study the postmark and not just for the point of despatch. You look for the date. Allow three days for any delay.’

  ‘I don’t understand!’

  ‘Anything there prior to the thirteenth will be the snares that Charlie has left,’ warned Donnelly. ‘A trained Searcher can go through mail without trace but if he finds it on the mat the assumption is always that it’s arrived after the occupant has left. So there’s no need to replace it as it supposedly fell. There’ll be at least three envelopes among that pile with dates before the thirteenth: they’re the ones that would tell him we’ve been here.’

  ‘Bullshit!’

  ‘You got ten pounds.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Put it where your mouth is, against my twenty.’

  There were in fact four. It took them an hour to go through, using the method in which a split piece of bamboo is slipped sideways inside the flap and the contents slowly wound up like a tiny blind, to be extracted without the flap being unsealed. As he handed over his twenty pounds Ball said: ‘Seems I’m not the only one who’s a bad gambler.’

  The repeated demands from Charlie’s bookmaker were two of the uppermost letters. Donnelly said: ‘Three hundred quid isn’t the end of the world.’

  ‘It is if you haven’t got it,’ said Ball.

  ‘That’s all there is though,’ reminded the older man.

  Ball straightened gratefully from his squatting position on the floor and said: ‘What now?’

  ‘Don’t relax,’ advised Donnelly. ‘What about that table, for example?’

  It was in the centre of the room into which the front door directly led. Beyond it was the television set and pulled close was an easy chair, the seat sagging, the cushions indented from the last person to occupy it. The table had an obvious flap in its top, the lid to some space beneath, and on that flap was a glass serving as a vase for a single flower, a long-dead tulip that had shed its petals in a haphazard pattern around the base. The water in the glass was dark brown with prolonged use. There was a half-empty bottle of Islay malt, the top still off, and a small residue in the bottom of the type of glass handed out at service stations for buying a required amount of petrol. There were two plates. Upon one was a half-eaten piece of bread, beginning to mildew, and on the other the congealed remnants of a fried meal, rock-hard yellow of an egg yolk and the rind of some bacon. There was also something black and solid, which could have been the remains of some mushrooms. The knife and fork were left as they had been put down, discarded across the plate in a rough cross.

  ‘How on earth can someone live like this!’ exclaimed Ball.

  ‘You’d be a fool to think he does,’ warned Donnelly. ‘Look at the chair, for instance.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘There’s no way a human body could make the indentation in the seat as well as in the cushion like that, not at the same time,’ pointed out the Searcher. ‘It’s another trap. If you lifted the cushion, to see if anything were hidden beneath — which is what we’ve got to do, somehow — the indentation would be disturbed. Just as it would in the cushion, if you looked carelessly beneath that.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Ball, with doubtful acceptance. ‘It would, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘What about the flower?’

  Ball sniggered a laugh. ‘Just a dead tulip.’

  ‘Nothing strike you as unusual about the petals?’

  Ball took a long time, before finally shaking his head.

  ‘Count them,’ instructed Donnelly. ‘There are forty, including the five still actually attached to the stem, On your way to work tomorrow go into a florist’s and ask the name of the tulip with that many petals. It’s another trap, laddie. We’ve got to look to see what’s inside that table and again the temptation would be to imagine he would not know how the petals lay, having been away for some time. He’s put at least ten in specific, memorized spots.’

  ‘What else?’ said Ball, almost wearily.

  ‘It’s a funny thing,’ said Donnelly. ‘But when a person enters a room to find a discarded glass — particularly a glass like that, with just a little drop in the bottom — the instinctive reaction is
to pick it up and smell it.’ From his inside pocket Donnelly took an expanding device, like a pair of scissors without any cutting edge, and put the jaws inside the glass, expanding them so he could lift it. ‘He’ll check, for fingerprints when he gets back,’ said Donnelly. ‘And see that?’ He pointed to a ring beneath. ‘It looks as if the glass made it but it’s another marker, to ensure it remains in the same position.’ He replaced the glass and extracted his lifting tool, offering it to the other man. ‘Try the whisky bottle and the cap,’ he suggested. ‘There’ll be rings beneath each.’

  Ball did and there were.

  ‘Now the plate,’ ordered Donnelly. ‘Use the tool like pliers: it works. Be careful not to disturb the knife and fork, though.’

  There was a ring beneath the plate and Ball said: ‘I suppose the knife and fork were particularly placed?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Donnelly. ‘The bed will be unmade, when we get to the bedroom. It’s much more difficult to search an unmade bed and leave it exactly as it was than it is to turn over one that’s neat and tidy. Watch the pillow indentations, too. And any discarded clothes: there’re sure to be some. Don’t think the pile of washing up in the kitchen sink is slovenliness, either. Or that what’s thrown in any of the bins or wastepaper baskets has actually been thrown. Be careful of any disarranged curtain or covering. Re-position any books precisely as you find them. Newspapers and magazines, too. And be careful about screws.’

  ‘Screws?’

  ‘We’ll need to look in the back of the television set and the radio: behind some cabinets and closets, probably,’ reminded the older man. ‘Don’t dare let the screwdriver slip, to score the screw head. And make sure when you re-fasten that the cross-mark on the screw head is left in the same position as it was when you undid it.’

  ‘Nobody’s that careful!’ protested Ball.

  ‘Just do as I say,’ ordered Donnelly.